People scrambled to get out of their way as Cyclops and Knife headed for Skunk's table. The two hunters who'd been talking to Skunk suddenly took off, and she sighed, resigning herself to the lost income. Marla didn't even bother to get up. Cyclops and Skunk were friends, occasional lovers, and more importantly, kindred spirits. He was therefore a regular fixture at her table.
Bending over, Cyclops gave Marla the usual pat on the head, along with a hideous smile. “Good doggie.” Then he sat down next to Skunk and placed a possessive hand on her thigh. Knife made a place for himself to Skunk's right, doing his best to step on Marla's tail, and just missing.
Marla grinned, wondered where the rest of the merry mutants were, and thumped her tail against the floor a couple of times to show how much she liked seven-foot-tall psychotic freaks. Cyclops still thought she was a dog. The first night Skunk chained her to the rail outside, Cyclops had spotted her, and remembered her from the LZ. Which wasn't very surprising, since she was the only thing that looked like a dog on the whole planet.
Anyway, he'd assumed she was a regular dog, which Skunk had encouraged, and suited Marla just fine. She sighed. Just another miserable evening. Oh well, maybe the Clops would keep Skunk busy, and she wouldn't have to do any tricks. Putting her head on her paws, she closed her eyes, and left her super-sensitive ears to keep watch.
Renn paused outside the door to the saloon, took a deep breath, shoved the fear down into the black hole from which it had emerged, and stepped inside. The place hadn't changed from the last time he'd been there, except now it was jam packed, and the noise was deafening. Fighting his way over to the bar, he saw Maxwell's work had progressed quite a bit, and wondered how the artist was doing. He ordered a drink, paid for it, and turned around to survey the crowd. He hadn't even started when he heard someone say, “Shit ... ain't that the guy who went out with Boater?”
And then a mixture of comments as people turned to look. “Damn I thought the Clops did him, too...” “Uh-oh ... there's gonna be trouble ... let's get out of here.” “Dios mio...he must have the biggest cojones on the planet...” “Ten to one the Clops cleans his clock ... whaddya say?” “I dunno ... he looks pretty hard.” “Bullshit ... nobody's hard enough to take the Clops and Knife, too.”
Marla heard the comments long before either Cyclops or Skunk. Suddenly she was wide awake, her body rigid as steel. Renn! They were talking about Renn! He was here. Careful not to show the slightest sign of interest, she produced an elaborate yawn, and looked up just as someone whispered something in Knife's ear, and then backed away. Knife leaned across Skunk and whispered to Cyclops.
From the floor Marla could see only a small portion of Cyclop's face, but there was no mistaking the sudden concern. While completely ruthless, Cyclops wasn't stupid, and didn't relish the thought of a public fight, especially one where the odds were only two to one in his favor. Forcing a smile for the benefit of the onlookers, he said something to Skunk and then rose, with Knife doing likewise. As they moved away from the table, Marla saw Skunk pull her blaster from her thigh holster and place it in her lap. So ... Cyclops had improved the odds a little more. Careful not to attract any attention, Marla eyed the black box on Skunk's right wrist, and figured her odds. The more she thought about it, the tighter the explosive collar seemed to get, until it was hard to breathe.
By the time Cyclops and Knife stood up Renn had them spotted. As people scurried to get out of the way, Renn scanned the room trying to gauge the size of the opposition. Maybe there were some more and maybe not. He'd have to chance it.
Knife and Cyclops were forty feet away when they came to a stop. Knife stood to the left with Cyclops to the right. Knife wasn't wearing a sidearm, but from his reputation, Renn knew the man was capable of throwing any of six different knives with the speed and accuracy of bullets. He was short and swarthy with a heavy beard and black eyebrows that met in the middle. The bright little eyes which hid under them were filled with animosity.
Cyclops towered over Knife, his one good eye measuring distances, his chrome eye reflecting light. His long arms hung straight down, fingertips brushing the butts of the twin .50's he wore low on each hip. With a flick of his head Cyclops threw his long, greasy hair back behind his shoulders, and smiled. It was not a pleasant sight.
