On multiple levels, guards and techs and prisoners watched the newcomer descend through the center of the volcanic throat. As depth increased, mobile lights supplied additional illumination within the impressive open space. Riddick took it all in silently, surveying his new surroundings, ignoring the emotional range of the stares that tracked his descent. At the moment, they were irrelevant to his needs.
Above, Toombs had turned away from the cylindrical cavern to once more confront Douruba. “I got a better idea. How’s about this?” He nodded at something behind the slam boss. “You open the safe hidden behind that console there, pull out the real books.” Jerking his head sideways, he indicated the guard tech. “Not the electronic crap you can manipulate with an eyeblink. The hard copy backup you maintain in case of total systems failure and memory wipe. Show me what you shitniks are gonna bank for a guy like Riddick: all killer, no filler. Then we’ll figure out my cut. Then I’ll be on my way.”
Douruba could not have been more shocked had Toombs suggested they go for a casual stroll out on the surface. At noon.
“Open my books? Let you roam through the hard copy? This is what you suggest?”
The mercenary had taken a step backward. The movement appeared casual. It was not. “Wasn’t a suggestion.”
It was enough to charge the atmosphere within the control room. Guards and mercenaries alike stiffened. Within holsters and attached to fastsnaps, sidearms were prepped for quick release. Slam boss and merc leader locked eyes.
Moving slowly and keeping his hands in clear view, Douruba walked to a nearby cabinet. Standing to one side as he opened it, so that Toombs had a clear view of the interior, he reached in and removed an exquisite bottle of cut crystal. Half full of some glistening crystalline liquid, he placed it on a flat portion of a nearby console, then brought out a couple of glasses. While everyone else in the room looked on enviously, the slam boss carefully filled the two small glasses. They were the only shots in the tension-filled room.
He handed one to the wary mercenary leader. “This is not the time for confrontation. Not when you hear what is happening elsewhere in the Arm. These are dangerous days for everyone, if you believe the talk.” Raising the glass briefly, he sipped at the contents. Heat that was not of Crematoria coursed down his throat and warmed his belly.
Accepting the other glass, Toombs eyed it for a moment—then nonchalantly poured it down an open hatch, much to the slam boss’s obvious disapproval. Toombs’s free hand continued to hover in the vicinity of his sidearm.
“Talk. What talk?”
Douruba turned introspective. “About some army. Appears out of nowhere. No indication of origin, no warning or quarter given. Not robots, but its soldiers fight like automatons. Absorb any healthy survivors. Strange beliefs—you wouldn’t believe some of the rumors. About dead planets, societies reduced to ashes. About ‘them.’”
The slam boss’s final word seemed to hang in the air, casting a further shadow over the already stressed negotiations.
Toombs refused to be distracted. “Here’s one for you that ain’t no rumor. Am I gonna get my money?”
Douruba sighed, downed the last of his drink, set the glass aside. “I can see that your interests are typically narrow. Tell you what: I’ll run the numbers again. Isn’t as simple as it sounds. Have to figure in how this new meat will interact with the system, what it might produce, stats in re potential disruption. It will take some time. Meanwhile, you and your team can stay as my guests. No hotel here, but it’ll get you off that little ship for a while, let you stretch your legs. At least here we’re all safe, yes?” He smiled thinly. “Just tell your people not to go for any long walks in the countryside.”
“They know,” Toombs replied. “Everyone saw, coming in.” He knew full well that the slam boss was stalling for time so he could look for an out. Preferably, but not necessarily, a legal one. The mercenary was not concerned. His formal filing and notice of intent to deliver had carefully complied with every relevant guild regulation. Let the boss have his math toadies run the regs. They wouldn’t find any holes. And as much as he wanted to be off and away from this miserable hot rock, a night in a real bed instead of the soggy slog that was cryosleep would do his body good.
“I’ll give it a day,” he finally announced. “One.”
The first assistant grinned. “And our days are fiftytwo hours long.” Toombs did not smile back. He knew that, and had factored it into his offer.
Douruba seemed pleased. “Fair enough. Anatoli,” he instructed the guard tech, “find our new friends some slots. Someplace comfortable. Someplace cool.” Having defused the looming confrontation, he returned his attention to the main console.
X
The winch that had been steadily lowering Riddick jerked to a halt about three meters above the floor of the cavern, leaving him still dangling in midair. Since it provided a good view of the lowest level of the prison, and never one to waste time that could be put to use, he utilized the opportunity to study his latest surroundings. It also helped to take his mind off the ache in his wrists.
The encompassing environment was less than salubrious. Sulfurous steam rose from fissures in the ground. Illumination was weaker here than higher up, adding further to the Dantesque aura of his new surroundings. At first, there was little sign of life.
Then three figures appeared. Emerging from a sizable fissure, they immediately spotted the man hanging from the lift chain and started toward him. Riddick eyed them with interest. They were completely covered in yellow dust. Clothes, exposed skin, hair—everything except their mouth filters was coated in a fine and apparently permanent layer of powdered sulfur. In the lightweight netsacks they carried, Riddick saw the outlines of small, sulfur-coated crustacean-like forms. Something to eat or maybe something to barter.
Tracking downward from Riddick’s face and special goggles, the attention of the flavescent trio eventually came to rest on the big man’s boots. This was not surprising, since the footgear of the recently emerged three was shabby, torn, and in certain spots, actually melted from the intense heat of the ground on which they walked. Brandishing their homemade collecting pickaxes, they moved into position beneath him and took up expectant stances, making no attempt to disguise their intent. It was usually food that came from above, but this was the first time in a long, long while something as appealing and useful as Riddick’s boots promised to do the same. Pickaxes in hand, they waited for him to drop the last three meters. With a resigned, internal sigh, Riddick prepared to do so also.
