William C. Dietz - The Prison Planet

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PART ONE
Criminal
Chapter One
"Get a move on, monster meat ... I haven't got all day." The guard grinned as he shoved
Jonathan Renn through the lock and into the shuttle. Two more guards grabbed Renn and threw him
down.
He hit the shuttle's durasteel deck with considerable force. It hurt but Renn was used to
pain. That's because the guards used pain as a universal language. A language which never required
translation and always got results. Plus, in the imperial order of things, their status was only
slightly higher than that of the prisoners they guarded. The ability to inflict pain was an
important expression of their superiority.
Renn understood all this but it didn't make him feel better. He shook his head to clear
his vision. As things came back into focus he found himself looking straight down at a brass plate
set into the deck. It read, ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE. The guards laughed, and rough
hands jerked him to his feet. The whole episode was part of their routine send-off. Well, screw
them. He'd given up hope long ago.
At first he'd hoped that someone would discover his innocence, free him, and convey the
emperor's heartfelt apologies. "Sorry old boy, horrible mistake, can't imagine how it happened,
can I drive you home?"
Then the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and his fantasies of full
exoneration gradually gave way to another, more realistic hope. Perhaps the Imperial Court would
be lenient. Yes, he was innocent, but a suspended sentence wouldn't be too bad, at least he'd be
free to get his
hands on Shinto, and choke the truth out of him. Sure, others could've framed him but he
knew Shinto had. And if they'd turn him loose he'd prove it. And why not? After all, he was a
respectable businessman, with a clean record and friends in high places. "The court finds Citizen
Jonathan Renn guilty as charged. However in light of his spotless record, obvious penitence, and
impressive character witnesses, the court feels a degree of leniency is appropriate. We therefore
sentence Citizen Renn to pay a fine of one thousand Imperials, suspended, providing he stays out
of trouble for one standard year."
Then his trial came. It lasted fifteen minutes. His friends in high places never appeared,
the evidence was overwhelming, and the judicial computer spent 3.5 seconds reaching a verdict.
"For crimes against the empire Citizen Jonathan Renn is hereby sentenced to spend the rest of his
natural life on an Imperial Prison Planet. The sentence shall commence immediately."
He appealed of course, and his case went before a panel of sentient judges at nine the
next morning. After comparing stock portfolios, drinking coffee, and trading gossip for an hour
they discussed Renn's case. Five minutes later they decided to support the lower court, and get
together for lunch.
A prison robot with an electronic lisp delivered their decision a few minutes after that.
"Thitizen Renn, I'm thorry to inform you that your appeal hath been denied and your thententh
thtands. Would you like a cold drink?"
A few days later he and sixty-two other prisoners were packed aboard a shuttle and boosted
up to a supply and transport ship. Even as they entered their tiny cells the ship was breaking out
of earth orbit and preparing to enter hyperspace. A few hours later Renn felt the characteristic
nausea which accompanies a shift into hyperspace and knew he was on his way. But to where? He
didn't know, because
he was a prisoner, and everybody knows you don't tell prisoners a damn thing.
Weeks passed, and the ship left hyperspace three times to orbit around three different
worlds. Renn assumed they were prison planets. He hadn't paid much attention to prison planets in
the past. After all, why should he care about the fate of the empire's criminals, deviates, and
psychopaths? They deserved what they got didn't they? He grinned at the irony of it, and tried to
remember what he'd read or heard about prison planets.
The concept had originated with the first emperor. Having won a long civil war, he'd built
his empire on the shattered remains of an earlier confederacy, thereby uniting hundreds of human-
occupied worlds. Afterwards, he faced the task of restoring civil order to planets which had spent
years under military authority. While efficient, martial law is always onerous, and most worlds
were eager to get rid of it. So when the war was over, most moved to establish approved forms of
planetary government.
As the new governments were phased in, and the military governments were phased out, most
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planets experienced a sudden upsurge in crime. As a result, newly restructured court systems swung
into action, convicted wrong-doers at a record pace, and stuffed them into already crowded
prisons. "Build more prisons," the emperor's advisors told him, but he resisted the idea, knowing
prisons were expensive, and easily used to symbolize governmental oppression, fancied or real.
What's more, he felt an empire should offer its citizens a certain amount of consistency, and
couldn't see how equitable prisons could be constructed on hundreds of different planets. So what
was the answer?
The answer came, as many answers did, while the emperor lounging in the comfort of his
daily stim bath. Of course! It was so obvious! Why hadn't he thought of it
before? For a long time he'd been concerned about the many second- and third-rate planets,
which though inside the sphere of his control, were unsettled. Such worlds made tempting targets
for the neighboring II Ronnian empire. As human and alien empires grew steadily towards each
other, each did its best to establish footholds in the other's territory, and unoccupied worlds
were especially tempting. So why not use some of those worlds as prisons? By doing so he could
simultaneously get rid of the prisoners and make those particular planets less attractive to the
II Ronn.
The more the emperor thought about it the more he liked it. Although unpleasant, many of
the worlds were not only capable of supporting human life, they also contained valuable resources.
Suddenly the emperor saw a way to make the prison planets self-supporting as well! Once dirtside,
the prisoners would be on their own. There would be no cells, no guards. They could settle for
mere survival if they chose, or if they wanted something more, they could work for it. If they
wanted off-planet technology, supplies, and products, they'd have to pay for them, and that meant
producing something of value. What they produced would vary depending on the resources of their
particular planet and the demands of the marketplace. Slouching back in his stim bath, the emperor
smiled, and rewarded himself with another five minutes of relaxation.
