The Chronicles of Riddick

by Alan Dean Foster

  In the center of the grotto Riddick struggled against a bond he was not only unable to break, but one he could not even get a grip on. As he struggled to keep suddenly heavy lungs working, he caught a change of light and shadow out of the corner of one eye. There was movement beyond the gravity lens that restrained him. Movement within the dark hollows that lined the far wall.

  The shapes that came sliding out were tall and rounded. Whorls and inscriptions decorated their sides. They resembled the ancient ammonites of old Earth, but there was nothing primitive about the technology that drove them. Each supported, both physically and organically, a single body draped in a diaphanous shroud. Symbols and signs on shrouds and motile disks testified to the importance of the bodies they bore.

  The bodies themselves did not move. They existed in a condition difficult even for accomplished biologists to properly describe. Commonly, they were known among the Necromongers who revered them as the Quasi-Dead, representatives of a unique order founded by Kryll himself. The same technology that preserved their bodies from final decay allowed the desiccated remains to serve as housings for minds that were as ruthless as they were insightful. All but freed from their physical forms, these minds were capable of inserting themselves into the mental pathways of others. They were able to view—and to search.

  A wary Riddick tracked the apparitions as they trundled into place, forming a circle around him. Visually nothing more than a bunch of creepy corpses fastened to supportive platforms, mentally they were far more impressive. Almost immediately, they commenced their probing of the single subject pinned down before them.

  “Wondering,” the voices chimed. Looking at them, appraising them, Riddick was unable to tell whether they were all male, all female, or a mix thereof. It did not matter. Inside his head, they were all the same.

  “Wondering about us . . . realizing now that we’re in his mind. Beginning to fathom the Dark Thought. Trying to shut us out, shut down the here-and-now. Resisting—anything to resist. But vainly, so vainly. Cannot think not to think without thinking about it. The inevitable conundrum. It will fade and fail, as they all do.”

  Eyes shut tight, Riddick flinched as a mental thrust tore through his brain. Doing everything possible to resist, he quickly realized there was nothing he could do. If not restrained by the gravity lens, he could have run headfirst into the nearest wall and knocked himself out. But that would have been a foolish defense. Unconscious, he would be safe from the prying, from the probing. And then he would wake up, and it would start all over again. That much was obvious. He could not outwait his silent interrogators. The almost dead had an infinity of patience.

  So he remained conscious and cogitating, trying to mute and protect his thoughts while simultaneously striving, searching for a way to fight back. Restrained in both body and mind, he found himself wilting under the relentless assault from multiple minds. Sensing growing weakness, they probed harder. They were not worried about damaging the subject. The body was resilient. Besides, they were much experienced at their work. A dead subject was a useless subject. So while they pushed, they also moderated their intrusion. The process of dragging information out of an unwilling subject was always an adventure.

  “Thinking of escape now.”

  “Always an opening.” Riddick tried, but was unable to keep from hearing his own thoughts repeated aloud for any who might be listening. And he had no doubt that many were. “Wait for the chance and attack it. It’ll come, it’ll come. . . .”

  “Having many ideas now,” the collective Quasi-Dead voice intoned solemnly. “All swirling, chaotic. A conscious attempt to confuse. As admirable as it is ineffective. An interesting specimen. An interesting mind. But still a mind; human, organic, unable to hide . . .”

  The Lord Marshal had expected resistance. Subjects always resisted, at first. Some lasted only a few seconds before succumbing to the inevitability of the Quasi-Dead’s probing. Others managed to fight for minutes. A few, a very few, went insane before the desired information could be extracted. He had ample confidence that this man would not go that way. Not until the Lord Marshal had learned what he wanted to know, anyway. He hoped the subject would survive intact, both mentally and physically. If not dangerous, he could be useful, as every good fighter was. Provided just enough of his mind was preserved.

  “Regress,” he ordered via a special pickup. One did not converse with the Quasi-Dead as one did to visitors across a table, with drink and food at hand and music playing in the background. But communication was possible.

