"William C. Dietz - The Prison Planet" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dietz William)

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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