The emperor wasted no time putting his idea into effect. The requisite planets were soon
selected, surveyed, and evaluated. Experts from a variety of disciplines examined each planet's
geology, mineral resources, major ecosystems, weather patterns, and more. From this knowledge they
designed basic equipment packages, cured potential diseases, and chose which products the
prisoners should produce.
Then, to discourage unauthorized arrivals and departures, automatic weapons systems were
placed in orbit around
each planet. Soon thereafter the first prisoners arrived and went to work. By now the
first emperor had died, having passed the throne along to his son, but his prison system lived on,
and showed every sign of continuing to do so.
So whenever the ship swung into orbit around a prison planet, Renn listened to the
clanging of cell doors, the muffled shuffle of manacled prisoners, and wondered if they'd come for
him this time. But they never did. Shuttles would come and go, the noises would gradually die
away, and the whole thing would start over. Why certain prisoners were assigned to certain
planets, and not others, remained a complete mystery. He'd even asked a guard once, and the guard
beat him, not for asking the question, but because he didn't know the answer, either.
More weeks passed, each as featureless and nondescript as the one before, until suddenly
and without warning, his cell door clanged open, his name was called, and he was marched down the
gleaming corridor towards an unknown future. Now others watched him go, peeking through the ration
slots in their cell doors, feeling a mixture of envy and pity.
He was half carried and half dragged through the shuttle's inner lock, down a corridor,
and into the main cargo area. As the hatch cycle closed behind him, he looked around, screwing up
his eyes against the harsh glare of the loading lights. They threw bright pools of greenish light
onto the scarred surface of the deck. For a moment he thought he was alone, but then he heard the
scrape of a boot on durasteel, and a guard stepped into a pool of light and dropped a large
cylindrical bag near his feet. It hit with an audible thump. He beckoned Renn forward.
The guard's uniform hat threw a heavy black shadow down across his face, making it
impossible to see his eyes, adding to his already ominous presence. Renn was still
three feet away when a huge hand flashed out, grabbed a fistful of his coverall, and
jerked him in close. Two quick blows rocked his head back and forth.
Renn tried to ignore the pain. He knew from experience that resistance brought only more
pain. Nonetheless he wanted to hit back, and it took all his self-control not to do so. The
guard's eyes were bright sparks in dark sockets. Thin lips were pulled back to reveal rows of
yellowing teeth. As he spoke, the guard's fetid breath made Renn gag. "That's just to get your
attention monster meat. My name's Murphy. Captain Murphy to you. Accordin' to Section Thirty Six,
page forty, of the Imperial Prison Regs concer-nin' scum bags like you, I've gotta waste my
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valuable time briefin' you on your new home . . . the planet Swamp." Murphy grinned happily. "So
pay attention . . . cause I'm only gonna say it once."
The guard reached into a shirt pocket and withdrew a hand-held holo projector. As he
snapped it on a miniature planet popped into existence between them. It was about two feet in
diameter and looked quite real. It had a slight axial tilt, and outside of the heavy cloud layer
obscuring much of its surface, seemed otherwise unremarkable. A host of tiny automatic weapons
platforms orbited around it along with a small globe. Renn wondered what it was.
Murphy nodded towards the holo. "That's where you're headed monster meat . . . and it's a
real beaut. I won't bother you with a lot of boring stats on mass, luminosity, orbital
eccentricity and stuff like that, cause it ain't gonna make a damn bit of difference to the likes
of you. All you need to know is that Swamp has enough gravity to keep your ass there forever, an
atmosphere you can breathe, and an ecosystem full of swamp monsters for you to kill. You kill 'em,
skin 'em and sell 'em and you stay alive. Fail and you die. Even a scum bag like you oughtta be
able to understand that. Questions'?"
Experience had taught Renn that questions often led to abuse, even when invited, but he
decided to take the chance. "Is that satellite a moon?"
Murphy laughed. "No, scum bag, it ain't no moon. It's a space station, full of eggheads
with nothin' better to do than play grab ass, and stare at some stupid pus ball planet all day
long. On those rare occasions when you can see the sky ... look up and wave . . . maybe they'll
take time out to piss on your head." The guard touched a button on the holo projector and the
planet suddenly vanished. As he returned the device to his shirt pocket Murphy said, "Now the
manual says I've gotta take you on a tour of your gear . . . it's amazin' they don't have me
wipin' your nose too."
The guard bent over, released the seals on the black bag, and withdrew a neatly folded
bundle. Straightening up he threw it at Renn. As Renn caught it he realized it was some sort of a
one-piece suit. It was surprisingly heavy. Holding the suit by its shoulders he allowed it to
unfold. It had lots of zippers and pockets, some of which had things in them, plus built in
holsters for hand weapons. An environmental suit—for a rather unpleasant environment. Suddenly
Renn began to have some very bad feelings about Swamp. As if reading his mind, Murphy grinned, and
said, "It'll protect you from the elements, plus some of the smaller life forms. It ain't body
armor ... but it sure beats bare skin. Put it on."