  There was a brief pause as the unique minds repositioned themselves mentally. Then, “New mindscape. Just hours old. Relevant image indistinct. Particularly strong retention factor. Wondering about some ‘visitation’—who she is. Where she is from. Her purpose in appearing before him. Wondering what her appearance means for— Wait. Subject attempting to dissemble. Overcoming. Wondering what she means by—Furyans?”

  The Lord Marshal twitched slightly. The scene being played out within the grotto of the Quasi-Dead now had his full attention. “Again,” he ordered. “Regress again. Further. Distant past. Not hours, but years. All the way. Anything related. Seek significance. Seek clarification. Seek link.”

  The Vaakos were monitoring not only the interrogation within the grotto, but the questioning from without. Now Dame Vaako turned to the man next to her.

  “Curious. The unusual intensity. Have you ever seen him this way? The Lord Marshal?” Her attention was shifting back and forth between the session taking place below and the two men responsible for its direction.

  Vaako had been wholly absorbed in studying Riddick’s attempts to fight off the inexorable intrusion of the Quasi-Dead. He glanced over at her irritably. “What’s that? What ‘way’ is that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she responded casually. “Concerned. Worried.”

  Vaako shifted his attention to where the Lord Marshal and the Purifier stood talking together. “I don’t see it,” he replied finally.

  She lifted one shoulder slightly. “I must be mistaken.”

  On the floor below, Riddick fought the regression as hard as he had battled the initial intrusion. It was a door in his mind he did not want to unlock. Not only for the relentless, probing Quasi-Dead, but for himself. He was not going to be allowed the privacy of self. Questing thoughts ripped and tore at his past.

  It took the form of a visual metaphor. From nothingness, a hand reached out and extended through space. Seemingly endless, it terminated in thick, powerful fingers. A world appeared, green and lush. Was it the same world he had seen in his recent dream, while locked in cryosleep? The fingers plunged downward and tore into the surface of the planet as if its granitic crust were skin. The fingers dug for a moment before emerging with thousands of life-forms in their grasp. Minuscule wriggling shapes, near microscopic human life-forms no more than hours old. Oozing through the massive fingers as they clenched into a fist, the figures fell away screaming and crying into the great void of space—until only one remained. One child shape, infinitesimally tiny, dangling from between two fingers. Hanging on, fighting for life, screaming in pain. Screaming infant defiance. Screaming, screaming . . .

  Abruptly, Riddick’s eyes rolled back in his head. His body, already crunched beneath the force of the gravity lens, slumped forward. Outside the grotto, readouts unexpectedly went flat. Restless and disturbed, the Lord Marshal spoke forcefully from his position above.

  “Bring it back. There is more I need to know. Where did he come from? His birth world? His subsequent history? These are things I need to know, and I need to know them—”

  He broke off. Something was wrong. Leaning forward, he peered down into the grotto. The Quasi-Dead were shuddering atop their support platforms. Near-dead bodies twitched erratically. Legs virtually devoid of muscle spasmed atop their smooth, curving supports. Beneath ceremonial shrouds, sunken faces grew agitated.

  “Something—new,” the unified voices were chorusing uneasily. “Feedb
ack in the dark thought. Not resistance—something more. Not receding—coming out. Coming forward.” The sense of disquiet increased. “Need to stop. Stop the feedback before— before—”

  Shifting his attention from the Quasi-Dead, the Lord Marshal focused intently on the subject.

  “Keep him out. Out of the mind loop.” The volume of their voices increased. Suddenly, there was a sense of panic. “Shut down the dark thought! Shut it down! Keep him away from us. Just keep him—”

  Awed, Dame Vaako gave voice to her thoughts. “It’s not possible. Not possible. He’s scanning the Quasi-Dead. . . .”

  “Kill the breeder!” the unearthly chorus was now shouting shrilly. “Kill the Riddick. Kill the Riddick! KILL THE RIDDICK!”

