Prison Planet Page 6

  Renn killed the rest of the day wandering in and out of stores, analyzing the goods he saw in them, and watching the citizens of Swamp go about their daily chores. There were a lot of hunters in town. Apparently the onset of the rainy season signaled the end of one hunting cycle and the start of another. As a result, many hunters came in to sell their skins and stinks, and buy supplies. As he moved among them, Renn kept an eye peeled for Marla. He didn't see her, or any other dogs for that matter. Damn it ... where was she anyway? He'd even asked Slim, hoping the answer might be in his computer. But the hunter had simply smiled, saying the records were confidential. Well, she had to be somewhere, and he'd keep looking until he found her.

  As he drifted around town, Renn kept an eye out for Cyclops and his men too. Under the impression that they'd cancelled his ticket, they might resent his sudden resurrection, and seek ways to reverse it. And much as Renn wanted to even the score, he knew he wasn't ready yet. He needed weapons and the ability to use them. Revenge would have to wait. Fortunately, he didn't see them, and the afternoon passed without incident.

  At about six o'clock he joined the steady dribble of hunters entering the warehouse. As they flowed around him, Renn paid close attention to their clothes, weapons, and style. After all they were what he planned to become.

  As the hunters drifted into the open area, they gradually filled the rows of bench seats. For a while profanity, crude jokes, and loud conversation filled the air. Then Slim mounted an empty ration case, whistled, and stomped one foot for order. “All right, quiet down. This meeting of the Hunter's Association is hereby called to order. All right, under old business we got this matter of grading. Some of you clowns have been softening class-three skins with chemicals and passing them off as class two's. It ain't gonna fly anymore. Starting next cycle, the Impies say they're gonna pull a random check on every load. They'll be checking for chemical treatment, mechanical stretching, everything in the book. So it was nice while it lasted, but the party's over. Don't make me pull your trading rights for a month. All right, new business...”

  There was a great deal of new business, including everything from territorial squabbles between hunters, to the question of which refreshments should be served at the Hunter's Ball four months hence. After a while Renn lost interest and began day-dreaming. He was right in the middle of a wonderful fantasy involving a large bed, and the rather attractive brunette seated to his right, when someone called his name.

  “I assure you Citizen Renn is normally more responsive,” Slim said to general laughter. “Are you with us now lad?”

  Flushing with embarrassment, Renn nodded.

  “Well, good. Perhaps you'd be kind enough to stand and let everyone have a peek at you.”

  Renn stood, doing his best to ignore all the comments, rude and otherwise. “He's a bit over-fed ain't he?” “Is he the one what almost cancelled the Clops?” “No ... I think you're wrong ... you just gotta train ’em right that's all.” “...And the second you train one, some monster takes his head off and it's all wasted.”

  “I'll take him. Standard one year contract ... plus one percent of everything over ten thousand trading units.” The voice had a deep booming quality that rolled over the background noise. Turning towards the sound, Renn saw a man with white hair, a goatee, and a gigantic beer belly.

  “We have an offer from the Boater,” Slim intoned evenly. “what say you Citizen Renn? Do you accept?”

  Renn was a little unsure of what was going on, but he got the impression his services were up for auction, and apparently he had veto power. Before he could answer, another voice cut through the conversation. “Unlike the parsimonious old skinflint with the protruding abdomen, I offer a standard year's contract, plus two percent of everything over ten thousand units.” An appreciative chuckle swept through the audience, interspersed with a few cat calls and whistles.

  Turning to his left, Renn saw this bidder was a woman, although her voice was deep enough to be a man's. However, her figure left no doubt as to her sex, and Renn perked up. Six months in the swamps with her might be very entertaining indeed.

  Slim nodded, clearly enjoying the competition along with the rest of the audience. Renn got the impression the process was considered more entertainment than business. “We have another bid Citizen Renn ... do you wish to consider it?”