Renn obeyed. As he put on the suit, and the heavy boots that went with it, Murphy
continued to talk. He named each item as he plucked it from the black bag, explained its purpose,
and showed how to use it. His voice had taken on the rhythmic singsong quality of someone who's
given a lecture so many times he has it memorized. "This here's a Sanders-Hexon model 86
recoilless blast rifle . . . minus power pak naturally . . . wouldn't want you to shoot
yourself in the toe aboard ship . . . which'll be your main armament. A bit dated ... but
not a bad piece if you take care of it. You also get a hand blaster and a slug gun . . . both
unloaded of course . . . and a force blade for skinnin' all them monsters you're gonna kill. Then
there's your collapsible shelter . . . same kind the marines use ... first-aid kit ... thirty days
of emergency rats . . . you can also use 'em to poison swamp monsters . . . and a nifty array of
solar cells . . . though God knows when you'll ever see the sun."
There was much more, but somewhere along the line, Renn stopped listening. He'd accepted
his fate, but it had seemed distant somehow, and not entirely real. Now, as Murphy inventoried his
supplies, he realized his situation was not only real, but much worse than anything he'd ever
imagined. For one thing he was completely out of his element. Sure, he'd handled blasters and slug
guns occasionally, but he'd never really mastered them. Like his father before him, Renn was a
businessman. His weapons were law suits, option clauses, and delivery dates. Now those things were
suddenly meaningless, and he was supposed to kill swamp monsters using a set of skills he didn't
have. Maybe things could be worse ... but he couldn't see how.
Marla snarled as the guard opened the door to her cell. The guard, a very unpleasant young
man called "Zit," peered in rather cautiously and then entered. He was stupid, but not that
stupid. Marla had inflicted a nasty slash on his right thigh only a few days before. It was still
healing. So when he saw her muzzle was still strapped in place, a big grin split Zit's pock-marked
face, and he grunted with satisfaction. "Come on you cyborg bitch ... try it." He tapped the palm
of his hand with the nerve lash.
Marla was sorely tempted to accept Zit's invitation. In
spite of their earlier run-in, she'd managed to conceal most of her special capabilities,
and this seemed a poor time to reveal them. And Marla's capabilities were quite extraordinary.
Although she looked like a rather large German Shepherd, Marla was much, much more. She weighed
about two hundred pounds, had durasteel teeth and claws, enhanced infrared vision, multi-freq
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audio intercept, power-assisted musculature, and the full intelligence of a female human with a
tested IQ of 125. Had she wished to, Marla could have popped the leather muzzle, and ripped Zit's
throat regardless of the nerve lash. While emotionally satisfying, she knew it would also be
pointless. The other guards would simply hunt her down and kill her. So Zit would live.
Sublimating her anger, Marla forced herself to adopt a submissive posture and whined in the back
of her throat. Though she was not really a dog, acting like one often worked to her advantage.
Even when people knew Marla was a cyborg, she still looked like a dog, and no matter how hard they
tried, they couldn't resist the urge to treat her the way she appeared. Zit was no exception.
"That's better bitch," Zit said nodding his satisfaction. "Now get your miserable flea-
bitten ass out into the corridor."
Marla circled around Zit, her tail held between her legs, trying to exit the cell without
giving him with an opening. It didn't work. As she scurried through the door he delivered a
vicious kick to her left rear haunch. Limping, she preceded him down the gleaming corridor,
glancing over her shoulder now and then to make sure she stayed well ahead of him. Meanwhile he
provided occasional directions, such as "Right, bitch," and "Left, bitch."
Before long they left the ship via a guarded lock, and entered a shuttle. Marla was spared
the ritual with the brass plate. Zit and his fellow guards assumed anything that looked like a dog
couldn't read.
Marla's heart sank as she scurried down the next corridor. This was it, the final trip
down to some godforsaken prison planet to spend the rest of her life—looking like a dog. Double
punishment, it seemed to her.
She stopped in front of a closed hatch. In spite of her many special abilities, there were
some things Marla just couldn't do. Opening hatches with her paws was one of them. Zit caught up,
opened the hatch, and then kicked her into the shuttle's cargo hold. It was his last chance to
demonstrate his superiority.
As she spun around, Marla was dimly aware of the two men, but most of her attention was
centered on killing Zit. The last kick was one too many. Pain, plus her frustration and fear,
combined to override the logical part of her mind. Gone were her good intentions and determination
to maintain a low profile. She popped the muzzle and snapped at the closest part of Zit's anatomy.
As luck would have it Zit's foot was coming forward in another kick. Marla's power-assisted jaws
closed around his ankle and sliced through it like a knife through warm butter.
As his right foot hit the deck with a soft thump, Zit began to scream, spraying hot blood
over Marla's face as he toppled over backwards.
Murphy pulled his stunner, flipped the setting to max, and fired. It hit Marla like a blow
from an invisible club. She dropped like a rock as all her systems locked into a spasm.
Renn watched in amazement as Murphy calmly holstered his stunner, hit an alarm button on
the nearest bulkhead, and proceeded to kick the dog's stunned body. Renn reacted without conscious
thought. He jumped on Murphy's back, wrapped one arm around the guard's thick neck, and squeezed
with all his strength. It was a waste of time. Reaching over his shoulder, Murphy ripped Renn
loose, and proceeded to beat him senseless. Fortunately, the environmental suit absorbed a good
deal of the punishment. Murphy was still pounding away when the ship's medics arrived and went to
work on Zit.
Marla was conscious. Her nonorganic components had served to protect her brain and spinal
cord from the full effects of the beam. It should have knocked her out. Still, she couldn't move.
All she could do was watch Murphy beat Renn's unconscious body and curse him from the bottom of
her heart.
Having stopped the worst of Zit's bleeding, the medics took a moment to haul Murphy off
Renn's motionless body, and tried to calm him down.