Renn still held his drink in his right hand, while allowing his left to hang straight down. His most obvious weapon was the .75, and to get it he'd have to put the drink down, which would provide Cyclops with plenty of warning. That was the theory anyway. The drink was shaking a tiny bit and he hoped Cyclops wouldn't notice.
Cyclops looked him up and down before breaking the total silence which had fallen over the room. “You should have stayed dead.”
As Renn brought his left arm straight up, and fired the hideout gun twice, he remembered Boater's exact words, “Don't try and bullshit ’em to death lad, kill the sons-abitches first, and talk about it later.”
He hoped to kill Cyclops first, but decided it was safer to take the left target with his left hand. Two black holes appeared in Knife's chest as Renn dropped the drink and went for the .75.
Marla took Skunk's hand off just above the wrist as she started to pull her blaster out from under the table. With blood spurting from the stump, Skunk dived for the black box still strapped to her amputated hand, hoping to trigger the explosive collar. It was a serious mistake. As Skunk came down, Marla leaped up, and ripped her throat out.
Cyclops had a two-second head start and fired first. Renn felt the heavy .50 caliber slug rip through his left shoulder, spinning him around, and knocking the .75 out of his hand. As Renn fell, Cyclops missed his second shot, but scored with his third, punching a hole through Renn's right thigh.
Cyclops was squeezing the trigger one last time, when the rods lining the back of his good eye detected a flash of light, and tried to tell him about it. The message never got through. A millisecond later Renn's energy beam entered Cyclops’ brain, tunneled its way through, and burned a hole in the ceiling. Cyclops fell like a huge tree, crashed through a table, and hit the floor with a heavy thud.
For a moment there was complete silence in the room, until the wizened little barkeeper peeked over the top of the bar, and said, “Well I'll be damned. Someone get Doc Fesker. The drinks are on me.”
Chapter Eight
Renn walked out of Doc Fesker's place exactly one month after the fight in the Payout Saloon. His wounds had healed, his clothes felt two sizes too big, and his legs were a bit shaky. Still, it felt good to go outside again. Marla was padding along at his side, the sun was warming his back, and the air had a faint fragrance to it.
Things had changed. The main street was bone dry, and the town seemed half empty. Although this was only one of the six yearly so-called dry periods it was the longest, and therefore the best for hunting. So most hunters were out in the bush. Which reminded Renn of their own situation. Looking down at Marla, he said, “Damn, we'd better get a move on or we'll miss the whole season.”
“There's no hurry,” Marla cautioned. “You need time to regain your strength. Besides, Fred's loaded and ready to go.”
And it was true. During his month-long recovery, Marla had taken charge of his affairs, selling the boat he'd taken from Trap, and appropriating everything found in Cyclops’ quarters. Two men had tried to stop her, and both wound up dripping blood on Fesker's new rug. The doctor was still grumbling.
The stolen skins had already been sold, but Marla found a hoard of money and other valuables hidden under a loose floorboard in Cyclops’ quarters. She gave the valuables to the Hunter's Association in hopes they could be returned to their owners, but kept the money. A quick tally showed there was more than enough to fund a hunting season. In fact they could've taken a year off, but Renn wouldn't hear of it, insisting they couldn't afford it.
By then he was sitting up in bed, while she was curled up in a nearby chair. “We need to get off this slime ball, Marla. I want to clear my name, and you want a ne
w body. Yeah, yeah, I know. It can't be done and all that stuff. Maybe. But money talks ... and that's why we're going hunting as soon as we can. If there's some way out of here we're going to find it and money will help.”
Marla disagreed, gently suggesting that he should be more realistic, and put his energy into building a life on Swamp.
Renn heard her out, but finally shook his head, saying, “I just can't agree, Marla. But let's back up for a moment. First, we've been talking like we're partners. Are we?”
Marla felt a lead weight drop into her stomach. Was he hoping she'd say “no?” Should she say “no” for her own sake? After all, where the hell was this relationship going? Where could it go? She knew she wanted something more than friendship, but that was impossible, so why prolong the torture?