  Once again Renn's answer was preempted. “If my opponent's brain were half as big as her chest, she'd perceive that this pathetic specimen is unworthy of one percent, much less two. However, I raise my offer to five, hoping to spare this poor wretch her incompetence, thus saving his life.” As Boater finished his speech, he used both hands to shift his enormous gut into a more comfortable position, and glared his defiance.

  “Well, Reload,” Slim asked, “do you want to make a counter offer?”

  Reload dismissed the possibility with the flick of a wrist. “I think not. Stupid though he is, my opponent is correct about the worthlessness of this rather corpulent candidate, and if he desires to pay five percent so be it. My offer stands at two.” The audience reacted to Reload's statement with loud applause and foot stomping.

  By this time Renn was more than a little angry with both of his potential employers. He realized there was a certain amount of ritual involved here, but was growing increasingly sensitive about his weight, and didn't appreciate the title “corpulent candidate.” He reacted therefore more out of anger than logic, choosing to reject the most recent insult.

  “I'll take the five percent offered by Boater.”

  Reload took her seat, while Boater bowed to the audience, and accepted their applause. A few minutes later the meeting broke up, Renn thumbprinted a standard one-year contract complete with a five-percent clause, and became the temporary property of Boater Smith, one-time crime lord, now monster hunter. Then, as Boater and Slim shook hands, Renn glimpsed a tall woman with a streak of white running through her jet black hair, leaving the warehouse. And walking by her side was a huge dog. “Marla!”

  Renn leaped over two benches in succession and ran for the door. Hunters swore as he pushed between them and struggled to get through the crowd. Finally he broke free and ran across the bridge and onto the boardwalk. He stopped and looked in every direction. There were people all over the place, but the tall woman and the dog were nowhere in sight.

  Chapter Five

  Boater Smith woke Renn bright and early the next morning. It was just a taste of the weeks and months yet to come. “Get off your butt Jonnie my lad ... there's work to do.”

  And there was work to do. Lots of it. They'd slept aboard Smith's boat. It was both his pride and joy and the source of his nickname. Boater called the boat "Fred," because women were nothing but trouble, and he'd be damned if he'd use a female name on something as important as his boat. And Boater insisted that Fred be cleaned “fore and aft” first thing every morning, a task for which he thought Renn especially suited.

  “After all,” Boater said, tugging his goatee, and squinting at Renn through tiny bloodshot eyes, “you ain't good for nothing else.” And with that Renn's employer adjusted his paunch, and started breakfast, a job he refused to entrust to someone other than himself.

  As Renn moved the length of the craft, scrubbing and cleaning, he quickly came to appreciate the boat's design. It was constructed of wood, was flat bottomed, to handle shallow water no doubt, and about thirty feet long. Later he'd learn swamp boats never ran much more than thirty feet. Longer boats couldn't maneuver in the smaller channels with their tight turns.

  The first ten feet of Fred's length were given over to an open cockpit. It was about ten feet wide, and lined with thin sheets of durasteel, which were joined together by some neatly executed welding. The bottom of the cockpit featured a built-in tilt from bow to stern. As Renn hosed it out, the water ran downhill, collecting momentarily at the bottom, before disappearing into drainage tubes which carried it over the side. It reminded him of a huge metal sink. And he suddenly realized that's exactly wh
at it was. A sink for cleaning and skinning swamp monsters.

  The deckhouse was just aft of the metal-lined cockpit. Here Boater had opted for comfort, making the structure well over six feet tall, and fitting it out with two bunks which served as seats during the day, a clever little galley, and even a small head, complete with flushing toilet.

  In an effort to be friendly, Renn commented on the head as he made the bunks. “I'm too damned old to go any other way,” Boater said grumpily, as he pushed some sizzling meat around the bottom of his frying pan. “At my age it ain't dignified to hang your rear over the side.”

  “Plus it might scare the hell out of some poor swamp monster,” Renn thought silently.