Marla looked Renn over. There was blood all over his face, but his chest continued to rise
and fall. At least he was alive.
While part of her mind considered the situation at hand, and wondered what kind of
punishment Murphy would mete out, another part, a part she hadn't used in a long time, noticed
Renn was good-looking. Ignoring the blood, she saw light brown hair and even features. The way
Murphy had taken him apart, the idiot obviously knew nothing about hand-to-hand combat. But he had
guts, by God, guts enough to fight for what he assumed was an abused dog. Something deep down in a
hidden recess of her being softened, and then gave way entirely, causing the other part of her
mind to groan in disgust. "You've got to be kidding, you a female cyberdog, falling for some
incompetent clown who can't even throw a decent punch! Don't you have enough problems? All he'll
do is cause you more pain. How stupid can you get?"
The hidden part of her sighed, and answered, "Very, very stupid I'm afraid."
Suddenly Murphy's voice came from somewhere behind her. She tried to turn, but nothing
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happened. His voice was tight with rage. "All right, all right, I'll leave him alone.
I still say 1 oughtta kill them both right now ... but you're right . . . those clowns in
Internal Affairs would go crazy ... so I'll let Swamp do it for me. Strap 'em down . . . we're
goin' dirtside."
Seconds later two medics picked her up, carried her across the hold, and dumped her into a
cargo net. They were none too gentle, but thanks to Murphy's stunner, she couldn't feel a thing.
Moments later Renn was dumped in beside her. He bounced a couple of times and then lay still.
Although the net was designed for fragile cargo, and was suspended by a network of shock cords, it
wasn't intended for living organisms. Apparently the ride down would be part of Murphy's
punishment.
A few minutes later repellor beams pushed the shuttle out and away from the larger vessel.
Seconds later it blasted down towards the planet below. The shuttle's pilot was a cheerful middle-
aged woman nicknamed Aunt Sally. She had the pleasant easygoing manner of a favorite aunt. And her
graying hair, lined face, and matronly figure did nothing to ruin the image. Matronly or not, Aunt
Sally was one hot shuttle pilot, and everybody knew it. As she slipped the shuttle into a
descending orbit, she lit a cigarillo, and watched Murphy out of the corner of her eye. He hated
the damned things which was reason enough to smoke them. As she puffed the cigar into life Murphy
wrinkled his nose. She knew he wanted to complain but didn't dare. Aunt Sally grinned. Screw him.
He might be the captain of the guards, but this was her shuttle.
At first the descent wasn't too bad. But as time went on, and the effects of the stunner
began to wear off, things got worse. Now more and more sensory input was making it through to
Marla's brain, and she wished it wasn't. She'd always been prone to motion sickness . . . and her
transformation into a cyborg hadn't lessened the problem. Each time the shuttle hit a new layer of
air, it bucked violently, causing the shock-mounted cargo net to move every which way. It made her
dizzy. Gritting her teeth, she fought the darkness that threatened to engulf her. Battle-trained
Class III cyberdogs don't faint.
Meanwhile Renn groaned and tried to turn over. He was coming to.
"Good," she thought. "Because God knows what's waiting dirtside." Then the shuttle hit an
air pocket, and seemed to drop like a rock, and a wave of blackness pulled Marla under.
At first Renn thought he'd passed from one nightmare into another. He could still see
Murphy's huge fists coming at him and hear the meaty thump as they hit his face. It had continued
long after he'd ceased to feel it, and ceased to care. Then came the welcome darkness of death.
But now his peace had been shattered by a confusing mix of sensations. The pain he could
understand—it might be part of death—but the motion didn't make sense at all. How could you feel
motion if you were dead? Maybe he wasn't dead after all. The thought depressed him.
His eyes popped open. Damn. He was alive all right, if you could call laying next to a
dead dog in a gyrating cargo net living. No, the dog was still warm, so maybe it was alive, too.
The shuttle shuddered, and the whole cargo net swayed in sympathy. They were making an atmosphere
landing. He'd made some tricky atmospheric landings himself, enough to know what they felt like,
although he'd never made one in a cargo net before. He tried to sit up, but the combined forces of
Swamp's gravity, and the shuttle's erratic motion, made that impossible. Besides it hurt like
hell. Renn forced himself to relax and gather his strength. Ten to one he'd need it.
Aunt Sally blew out a thin stream of noxious gray smoke and smiled. The shuttle was
screaming over the swampy terrain at about 900 miles an hour just 300 feet off the ground. This
was fun. Talk about a rush! They'd have her ass on any other planet. A globe-circling sonic boom
doesn't improve your popularity. But if a few prisoners lose a little sleep ... so what?
Below, an endless canopy of green flashed by, obscured now and then by broken clouds, and
divided by a thousand channels of sluggish brown water. Just part of the endless equatorial swamps
which gave the planet its name. Aunt Sally knew the planet had other, more attractive latitudes
both north and south, but those were empty of the swamp monsters which fueled the planet's
economy, and therefore empty of prisoners as well. Because even in the more pleasant latitudes you
needed weapons, medical supplies, and a hundred other things to survive. And there was only one
way to get them—hunt swamp monsters, or support those who did. She shivered. God help the poor
bastards.
Aunt Sally scanned her readouts and gently cut power. The LZ was ninety standard miles
ahead. As the ship slowed, she stubbed out the cigarillo, and grinned when Murphy heaved a sigh of
relief.
