Prison Planet Page 7

  Bright and early the next morning Boater filled Fred's tank with gas, complained bitterly about the price, and reluctantly paid the bored looking man who ran the Association's fuel barge. But he smiled when Fred's engine roared into life. “Good boy,” he said, patting the engine cover and nodding his approval.

  As Renn cast off the last mooring line, and pushed Fred away from the nearby pilings, he noticed the rain had stopped. According to Boater it rained on and off all the time, with six major rainy periods spread throughout the year.

  As they slid down Payout's main street, Boater leaned on his steering oar, and waved regally to the few early risers. Most waved back and shouted a cheerful greeting, although Renn saw at least one rude gesture, and got the feeling Boater was not universally loved. Surprise, surprise, he thought with a grin.

  “Stop grinning like an idiot, and pay attention,” Boater said as they neared the far end of town. “From now on you'll use what little intelligence you have to memorize our route. Lesson number two. The swamp constantly changes. Old channels disappear and new ones open up. So even with the latest satellite maps it's easy to get lost. Suppose your incompetence gets me killed? How the hell are you gonna find your way back here to spend all my hard earned credits? Aha! That got your attention, didn't it, Jonnie lad? Well good. It might save your worthless life.”

  Once out of town, Boater turned Fred into a broad channel many miles wide. In between rainy seasons it was a river, but at the moment its regular banks had disappeared beneath a flood of muddy rainwater. Great rafts of floating debris rode the current. Boater carefully steered around most of these, occasionally cutting through others, somehow able to distinguish between those which were solid, and those which weren't. From time to time a fin or tentacle would break the river's surface offering ominous hints of a world below.

  As Fred putt-putted along, Renn did his best to scan his surroundings, compare them to the satellite map Boater had spread out before him, and simultaneously field strip the .75 recoilless. Boater insisted he learn how to strip, clean and load all his weapons blindfolded. As Renn fumbled the barrel into the receiver mechanism, he decided the blindfold part would have to wait for a while.

  Lunch came and went, as did the rain, and gradually the .75 went together with less and less effort. In fact Renn was enjoying himself. A good lunch, a period of warm sun, and the exotic scenery had all combined to make him comfortable and a little drowsy. Leaning back against the cabin he was soon asleep. So he didn't notice when the huge shadow fell across him, and the lifter dropped out of the sky.

  The lifter's huge wings pushed a wall of humid air into his face as it landed beside him, and bent a long curving neck towards his face. He awoke as the lifter's beak-like mouth opened in a squawk of victory, and its fetid breath washed over him. Without conscious thought, Renn brought the .75 up and pulled the trigger. The explosive bullet entered the lifter's narrow chest and blew up somewhere inside. The creature shuddered from hydrostatic shock but remained upright. Renn pulled the trigger again. Another explosive bullet followed the first and this one did the job, severing two major vessels, showering him with greenish blood. The big bird gave one last squawk and collapsed.

  Swearing a blue streak, Renn managed to wriggle out from under the bird's corpse. Where the hell was Boater? Getting to his feet he looked back towards the stern, and to his shock, saw Boater leaning on the steering oar, a big grin on his face.

  Seeing Renn's expression, the older man shook his head in amusement, and yelled over the noise of the engine. “Lesson number three, lad. Don't sleep in the open, don't sleep deep, and don't sleep when you should be working.”

  “Damn you Boater ... you let it attack me!”

  Boater shrugged. “Try to look at the bright side Jonnie. Lifters are good skins. There's a prime patch of leather under each wing. So you learned something, and we picked up a few credits to boot. Not a bad deal, huh?”

  “Not bad? Not bad?” Renn spit the words out one at a time. “Hell, you used me for bait!”

  “And fine bait you were lad,” Boater agreed smugly. “By the way, always fire two rounds, not just one. Like you just found out, most of the critters around here take a lot of killing. So if one's good, two's better.”

  Boater went forward and ordered Renn to steer. Grunting with the effort, he dragged the lifter into the center of the metal-lined cockpit, and went to work. It didn't take long. His force blade hummed, incisions appeared, blood gushed, and huge gobbets of meat went over the side. Renn noticed these were eagerly pulled under the water by things unseen. He made a note to give up swimming.

  Soon only the lifter's wings were left, and Boater skillfully stripped those of the soft underskin, throwing the rest into the channel. The wings floated on the surface of the water for awhile, and then, when Renn looked away for a moment, suddenly disappeared.

  Renn refused to speak with Boater for the rest of the day. But he paid close attention to their route, and worked unceasingly with his weapons, constantly scanning his surroundings for danger. Next time he'd be ready.

  When evening came Boater nosed Fred up to a large tree isolated some distance from shore. Moments later Renn passed a mooring line around its smooth trunk and made it secure. Boater cut the engine and allowed the current to push Fred down to the end of the mooring line.

  Silence fell around them like a heavy curtain. Tentatively at first, and then with increasing eagerness, the night sounds gradually crept in. Before long a chorus of grunts, screeches, and howls combined to hint at events unseen. Hidden by the dark embrace of the swamp, things gave birth, hunted for food, and died. Violent death was the rule, not the exception. In the swamp no quarter was given or expected. Renn's fingers unconsciously strayed to the butt of the .75. Boater saw and smiled. The boy was learning.