  The stern featured another open cockpit. It was surrounded by weather-sealed metal storage units which contained an incredible variety of gear, all neatly stowed and well maintained. There was rope, heavy tackle, floats, shoulder weapons, ammunition, explosives, tools, spare parts, and lots more. Monster hunting clearly called for a large capital investment, plus a lot of expertise. No wonder Maxwell suggested he indenture himself. There wasn't any other way to learn, and while Boater Smith was no prize, he did seem to know what he was doing. Still, a more congenial tutor would've been nice. Reload's figure came to mind and he smiled. Another one of his brilliant decisions.

  Boater had moored Fred under the Hunter's Association warehouse, and although the structure sheltered them from much of the rain, some still managed to get through. It felt good to step into the cozy cabin and close the door behind him. The wonderful smell of real Terran coffee filled the small space and caused Renn's stomach to growl in response. Boater had placed breakfast on a fold-down table and it looked good. There was lots of fried meat, Renn didn't ask what kind, and fresh rolls made from imported flour. Maybe Boater's company left something to be desired but he sure knew how to cook.

  As he lowered himself into his seat, Boater fixed Renn with a malignant glare. “I pray before each meal, so shut up.” Without waiting for Renn's reaction, Boater dropped his head, and muttered the ancient words his mother had taught him seventy years before. When he was finished Boater looked up, glaring. “So what the hell are you looking at? Haven't you ever seen someone pray? No, of course not. Ignorant heathen.” Boater continued to mumble while he served breakfast with a generous hand.

  For a long time neither man spoke, Boater because he was too engrossed in his food, and Renn because it hardly seemed worthwhile. No matter what he said Boater seemed to take offense. Still, they'd soon be stuck with each other, so maybe it was worth one more try. He waited until the other man was sipping a final cup of coffee, and then said, “That was an excellent breakfast, Boater. You're one hell of a cook.”

  Renn saw the other man's features soften for a fraction of a second, and then drop back into the familiar harsh lines. There was a long pause while Boater swallowed his coffee. Then came a muffled, “Umpf. Glad you liked it, Jonnie lad.”

  A full minute passed before Boater spoke again, and when he did, his face registered something approaching genuine pain. “I watched your work this morning and it could've been worse.”

  Then, relieved to have the compliment behind him, Boater heaved himself to his feet and glared down at Renn. “Well, come on, get off your butt, we've got supplies to buy. Another couple of days and the rain'll stop. Then all the water drains into the swamps. Could leave Fred with his ass in the air. Can't have that.”

  Renn struggled to hide a smile, and did his best to nod gravely. The man was incorrigible, but human. At least it seemed that way at the moment. By dinner time that evening he wasn't so sure. The process of buying supplies was a nightmare. Or perhaps a daymare. In any case, a shopping trip with Boater was an incredible experience. It started with Boater moving down the middle of the wooden board walk, his paunch thrust out before him like the prow of a mighty ship, dividing the other pedestrians right and left. As he moved forward Boater's beady little eyes were firmly fixed on his next objective, and woe be to the animate or inanimate object which barred his path. And once that objective was attained things got even worse.

  Boater didn't enter stores, he exploded into them, scattering clerks and shoppers alike in every direction. Then, sweeping the unfortunate establishment with a steely gaze, he would demand to see the proprietor. Once that unlucky individual stood quaking before him, Boater would look him up and down in the manner of a sergeant-major inspecting an errant private, and shake his head sadly. “So you're the one responsible for this collection of over-priced junk.”

  Renn soon learned this was the way Boater always opened negotiations. And it usually worked. Even shop-owners who'd dealt with Boater before still seemed intimidated by his imperious gaze and abrasive manner. And so it went in store after store, while Renn made constant trips back to Fred, loaded with every conceivable kind of supply. Included were various kinds of equipment, a goodly quantity of food, ammunition, and, Renn noticed with amusement, no small amount of booze.

  The final stop of the day, however, was dedicated to Renn himself. Bursting into a store bearing the sign, PERSONALS, Boater rounded up a depressed looking shop owner, pointed a quivering finger at Renn, and proclaimed, “Outfit that man.”