Silently cursing the shuttle pilot, Murphy touched a series of keys and activated the
shuttle's automatic weapons system. SOP for any prison planet, but especially Swamp. The place was
home to some very hostile alien life forms, plus about a hundred thousand prisoners, all of whom
wanted to leave. And even though the orbiting weapons platforms would burn any ships lifting
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without the proper codes, there were still prisoners willing to give it a try as had happened five
years before. Two thousand of them had joined forces to ambush a supply shuttle. Murphy smiled at
the thought. Home-made rocket launchers against ship's weapons. It was no contest. The shuttle's
energy weapons cut them down in bloody swaths, started a forest fire around the LZ, and boiled the
surrounding channels temporarily dry. When it was over and the ship lifted, only forty-seven
prisoners were still alive, most of them badly wounded. Murphy sighed. He'd been on leave and
missed the whole thing.
As the shuttle lost all forward motion, Aunt Sally's blunt fingers danced across the
control panel, and they started dropping towards the surface. Outside, the ship's repellors made a
loud screaming sound, and deep in the swamp something heard, and raised a massive head to answer
in kind. Other things heard too, quickly slithering into turgid brown water, or scurrying deeper
into lush vegetation. Thousands of insects took to the humid air. Each was the size of a small
bird, and the combined sound of their wings filled the air with an ominous hum. Soon they filled
the sky and threw a shadow across the land below.
As that shadow swept over them, a small group of men paused, and looked up with hungry
eyes. Then without a word they resumed their march. They were tough, as mean as the swamp itself,
and just as heartless. Their leader was a full seven feet tall. His giant strides set a mean pace,
and the others hurried to keep up. But they didn't mind, because greenies didn't arrive every day,
and when they did, it was easy pickings. To them a sonic boom was a call to action. An omen of
good things to come. So they hurried forward while the swampy trail squished and sucked at the
soles of their boots.
Moments later the shuttle thumped down onto the glazed surface of the LZ. In its own way
the LZ was a high-tech work of art. Initial surveys had shown the spongy land wouldn't support
anything heavier than a scout. So the Imperial Engineers had made a few changes. First, they set
up a complex network of interlocking portable force-field generators. Each was situated to create
an invisible cylinder of energy. One end of the cylinder rested on a small island and the other
reached a mile up into the sky. Having done this, they dropped a miniature hell bomb right down
the middle of the invisible shaft. When the bomb went off, its energy was channelled straight up
and down. The result was an island of fused rock and earth a quarter-mile across and a mile deep.
Voilal A crude but serviceable landing zone. So far, not even the combined effects of time, swamp,
and weather had managed to damage the LZ's blackened surface. Wind-blown soil occasionally
collected here and there, quickly giving birth to a fantastic variety of plant life. For a while
lush foliage would grow, and then, when it became too thick, the next shuttle in would burn it
off. Aunt Sally considered doing so on this trip, but decided it wasn't necessary quite yet. There
was growth working its way in from the edges of the LZ, but there was still plenty of room in the
middle, and that's where she set the shuttle down. Putting all systems on standby, she pulled out
her knitting, and started a new row.
• Marla regained consciousness as they pulled her from the cargo net. Although she had
full sensory input her body was still paralyzed. Renn was nowhere to be seen so perhaps they'd
taken him first. One man held her up, grunting at the effort involved, while another slipped a
cargo sling under her stomach. Then each grabbed one end of the sling, lifted, and carried her
towards the main cargo hatch. The hair on the back of her neck bristled as the sluggish breeze
brought her the corrupt smell of the surrounding swamp. A growl formed deep in her throat and she
carefully suppressed it. They'd love to stun her again.
When they reached the open hatch, Marla saw it was ten or fifteen feet to the ground, and
there was no ladder in sight. The men began to swing her back and forth in concert. They were
going to throw her out! Desperately she tried to regain motor control but felt no response. Damn!
Depending on how she hit, the fall could kill her. Suddenly Murphy was there laughing.
"Bye bye bitch! Hope you can fly!"
And then she was flying. Flying and falling towards the hard surface below. She hit hard
but felt no pain. Had she been lucky enough to land on something soft? Then she felt movement
underneath her. "Damn! You're a heavy dog. That's the last time I'm catching you till you lose
some weight." Suddenly Renn was standing over her. For the first time she realized he was a bit
chubby.
She tried to say, "Look who's talking," but found herself making a growling sound instead.
Anyway she didn't mean it. He'd obviously risked injury to break her fall.
Then she heard Murphy's laughter, and saw Renn turn in that direction. Her own head still
refused to move.
Murphy stood framed in the cargo hatch, hands on hips, the large equipment bag on the deck
beside him. Looking down he shook his head in mock sympathy. "In a few hours you'll be dead meat,
scum bag, and the thought makes me sad, not because I like you, but because you deserve a few
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years on Swamp before you die." Murphy shrugged. "But them's the breaks. Here, I'll even leave
your gear, not that you've got the slightest idea what to do with it." With that Murphy picked up
the bag and threw it. It hit Renn in the chest and knocked him over backwards. Murphy was still
laughing as the cargo hatch cycled closed.
As Renn got up, the ship lifted on screaming repellors, danced to the far side of the LZ,
and blasted towards the sky. As Aunt Sally fed power to the main drives, she lit another
cigarillo, and grinned. By the time Murphy reached the control room it would be full of smoke.
Chapter Two
Renn watched the shuttle lift with mixed emotions. Unpleasant though it was, the prison
shuttle was a connection with the past and everything familiar. As it dwindled to a spark of
light, and then vanished altogether, he knew there was no turning back. But at least he was free!