  By morning Renn was speaking to Boater once again, though he was still angry, resentful. As a result he took pleasure in finding little ways to annoy the older man, like taking the last biscuit out from under his employer's descending fork, and snatching the last piece of meat. But Boater refused to rise to the bait. Instead he belched loudly and retired to the stern cockpit with his coffee.

  Renn did the dishes and emerged from the cabin expecting to see Boater casting off. Instead the older man was still seated sipping the last of his coffee. “Finally. I swear, you're the slowest dish washer I've ever had.”

  “Oh yeah? How many have you had?”

  Boater tugged on his goatee thoughtfully. “Can't quite remember ... but it seems like ten or fifteen by now.”

  Suddenly suspicious Renn asked, “Why me, then? What happened to your last assistant anyway?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth Renn knew he'd been set up.

  Boater's face broke into a wide smile. “Why, a stink got him. Silly bastard missed his shot.” Boater shook his head sadly. “Too bad. I kind of liked him ... though he snored something awful.”

  “And?” Renn asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

  “And, the same thing could happen to you, shit-for-brains,” Boater said amicably.

  “I hit the lifter didn't I?”

  Boater raised one eyebrow. “Why yes you did, Jonnie lad. From about three feet away. Now let's see you hit that snag over there.” He pointed to the right. “Take your time. If you hit it first shot ... I'll take over all your chores today.”

  Renn looked at the dead tree. It was about three feet in diameter and maybe fifty yards off. Pulling the .75, Renn took careful aim. He felt Fred move gently up and down beneath his feet. No problem, he'd compensate for that. He felt the light breeze against his left cheek. All right ... he'd allow a hair for windage. He took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger twice, just as Boater's plastic cup hit him in the face. Both shots went wide.

  Whirling, Renn formed the words “You tricked me” in his mind, but bit them off. Boater had just made another point. Turning back towards the snag, Renn pointed the .75 as if pointing a finger, and squeezed the trigger fourteen tim
es. The first two hit the water at the base of the snag, and the rest walked their way up its length, knocking huge chunks out of the rotten wood as they exploded. As the last slug left the gun Renn thumbed the magazine release, allowing the empty to land at his feet, and slammed a fresh one into the butt. Then he turned back towards Boater. To his surprise the old man was smiling.

  “Not bad Jonnie, not bad. From now on target practice every morning after breakfast.”

  As the day progressed, Renn noticed a change in Boater's behavior. For one thing, he spent a lot of time looking back over his shoulder, and for another, he kept pulling into little side channels, where he'd shut off the engine and wait. Renn wanted to ask Boater what was going on but didn't want one of the old man's sarcastic replies. He managed to resist questioning him for most of the day but finally his curiosity got the better of him, and he caved in. As Boater pulled into a small cove and cut the engine, Renn said, “All right, Boater, what the hell's going on? You've been looking backwards and taking breaks all day. I thought you were in a hurry.”

  Boater shook his head in pretended amazement. “Well, I'll be damned. He was paying attention. So here comes lesson number four. We're getting close to my lodge. A hunter's lodge is where he lives between trips into the deep swamp. It's where he stores his supplies, skins, and stink. Knowing that, the Clops, and others like him, try to follow hunters to their lodges. Once they know the location they go away. Meanwhile the hunter works his ass off for the better part of a year, piles up skins and stink, and dreams of the day he'll load up for Payout. Then, just when he's about to head in, they kill him and clean out his lodge.”

  Both men were silent for a moment. Then Renn spoke. “So you've been watching to see if we were followed. Were we?”

  Boater shrugged. “I don't think so. But you can never be completely sure. No matter how careful you are, if someone wants you bad enough, they'll find you in the long run. Or just stumble over you by accident. Either way it adds up to the same thing.”

  Boater looked suddenly weak and vulnerable in Renn's eyes, and with a sudden flash of insight, he knew that deep down the gruff old hunter was scared. Scared that one day they'd come and take the little bit he had. Age brought no privileges on Swamp. No retirement homes, no government living allowance, no sympathetic relatives. Only the merciless swamp in which living to old age was the exception, and violent death the rule. As quickly as the moment came it was gone, as Boater heaved himself to his feet, and growled. “Well come on ... if we get a move on we can reach my lodge by nightfall.”

  And reach it they did. A few hours later Boater sent Renn into the bow with a long pole, and instructions to fend off obstructions. Then he pushed the steering oar to the starboard, and Fred made a hard turn to port. With the engine just barely turning over, the boat slid silently into a narrow side channel.

  From Renn's vantage point, it looked like another dead end, similar to countless others they'd passed along the way, but moments later the channel opened to the right and became a small bay. A sturdy-looking dock dominated the bay, and beyond that, he saw a small lodge made of local timber. It blended into the surrounding jungle and almost disappeared. That, plus the nondescript channel, would make Boater's hideaway almost impossible to find. Which is the whole idea, Renn thought, as he used the pole to fend off a submerged log. A lot of thought and work had gone into Boater's hideaway. The threat from raiders must be very real indeed.