As though reading her mind, Renn reached out to stroke her fur. Marla hated to have people pet her, but there was something about the way Renn did it that was different, that made her feel good. “I'm sorry, Marla. That wasn't fair. Let me rephrase the question. I'd like you for a partner ... so how ‘bout it?”
For some reason Marla found she couldn't speak, and nodded instead.
“Good. And while we're on the subject of ‘us,’ there's one more thing I'd like to discuss. My last medical bill.”
“Damn it,” Marla said, her eyes flashing as she sat up, “Doc promised me he wouldn't tell.”
“Whoa,” Renn said holding up a hand. “He didn't. I finally figured it out for myself. And if I wasn't so incredibly stupid, I would've figured it out a long time ago. Doc doesn't do anything for free. You indentured yourself to Skunk in order to pay for my treatment. And while you were living with that bitch ... I sat around feeling sorry for myself.”
“Jonathan...”
“No, I'm not finished yet. I was an idiot and I apologize. There. Now I'm finished.”
Although she had accepted his apology, and his gratitude, she was left with one nagging question,—did he really want her around? Or was it his way of paying a debt? She couldn't be sure. Nonetheless, there was a chance that he did—and a chance was better than nothing. With that decision made the rest was easy. She accepted his dream of escape—outwardly at least—and worked to make it real. And in return he gave her affection and friendship. Perhaps it wasn't perfect, but it sure beat hell out of nothing at all.
So they were partners and folk heroes to boot. Maxwell had incorporated the killing of Cyclops into his mural, Renn had become a living legend, and people took pride in talking with Marla. Her explosive collar now hung over the bar where it would fuel conversations for years to come.
So as Marla and Renn made their way down the boardwalk, everyone had a kind word to say, and everyone hurried to get out of the way. This was partly out of respect, and partly out of fear. Gaunt though he was, the .75 still hung low on Renn's right hip, and no one would ever forget the way Marla had killed Skunk.
Moving carefully, his legs still a bit unsteady, Renn followed Marla down a short flight of stairs into the street. It seemed strange to stand where water usually swirled and rushed. Now, instead of the boats Renn was used to, a rusty old crawler stood rumbling in the middle of the street. Whatever its original power plant, it now boasted a diesel engine, and looked old enough to date back to the first survey. Marla had hired it to save him the hike to the river, which was as close to Payout as Fred could come during the dry season.
With Marla anxiously looking on, Renn climbed slowly into the crawler's cab, and took a seat. Marla followed with a single leap and took the seat beside him. There was a horrible grinding as the driver found and then engaged first gear, followed by a sudden roar as he stepped on the accelerator, and they lurched into motion. Then, with worn treads squealing in protest, and noxious black smoke belching from the mouth of a rusty pipe, they moved down the street and out of town.
As the crawler jerked and bumped along, Renn marveled at the swamp's magnificent transformation. Healthy new growth had sprung up to replace that which had died and rotted away during the rains. Exotic blossoms had appeared turning the normally drab jungle into a riot of color. Like the flowers of earth, these played a role in the parent plant's reproductive cycle, though a slightly different one. Here the flowers were used as decoys, luring insects and birds away from tasty reproductive parts, thereby helping the species survive. Whatever the reason, the flowers were pretty, and lifted Renn's spirits.
The crawler jerked to a halt a few minutes later. “It's just a short ways from here,” Marla said, “How do you feel?”
Renn smiled. “A helluva lot better than I look. Let's go.”
As Renn climbed down, Marla thanked the driver, and asked him to wait for a few minutes. By prior arrangement he would be paid from their account with the Hunter's Association. It was a complicated way to make a simple payment, but paws aren't much good for handling money, and Marla didn't want to focus Renn's attention on her obvious shortcomings. Besides, she told herself, it's what you do that counts. It sounded good. But as Maria jumped down, and hurried to catch up with Renn, she wished she believed it.
To Renn's amusement he found himself slipping into the ways of the swamp. His hand hung near the .75, his ears listened for unusual sounds, and his eyes took nothing for granted. Good. Cyclops might be dead, but the swamp was very much alive, and dangerous as hell.