He'd make a new start, find a way off this damned pus ball, and get the bastards who'd framed him.
Wouldn't they be surprised when he showed up to even the score!
As quickly as the fantasy came it was gone, replaced by the stark reality of the brooding
swamp, the humid air which settled over him like a cloak, and the strange noises all around. The
dog made a sound deep in its throat and he knelt by its side. He gave it a reassuring pat on the
head, and said, "Take it easy boy . . . you'll be OK ... it takes awhile for the effects to wear
off. That bastard Murphy must have set his stunner for max."
"You idiot!" Marla thought desperately, trying to speak but producing a whimper instead.
"I'm not a dog, not a boy, and not nearly as stupid as you are. Can't you hear them? Damn, they
sound like a herd of elephants . . . and the smell ... my God they stink! Break out a weapon and
load it. Do something for God's sake!"
But Renn didn't do anything. He didn't have her amplified hearing, enhanced sense of
smell, or experience in dealing with physical danger. So when the men stepped out of the dense
undergrowth a few seconds later he wasn't ready. There were five of them, all dressed in hand-sewn
leather. They seemed to fade into the thick green vegetation behind them. All were heavily armed.
One was seven feet tall, and so intimidating his weapons seemed superfluous. His huge frame was
topped with a big, bony head, a blade-like nose, long greasy hair, and a single eye. It gleamed
with malevolence. Not stupid malevolence, but intelligent malevolence, the kind that chooses evil
over good because it seems like the most logical decision. Shiny metal filled the giant's other
eye socket, flashing in the broken sunlight, and showing Renn a picture of himself. It didn't look
good. When the giant spoke, his voice was surprisingly cultured.
"Well, well," he said, turning to his friends. "What have we here gentlemen? A newcomer it
would seem. A newcomer and his pet dog. How touching. I never thought I'd see the day when
prisoners were allowed to bring pets . . . but," he said, turning to Renn, "we are forgetting our
manners. Welcome to Swamp stranger. For somewhat obvious reasons I am called 'Cyclops.' While not
the name my mother and father chose, it is in keeping with the culture of this planet, and has a
somewhat intimidating quality. The four gentlemen behind me are variously known as the Blaster,
Knife, Trap, and the Scuz."
Renn nodded and smiled. "It's a pleasure gentlemen. Great set of names. You should open a
law firm."
When Cyclops laughed the sound was cold and harsh. It sent a chill down Renn's spine. "Oh
that's a good one isn't gentlemen? The stranger has a sense of humor. I like that. Tell me
stranger, how do you like our planet so far? I hope our informal spaceport and somewhat shabby
appearance do not offend you?"
Not sure of how to handle this strange combination of threat and civility, Renn tried to
smile. "No of course not,
"Then you agree we look shabby?" Cyclops interrupted. "Why no," Renn replied, "I just
meant that . . ."
"He thinks we look shabby," Cyclops said sadly turning to his men, all of whom did their
best to look offended. "He has only been on our beautiful planet for a few minutes, and he is
already criticizing the way we dress, and the condition of our only spaceport. It makes me sad.
Does it make you sad, too?" "Renn watched helplessly, as the other four took turns saying that
they felt sad. Cyclops was obviously playing with him.
Cyclops nodded, holding up one hand for silence. "I hear you gentlemen, and understand
your unhappiness, but hark, for I bring you glad tidings!"
The other four did their best to look interested. "I feel certain that out new citizen
mentions our shabbi-ness only because he intends to remedy it! Yes, that must be it!" Whirling
back towards Renn, Cyclops said, "That is correct is it not? In that bag you have fine raiments to
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improve our appearance? Small conveniences with which to improve the quality of our lives?"
Marla groaned internally, and struggled against the lingering effects of the stun beam,
but it was hopeless. Although the effects of the stunner were wearing off, she was still far short
of full mobility, and nothing less would get the job done against five armed opponents. "Give 'em
the bag," she said, almost croaking it out, but growling instead. "Now's no time to fight. They've
got you outnumbered and out-classed. Just give 'em what they want." She managed to raise her head
slightly, her eyes seeking his, hoping he'd somehow receive her thoughts via mental telepathy. One
look made her groan and slump back. The fool was getting ready to fight. It showed in the tense
way he held his body and the determination on his face.
Cyclops saw it, too, and smiled. It would be more fun this way.
Renn gulped back his fear. "Look, Cyclops, or whatever your name is, why don't we just cut
the crap. You intend to steal my equipment. You're armed, plus there's five of you, and only one
of me. Its too bad you haven't got the guts for a fair fight."
"A fair fight!" Marla wailed inside her self. "If you had a rocket launcher he'd still
win! Give 'em the bag!"
Cyclops rubbed his chin as if considering Renn's challenge. Then he turned to his
companions. "Well gentlemen, what do you think? The stranger wants to give us his many gifts, but
begs the honor of personal combat first. What say you?"
Not too surprisingly, the other four all agreed that personal combat sounded like a good
idea. Turning back to Renn, Cyclops shrugged, as if to say, "Well there you are, what can I do but
comply?"
As Cyclops made a production out of laying down his weapons, Renn went through a series of
warming-up exercises, much to the amusement of Blaster, Knife, Trap, and the Scuz.
Marla felt proud and sad at the same time. Proud that Renn had the guts to fight, and sad,
knowing the certain outcome.