  Fred fit the dock as if it had been made just for him, which it had, and was soon secured. As they followed a short path up towards the lodge, Renn noticed Boater was carrying a short, ugly-looking energy weapon, and pausing frequently to look around. Then he'd grunt his satisfaction and move on. In coming days Renn would also learn to look for the tiny signs which would signal a foreign presence. The flat rock in the middle of the path with two pebbles on it, the almost invisible thread across the steps, the piece of wood which should lay just so, and many more.

  Finding all as it should be, Boater unlocked the door to his lodge and led Renn inside. Moments later lanterns filled the cabin with a yellow glow. Though not fancy, the lodge did have a warm homey feel, and Boater was visibly proud of it.

  There was one big room, which served as both kitchen, dining room, and living room, plus a separate bedroom for Boater, and a curtained-off corner for Renn. A back door led out to a substantial wood pile, an outhouse, and a tiny dock at which a small flat-bottomed skiff was moored.

  In answer to Renn's questioning look, Boater said, “That's lesson number five, lad. Always leave yourself a back way out, and if they have you outnumbered, have the good sense to use it. It's better to lose your lodge than your ass. That there's a different channel than the one we came in on, and there's enough stuff hidden under the seats of that skiff to get us all the way to Payout if need be.”

  Renn remained for a moment after Boater had stumped back into the cabin. As darkness fell the night sounds no longer frightened him. He was used to them now. As he went inside Renn decided it was a good omen. For the moment this would be home.

  While Renn unloaded Fred, Boater prepared an excellent dinner, and they ate in companionable silence. Later, after the dishes were done, they sat before a roaring fire and told each other stories. It seemed Boater had been something of a minor crime lord on one of the inner planets. He declined to say on which one, but some of his adventures were absolutely hilarious, so that by the time Renn crawled into bed he was happier than he'd been in a long time.

  Within minutes he'd drifted off to sleep and started to dream. He found himself walking the surface of a dark planet. A place where flowers blossomed only at night, shivered in the pale light of three moons, and hid within their leaves during the short day. Around him dogs pranced through the twilight on hind legs and spoke of many things. One in particular caught his attention, and without choosing to do so, he found himself following her towards the top of a softly rounded hill. As she reached the summit, the moonlight fell on her like a soft cloak of white, she seemed to shimmer within its glow, and was suddenly transformed. She was a dog no longer. Suddenly she was tall and slim with long brown hair cascading down around a perfect heart shaped face. She smiled and laughed from the pure joy of being alive. He rushed forward, and just as she entered the circle of his arms, she disappeared. And all around him the dogs danced and laughed while he stood in the moonlight and cried.

  Chapter Six

  The next few months of Renn's life were like a visit to hell. A green hell, in which he must kill, or be killed. All of his activities centered around that one grim reality. Each day started the same way, breakfast, then target practice. Boater was always there, sipping a final cup of coffee, grunting his approval, or shaking his head in disgust. He started with stationary targets, booze containers thoughtfully emptied by Boater the night before, and gradually progressed to moving targets, which were placed further away each day. As time passed Renn's proficiency improved. He worked with each weapon until it was a part of him, an extension of his will. Then Boater invented games to further hone Renn's skill. His favorite involved creating a target range out behind the lodge. Once the targets were in place, Boater would call for certain weapons. “The pond, lad, use the .75, first the right hand, then the left.”

  Renn's right hand dived for the big .75, bringing it up into a two handed grip. There were eight chunks of wood floating beyond the skiff. Renn squeezed his shots off in groups of two, working from left to right, blowing the chunks of wood into splinters, until only two slugs were left. Shifting the weapon to his left hand, he squeezed the trigger twice, and watched as both targets ceased to exist. Then he released the empty magazine and slammed a fresh one home.

  “Bravo Jonnie! Now your blast rifle. Take the monsters.”

  Renn knew Boater was referring to the large pieces of plastic secured to the trees on the far side of the channel. A light breeze was tossing and turning them this way and that. Renn reached back, pulled the blast rifle from the scabbard on his
back, and brought it to his shoulder. A quick squint through the open sights, a double tap on the firing stud, and two beams of blue light screamed across the water to punch holes through the first target. A quick shift to the right, and the second sheet of plastic met a similar fate.

  “Blast rifle malfunction! Quick behind you!”

  Renn released the blast rifle as he spun around and saw the glint of Boater's coffee cup spinning high over his head. He could have hit it with the .75, but chose the hand blaster instead, knowing he needed the practice. He fired without aiming, feeling the almost magical connection between weapon and target which flows from muscle memory, experience, and intuition. The coffee cup disappeared in a flash of blue light.

  “To your left ... the stump ... throwing knife!”

  Renn flexed the muscles in his left forearm just so, triggering the spring loaded sheath, which delivered a double-edged throwing knife into his right hand. In one smooth motion his hand went back and then forward. The perfectly balanced blade flipped end over end twelve times, thudded into the stump, and vibrated like a tuning fork.

  And so it went, until even Boater expressed grudging satisfaction. “Umpf. You're death on stumps lad ... but monsters fight back. We'll see how you do against them.”