As Marla fell in beside him, the jungle turned to marsh, and before long the marsh turned to swamp. As they squished their way towards the river, the familiar water smells assailed Renn's nose, and there, pretty as a picture, sat Fred. Thanks to Marla's efficiency he was spic and span from bow to stern.
Two guards suddenly materialized between them and the boat, recognized Marla, and waved. Both were middle-aged women, and to Renn's surprise, identical twins. They were heavily armed and looked quite competent. Marla handled the introductions. “Jonathan, I'd like you to meet Pat and Peg. Don't ask me which is which.”
“It don't matter,” one of the women said cheerfully, “long as we know the difference. Glad to meet you Jonathan.”
“Likewise,” the other twin agreed. “You did good killing the Clops. We got enough problems without trash like him.”
“It's a pleasure, ladies,” Renn replied gravely. “As for killing the Clops, well, I was damn lucky and had lots of help.” He indicated Marla. Cyberdogs don't blush, but they can feel warm inside, and Marla did.
Quick to change the subject, Marla said, “Thanks for taking care of Fred. Your pay's waiting at the Hunter's Association.”
“It was our pleasure,” the first twin said. “You've got a real nice boat there.”
Meanwhile her sister had gone aboard Fred, and now returned carrying two packs. They spoke in unison. “You take care out there.”
“We will,” Renn assured them, and waved as they headed for the road, and the waiting crawler.
Once the twins had disappeared from sight Renn and Marla went aboard and prepared to cast off. This was the moment Marla had both dreaded and looked forward to for weeks. The idea of going off alone with Renn, of having him all to herself, made her spirits soar. Yet she knew life in the swamps would provide Renn with daily reminders of just how limited her abilities were. She couldn't use weapons, or clean the boat, or tie a knot, or cook a meal, and even worse, didn't need to. Even the ritual of eating, and the human contact which went with it was denied her. For some reason nobody wants to sit around and talk while you pop open a hatch in your back, aim your receptors at the sun, and suck up some rays. Fortunately she didn't have to do it very often.
Meanwhile Renn was inspecting the boat. Starting in the bow, he gradually worked his way back, sticking his head into every storage compartment as he did so. Finally he reached the stern, and straightened up. “Nice job, Marla. Even Boater would've been pleased!”
“Yeah,” Marla thought to herself, “I'm just great when I can get people to do things for me, but let's see how you feel in a few days.”
In spite of Marla's fears, the first f
ew weeks rolled easily by. Renn made the chores look easy, and, much to Marla's surprise, she found there were things she could do. By hanging one leg over the tiller, and sitting on her haunches, she could steer. And while she couldn't tie knots, she became quite adept at undoing them with her teeth. So it was a pleasant time, made more so by the fact that Renn could only hunt for a few hours each day. Then his wounds would start to ache, forcing him to stop. So they spent long lazy afternoons cruising, or just taking it easy, lounging around the decks, and dashing inside to escape the occasional showers, which came more frequently as the next rainy season approached.
Gradually, bit by bit, they each told their life stories. Hours passed as they talked and laughed, getting to know each other, while living in the past, until some thought or comment would shatter the spell and remind them of Marla's imprisonment. And even though they tried to avoid such episodes, they were bound to happen, and Renn knew that Marla sometimes cried herself to sleep.
As the days passed, Renn grew stronger and stronger, until he could once again put in a full day's work. And though Marla couldn't help with some things when it came to hunting, she was the perfect partner. They worked as a team. Marla would slip through the jungle, her enhanced senses picking out targets of opportunity, while Renn came along behind, shooting whatever she flushed from the undergrowth. Renn was hesitant at first, afraid she might be ambushed by some monster before he could get there. But he soon learned not to worry. It was a rare monster that escaped notice by Marla's infrared vision, amplified hearing, and keen sense of smell. And the one or two that did quickly fell victim to her slashing teeth.
They were so efficient in fact, that they piled up more skins in a few weeks than Renn and Boater had gathered in months of hunting. As a result they decided to build a shed in which to store the skins while they went out to hunt for more. They could've constructed a lodge like Boater's, but chose not to, deciding Fred was sufficient for their needs. After what had happened to Boater, Renn favored a floating and therefore mobile, home.
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