Renn knew he must be a ludicrous sight, dancing around and shadowboxing, but it was better
than standing still, and besides, if his plan worked he'd have the last laugh. It was a desperate
plan, and one which he knew had little chance of success. Nonetheless, it was better than nothing.
At least he hoped it was.
Having unloaded all his personal weapons, and laid them out neatly on the surface of the
LZ, Cyclops smiled, and flexed his fingers. "Come and get it stranger."
And Renn did. Putting his head down he charged straight at the giant, hitting him in the
stomach, and bowling him over. The maneuver caught Cyclops completely by surprise. As he fell, he
took Blaster and the Scuz down with him.
Meanwhile Renn rolled sideways, and scrabbled among the weapons Cyclops had placed on the
ground. One was a .50 caliber semi-automatic handgun. It was a weapon with which Renn was slightly
familiar. If he could just get hold of it, Renn was reasonably sure he could release the safety,
and fire it. The rest would be a matter of luck. And there it was, just beyond the end of his
fingertips, if he could reach it. ... Just as his fingers closed around the cool plastic, there
was an explosion of pain, followed by—nothing.
He opened his eyes to total darkness. Was he blind? Or dead, and confined to some corner
of hell so remote, so desolate, that light never reached it? Suddenly two red eyes came at him out
of the dark and he tried to move, to escape, but a jagged lance of pain held him pinned where he
was. And then, when it seemed the red-eyed monster would lunge for his jugular, it stopped, and he
heard an unfamiliar female voice. "What the hell are you doing? Can't leave you for a moment . . .
now stop that and lie down. You're not ready to go anywhere yet."
Suddenly a cold wet nose brushed his cheek, and a furry head nudged him down. He heaved a
sigh of relief. It wasn't some sort of monster after all ... it was the dog. The dog! The dog was
talking! He tried to sit up but once again the pain drove him back down. Now he could make out a
faint outline of the dog's head and shoulders against the cold light of the stars.
"Oh, I get it," Marla said apologetically and sitting back on her haunches. "You just
discovered I'm not your average mutt. Sorry about that. You've been coming and going for quite a
while. I didn't realize you were here for keeps this time."
When Renn spoke his voice sounded strange in his own ears. "Then you're for real ... a
talking dog?"
"Sort of," Marla agreed. "Actually I'm a female cyber-dog, trained for security work."
"Cyberdog?" Renn asked dully. "Some sort of cyborg?"
"That's right," Marla answered. "But we can play
'what's a cute little cyborg like you doing in a place like this' later. Right now we've
got some more pressing problems . . . like your head for example."
Renn reached up to touch his head. His fingers came away sticky. He couldn't see ... but
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he knew what it was. Blood. "What the hell happened anyway?"
He heard a soft chuckle. "You tried to knock One-Eye down and kill him with his own gun.
One of his friends shot you. Knife I think ... or was it Trap? Anyway the slug only grazed the
side of your head, but it made one helluva mess, so they left you for dead. They talked about
shooting me, but decided to save the ammo. Said I'd make a nice snack for some swamp monster." She
laughed. "Not unless swamp monsters like steel and plastic."
"So they left?"
" Yup. And took your gear with them. They've been gone for three hours and twenty-six
minutes."
"Three hours and twenty-six minutes?"
"Being a cyborg has some advantages . . . including a built-in chonometer with time lapse
and the works."
"Oh," Renn replied stupidly, his next comment forgotten as something big screamed a long
way off, and was answered from someplace nearby.
"And that's our other problem," Marla said calmly. "While we're waiting for you to
recover, various things would like to have us for dinner. I've killed two smaller carnivores in
the last couple of hours . Night feeders most likely, attracted by the smell of your blood."
Renn thought about that for a moment. For reasons he couldn't fathom he had a very unusual
friend. One who'd already risked her life on his behalf. He should be pulling his share of the
load instead of lying around like so much dead meat. Suddenly he had an idea. Patting his pockets,
he discovered they still had things in them, and wondered why Cyclops and his friends hadn't
stripped him of the suit itself. "They didn't search me?"
"No," she replied. "What'd they miss, a collapsible field hospital?"
"No," he said smiling in spite of the pain, "something almost as good. A survival kit. And
most survival kits come with a lighter. I wonder if that undergrowth is flammable." "Not bad for a
head case," Marla conceded. "Let's find out." While he went through his pockets trying to figure
out which packet was the survival kit, Marla disappeared into the night. She returned a number of
times, dragging various kinds of vegetation in her teeth. Meanwhile he managed to find the
survival kit and the lighter it contained.
"OK," Renn said, "let's give it a try. There's no point in you working your tail off if
this stuff won't burn."
"Tail off? Is that your idea of a joke, chubs?" Renn was taken aback by the hostility in
her voice.
"No . . . it's just a figure of speech. I meant no offense."
"Well all right," Marla growled self-consciously. "It was probably my fault anyway. I'm a
bit oversensitive sometimes."
"Think nothing of it," Renn replied lightly. "Let's see if this stuff burns." After about
ten minutes of experimentation, they found three varieties of vegetation that refused to burn at
all. A fourth gave off such a horrible stench that Marla had to haul it away, and the fifth burned
with a bright crackling flame.
Thus encouraged, Marla gathered more of the fire plant, and they soon had a respectable
bonfire. Although Marla kept watch, the fire seemed to have the desired effect: no more carnivores
ventured near.