  Within the grotto, the Quasi-Dead were jerking on their platforms as if an electric current had suddenly been applied to their supports. Cadaverous faces contorted, vacant mouths gaped wide. Bits and pieces of nearly decayed flesh and bone flaked from bodies one step removed from the dust.

  In the stunned echo of the Quasi-Dead’s rising dirge, the Purifier reached out and fired a hand over the console before him. Instantly, the gravity lens that had restrained the subject disappeared. Was it the correct reaction, or simply the first that came to mind? Clearly, the Purifier was reacting to the wailing of the Quasi-Dead. Whether he had reacted properly remained to be seen. But no one observing the unexpected turn the interrogation had taken could deny that something had to be done, and quickly.

  Riddick did not waste time contemplating his restored freedom of movement. As soon as the agonizing pressure that had kept him pinioned in place was removed, he straightened. All around him, beleaguered Quasi-Dead were moving away, sliding backward on their mobile supports.

  Outside the grotto, everything the Lord Marshal had seen and heard compelled him to agree with the conclusion reached by the Quasi-Dead. Though he had not received all the information he sought, neither was he of a mind to go against their assessment of the subject. Without hesitation, he addressed himself to the nearest pickup.

  “Kill the Riddick.”

  In response, three of the elite soldiers in attendance on the balcony leaped into the grotto. Vaako himself was not far behind them. Fighting to put themselves as far from the subject as possible, physically as well as mentally, the psychologically battered Quasi-Dead continued trundling unsteadily backward toward the hollow places in the walls, seeking the safety of their lightless sanctuaries.

  Riddick did not have time to watch them go. He was busy.

  The most active and eager elite was the first to go. Wanting to make it personal, he charged with blade in hand, a comrade close behind. As the first to make a mistake, he was also the first to die. Riddick blocked the blow, twisted, and sliced. As the blade was emerging from the soldier’s already crumpling form and his colleague was raising his own weapon to strike downward, Riddick saw that the third soldier and Vaako were not about to engage in similar primitive foolishness. Both were leveling guns in his direction. He grappled with the second soldier.

  And flung himself, dropping and rolling, just as Vaako and the other soldier fired. The shaped charges of their weapons arrived simultaneously, on opposite sides of the second soldier, and crushed his armor as if it was a can. With its owner inside. A mess resulted.

  Four of the five Quasi-Dead had reached the safety and sanctity of their hollows. As Vaako and the surviving elite realigned their weapons, and as other soldiers came pouring into the grotto, Riddick picked up one of the dead soldiers’ weapons, grabbed at the transport of the one remaining exposed Quasi-Dead—and let it drag him backward.

  Fearing for the safety of the revered Quasi, Vaako got there fast. Just in time to see it slide into the security of its dark cubicle—preceded by Riddick, who held back the approaching soldiers with their dead comrade’s own gun. Crouching, the frustrated commander tried to take aim. But the darkness within rendered any shot uncertain, and he could not risk hitting the Quasi-Dead. As he tried to decide what to do, the armored portal slammed shut—and sealed.

  The subject was gone.

  Above, her garb of rank draped around her, Dame Vaako stared down at the milling soldiers on the grotto floor. Everyone was shouting, moving, trying to decide what to do next. Outside, the Lord Marshal and the Purifier were engaged in deep, intense conversation while technicians swarmed around them. Her gaze moved to the sealed doorway through which the last Quasi-Dead and the only subject had vanished.

  “Who is this man?” she found herself muttering. Who—or what.

  The interior of most starships, the working sections not seen by interstellar travelers but only by the technicians who occasionally had to visit to service problems the automatics could not handle, were a maze of conduits and channels, life-support systems and electronics, engine components and proactive apparatus. A difficult realm through which to travel and a harder one for a stranger to puzzle out. Always one for seeking the simplest solution to a problem, Riddick used the gun he had taken from a passing soldier to punch his way through one level after another. Knowing his pursuers would try to predict which of several possible passageways he would take, he chose wherever possible to make his own.