  Renn knew that under the terms of his indenture, Boater was obliged to provide him with a “full outfit,” but was free to define “full outfit” any way he chose. And given Boater's parsimonious ways Renn feared it might be on the skimpy side. But, in fact, Boater seemed to take an absolute delight in making sure his assistant was fully equipped.

  By the time he emerged a couple of hours later, Renn owned three sets of hunting skins, one set of fancier dress skins, two pairs of boots, and everything he needed to go with them. He had a set on and they felt good. Hurrying to keep up with Boater, Renn said, “Thanks Boater.”

  Without looking back, Boater said, “Umpf. You may look like a hunter, but you still don't know your ass from a hole in the ground.”

  Renn shook his head in disgust and followed along behind.

  A few minutes later Boater led the way into a store full of weapons. The proprietor had a CLOSED sign in one hand, and was just about to turn them away when he saw Boater's expression. His demeanor suddenly changed. “Yes sir? How may I help you?”

  “My assistant needs some personal weapons.” What ensued was an interesting mixture of bargaining and ballistics. The owner would suggest possibilities, Boater would either shake his head in disagreement, or tug on his goatee thoughtfully while he haggled over the price.

  When it was over, and the shop owner was still scurrying around after ammunition and various accessories, Boater pointed to Renn's new arsenal, and said, “Meet the only true friends you'll ever have on this planet, lad. You take care of them, and they'll take care of you. From now on you'll wear at least one of them at all times.”

  Renn looked at the weapons spread out before him. It was quite a collection. First there was a heavy duty .75 caliber semi-automatic pistol. It could fire explosive, or armor-piercing ammunition, and would provide back-up for his brand new blast rifle. Then there was the light hand blaster for personal protection, an ugly little two-shot hide-out gun, a force blade for skinning, two throwing knives, and a hide-out blade disguised as a belt buckle. “I don't know, Boater, I appreciate the investment, but aren't we overdoing things a bit? I notice you don't wear any weapons.”

  There was a sudden blur of motion and Renn found himself looking down the bore of an ugly little handgun. “Wrong, lad. Take a moment to think. Minutes after you landed, the Clops and his men damned near killed you. Then, soon as they left, the planet sent things to eat you, and water to drown you. So here's your first lesson. Everyone and everything on this planet is dangerous. Only the strong survive here. Forget that for one second and you'll wind up dead.” There was another blur of motion and the gun disappeared.

  Renn gulped, and nodded his understanding. With Boater's advice, and the shop owner's help, Renn put on his full arsenal. The hand blaster wen
t into a shoulder holster concealed under his short jacket, the .75 recoilless hung low on his right thigh, the little hide-out gun went into his left boot top, and he had knives all over the place. He felt self-conscious, and more than a little dangerous, in spite of the fact that his weapons were still unloaded.

  Boater looked him up and down as if judging a side of beef. “You look like a hunter. Unfortunately you don't think like one. Ah well, one thing at a time.”

  It was almost dark by the time Renn and Boater emerged from the store and walked towards the warehouse. The light was dim, and she was on the other side of the street, but thanks to her enchanced vision, Marla recognized Renn right away. She lunged forward but the heavy chain brought her up short. The woman called “Skunk” had secured it to the railing with a strong lock. Marla wanted to say something, to call Renn's name, but she couldn't. Skunk had also wrapped three feet of durasteel wire around her muzzle. She said dogs shouldn't talk. And try as she might, Marla had been unable to break the wire. Nevertheless she strained at her chin and whined deep in her throat. If only Renn would look her way, he'd free her, and she'd rip Skunk's throat out. But the two men continued on their way. Marla swore silently as she watched them out of sight. Once they were gone, she sighed internally, and lay down to wait. In three or four hours Skunk would emerge from the saloon, throw up over the rail, jerk Marla's chain, and drag her off to their filthy quarters in a shack at the edge of town. It was going to be a long unpleasant year.