Renn had also discovered a small first-aid kit tucked away in one of his pockets, and used
it to clean his lacerated scalp, and cover it with a dressing. He also took some broad spectrum
antibiotics plus a couple of painkillers. They both stared into the fire for awhile, each curious
about the other, but afraid to ask. Then the painkillers took effect, and Renn found himself
becoming drowzy. Although the night was not especially cold, the warmth of the fire felt good, and
before he knew it, he had drifted off to sleep.
It was still night when he awoke. In front of him the fire burned bright, surrounding him
in a dancing orange glow, and revealing that his companion still kept watch. She was curled up
beside him, her eyes on the fire.
He watched her for awhile, wishing he could reach out and pet her, but unsure of how she
might react. What was it like in a dog's body, he wondered? Not very pleasant he supposed. She
certainly didn't like it. Renn wondered what she'd looked like before her transformation into
whatever she was. He pictured her as a brunette, with shoulder-length hair, a pretty face, and a
slim figure, probably because that was the kind of woman he liked best. Renn found himself wishing
he'd known her then. He felt sure he'd have liked her. God knows he owed her a lot. Not many
people would've stayed to help him. He decided to break the silence. "Thank you."
She turned to look at him with her big brown eyes. Her lips pulled back from her teeth in
a parody of a human smile. "You're welcome, but it's I who should thank you."
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"For what?"
"You tried to defend me aboard the shuttle, and frankly, it's been a long time since
anyone tried to protect me from anything."
Renn shrugged. "It just seemed like the right thing to do, although I didn't do it very
well, and it hardly compares with fighting alien carnivores and the like. By the way, I'm Jonathan
Renn." He held out his hand and then jerked it back. "Sorry."
She laughed. "Well don't be. It shows you think of me as a person and not a dog. I
apologize for what I said earlier. I get stupid sometimes. My name's Marla. Marla Marie Mendez.
Here, shake." Sitting up she held out a paw.
Leaning on one elbow, Renn accepted her paw and shook it. "Pleased to meet you Marla Marie
Mendez. Like you said earlier, what's a nice cyborg like you doing in a place like this?"
She looked into the fire. "What you really mean is, why did I become a cyborg? And what
did I do to wind up here?"
Renn started to speak but she interrupted. "No, that's OK, it's a perfectly reasonable
question. I'll tackle it in two parts." She paused for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts, and
then began.
"When I was twenty years old—let's see, that's about four standard years ago now—1 was
injured in a very bad air car accident. My boyfriend and I were coming home from a skiing trip. He
fell asleep at the controls. You know how they work, you release your grip on the stick, the
autopilot comes on, and an alarm goes off. Anyway that's what's supposed to happen, only it
didn't. There was some kind of malfunction. As a result we hit an eighty-story condo complex at
about eighty miles an hour. Fortunately, it was under construction so we didn't kill anyone
besides ourselves. My boyfriend was pronounced brain-dead at the scene, but they decided I had a
chance, and rushed me to a hospital. He was in the front, 1 was asleep in the back, and apparently
that small difference saved my life. Two days later I came to. I couldn't see, but I could hear in
a distorted sort of way, and talk, at least if I felt like talking. I heard a voice, a kind voice,
that sounded as if it were far, far away. It asked me questions and 1 answered. Then it went away
and I drifted off to sleep. But soon it was back. Sometimes it asked me questions about how I
felt, or what I was thinking, and sometimes it just kept me company. It said that while my
injuries were quite severe, the doctors were doing everything they could, and that everything
would turn out just fine. It went on like that for a long time. Months in fact. Then the voice
came for one last time. I knew it was the same voice, but it was different somehow, sadder, and
sort of hollow. It said my injuries were so severe the doctors couldn't save my biological body.
The voice was sorry, but there was nothing anyone could do, and I must face up to it. The voice
said I had three options. ..."
Marla paused here, and though she made no sound, Renn felt certain she was close to tears.
Without thinking he reached out to pet her, running his hand down the soft fur on her back,
feeling the shudder that ran through her body. "Marla, there's no need ..."
She cut him off, her voice tight with emotion. "Yes, there is a need. I want you to know.
As I was saying, there were three options. I could opt for self-authorized euthanasia, I could
continue my present existence, which I learned was nothing more than a brain and spinal c.ord in a
computer-monitored nutrient bath, or I could become a cyborg. Well, it didn't take me long to
decide on number three."
"I'm glad you did," Renn said softly stroking her back. She looked back over her shoulder
and he saw something that might have been gratitude in her eyes. Then she returned her gaze to the
fire and continued her story.
"There was only one problem. It costs a lot of money to construct a cyborg body. You can't
mass-produce them. Each one is custom engineered for the person who occupies and uses it ... and I
was broke. On top of that, the insurance money was all gone, and while the government might stake
me to a life-long nutrient bath, they wouldn't pay for a cyborg body. And since my father was
killed fighting the pirates in the Battle of Hell, and my mother disappeared out along the
frontier shortly thereafter, there was no family to bail me out."
"She just disappeared?"
Marla laughed. "Yeah, Mom wasn't the matronly type. I suspect she's keeping some
prospector warm at night. Anyway, the voice told me there was a way. Certain large companies are
willing to pay for the creation of a cyborg body, provided that you indenture yourself to them for
a certain number of years, and provided that you accept the kind of body they're willing to
construct."
"Don't tell me, let me guess," Renn said. "The kind of body they're, willing to construct
matches the task they have in mind."
"Exactly," Marla agreed. "And that's how I wound up as a cyberdog. A company called
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