  Tenders working engine support were startled to hear a pounding over their heads that was not associated with their work. Eyes turned upward toward the source of the sound. Several technicians tracked it as it moved slightly to the right. They drew back when a hole was blasted in the ceiling. Shredded metal lined the edges of the new opening, through which a large man promptly dropped. Landing on his feet, gun in hand and knife secured, Riddick looked around to get his bearings. Aloud, he said nothing. Attitude-wise, it was very much “Don’t mind me— just passing through.”

  Though every Necromonger was trained in the arts of war, technicians on the Basilica had no reason to carry weapons and went about their duties unarmed. No one moved to challenge the man with the gun. Even had they been armed, they would not have been inclined to do so. Clearly, the intruder was a problem for soldiers to deal with. And speaking of soldiers, where were they? One tech moved to sound an alarm and call for assistance.

  Riddick ignored him just as he ignored the others. Moving fast, he found what he was looking for: the gap bordering one of the many stabilizers that kept the huge Basilica ship level on the surface of Helion Prime. There was more than enough room for him to drop through the opening to the surface below. He moved toward it.

  And halted when a gravity orb intercepted him. If he hadn’t seen it coming, it would have taken off his head. A smaller version of the one he had previously watched smash dozens of Helion soldiers in the city plaza, it positioned itself in the gap, blocking his exit like a live thing. No doubt similar orbs had been deployed to prevent his escape at other exposed locations throughout the ship.

  There was noise and commotion behind him. Elite soldiers were pouring into the engineering room, drawing weapons as they ran. Seeing them, Riddick pulled the pistol he had appropriated. But instead of firing at the oncoming troops, he turned and threw it as hard as he could, directly into the slowly rotating orb.

  Programmed to attack anything that impacted on its field, the orb promptly contracted around the weapon. The result was that, where a moment before a solid sidearm had been spinning through the air, a piece of compacted metal no bigger than a fingernail now fell onto the stabilizer housing, landing with a tinny clink. The way now clear, Riddick leaped for the opening and threw himself into the gap. Landing on a portion of the stabilizer housing, he clambered down it like a gibbon. Above, soldiers arrived and gathered around the opening. A few pointed their weapons downward at the retreating figure, but did not fire. Their line of sight was not good, and there was too great a risk to the stabilizer mechanism itself.

  With the vast bulk of the Basilica looming above him, Riddick emerged in the rubble of buildings that had been crushed beneath the great weight of the Necromonger command vessel. He was free. If the craft above him shifted even a
centimeter or two in any direction, he would probably be crushed. But that would require reprogramming its position. By the time anyone might think to do so, he would be gone.

  And he was, out from beneath the ship and clear of its threatening mass in a matter of minutes, disappearing into the ruined warren of streets and blasted buildings that had been the Helion capital.

  Settling on a suitably inaccessible basement for a hiding place, he waited there for nightfall, when his unique eyes would once more give him an advantage over his ordinary, day-sighted brethren. Emerging only then, he was gratified to see that he was not alone. Numbers of citizens were about: moving fast, not wanting to be picked up for questioning, rooting through the rubble of their city in search of anything useful. They reminded him of ants scrabbling over the remains of a picnic. As he looked on, men and women stumbled out of the ruins carrying all manner of goods, from small valuables to still functioning electronics. He shook his head disapprovingly. Within a day or two, they would be trading such trifles for food and water.

  Only one artifact interested him. Pulling the ship locator from a pocket, he activated the device and waited. He did not quite hold his breath. As it developed, he did not need to: the unit was working perfectly. The merc ship was right where he had left it, buried in the dunes, sending out a strong locator signal as it awaited the return of its crew. Him. Even if the Necromongers had by chance happened to have found it, he didn’t think they would bother with the hidden vessel. So far, that was apparently the case. Small and unarmed, it posed no threat to their invasion.

  Aligning himself with the route the ship locator helpfully suggested, he started off purposefully through the destruction.