Moments later, the latch above his wrists gave a soft click and disengaged.
As he fell, he flipped and twisted. Bunched muscles torqued open his bonds. It was a trick he could have done earlier, on the merc ship or while being transported to the prison. But while he could force open his restraints, he would have still have had to face three or four guns. Get all, get free. Get three, get dead. He wouldn’t call the shots until he could also call the odds.
But there were no guns aimed at him now, and he had no compunction about finally releasing his hands.
As he stuck his landing, he caught the first blow, parried it, dislocating the first attacker’s shoulder and driving the pickax-wielding arm so far backward that the aft end of the pick pierced the man’s spine. Almost immediately, he whirled to confront a second assailant.
The crystal scavengers were not slow. As Riddick was taking apart his second attacker, the third slipped behind him and started to swing his axe. Halting in mid-swing, he dropped the tool, both hands grabbing at his neck, around which a chain had just wrapped itself. As Riddick disposed of his hapless second assailant, he watched the chain being yanked back. Following it led him to a deceptively slender, lithe figure. The figure’s slimness did not surprise him. Its lines did.
As he removed his goggles, the woman disappeared into the stone rubble that littered the bottom of the cavern. He would have followed; perhaps to thank, certainly to question, but was distracted by a voice f
rom above. A deep, male voice that boomed off the surrounding walls.
“There are inmates and there are convicts,” it declared with the conviction of the long converted.
Two tiers up, a formidable group of the latter were working their way downward. Leading them was an older individual whose face was as worn, battered, and tough as the surrounding volcanic rock.
“Who says so?” Riddick called upward.
“The Guv says so,” came the reply from the man. “I say so. A convict has a certain code. He learns the corners, he learns the pulse of the prison. A convict knows to show a certain respect when it is warranted. Respect to his fellows, respect to the system. The convict system, not the prison system. Our system.”
Arriving at the bottom, the Guv approached, halting a mutually respectful distance from the newcomer. His retinue formed up behind him, ugly and prepared, but also willing to give the new arrival a chance to define himself. Eyes studied Riddick. Expressions granted grudging respect.
“An inmate,” the Guv continued solemnly and meaningfully, “on the other hand, is someone who pulls the pin on his fellow man. Who does the guards’ work for them. Who brings shame to the whole game.” It did not seem possible, but his voice lowered even further. “And in this slam, inmates get someone right up in their mouth. Might be right in the middle of breakfast, might be in the middle of the night. But it’s damn fucking straight righteous inevitable.”
Advancing once again, he drew close to Riddick, unafraid and challenging. As he did so, one of the yellow men started to get up. Without breaking stride, the Guv kicked him in the mouth and put him right back down. He did not like interruptions.
“So,” he inquired emotionlessly of the newcomer, “which would you be?”
“Me?” Riddick slipped his goggles back into place. “I’m just passin’ through.”
With that he stepped past the Guv and strode away, swallowed up by a hissing wall of steam, ignoring the intense eyes that followed him.
Later, food was provided, if you could call it that. That afternoon it came in the form of some large, boiled arthropod hailing from a family and species Riddick didn’t recognize. But if the knobby, spine-sporting exterior was a horror, the meat inside was pale white and perfectly edible. Settling himself outside an empty cell, he studied the ongoing activity within the vaulted cavern while cracking shells and sucking out the contents. Stringy, but nutritious, he decided.
As he was walking back inside the cell, a shape materialized behind him. Alert, lithe, and livid, the newcomer eyed him with quiet intensity.
“Should I go for the sweet spot? Left of the spine, fourth lumbar down; the abdominal aorta. What a gusher . . .”
Turning, Riddick removed his goggles to stare clear-eyed at his visitor. He said nothing. What could he say, to this woman?
“How do I get eyes like that?” she muttered at him.
He shrugged. “You gotta kill a few people.” The woman nodded knowingly. “Did that. Did a lot of that.” She moved closer. It’s unlikely anyone else would have noticed the small knife concealed in one hand. Riddick caught her before the hand could swing forward, swung her around, and slammed her into the bars of the cell. Not hard enough to break bones but roughly enough to make her drop the shiv. He continued talking as if nothing had happened.
“Then you gotta get sent to a slam.”
Her body might be pinned against the bars, but there was nothing restraining her mouth. “Where they tell you you’ll never see daylight again. Only there wasn’t any doctor here who could shine my eyes. Not for twenty cools, not for a quick bang off, not for nothing.” Her voice dropped slightly, but the words were as hard-edged as before. “Was there anything you said that was true?”
She wrenched upward, fighting to break free, trying to catch him in the wrong hold. It only made him boost her harder.
“Remember who you’re talking to, Jack.”
She seemed to spin within her own skin, whirling around and popping forward the miniature blade she kept concealed inside her mouth. Just like Riddick’s hold, it didn’t keep her from talking.
“‘Jack’ is dead. She was weak, just couldn’t cut it.” Lashing out with the concealed blade, she slashed his cheek before he could completely draw back. It did not make him let her go, but he did so anyway. He followed her as she vanished into the steam and sweat-soaked murk outside.
“I’m Kyra,” she called back to him, her voice still trembling with cold anger. “A new animal.”
The frigate represented the epitome of Necromonger science and adaptive technology. Swift, sleek, stunning in its size and overawing in its mass, it swept through deep space like a wasp searching for a world to paralyze and feed upon. Within its dark depths, her crew operated in shifts: some in cryosleep, others emerging from time to time to ensure all was operating optimally and that the vessel remained on course. As yet, few aboard knew that the urgency with which they had departed orbit around Helion Prime was inspired by the disappearance of a single man. They did not need to know, nor would it have affected the efficiency with which they went about their work if they had.
At present, the command team was out of cryosleep for several days. Time to exchange thoughts, eat real food, drink, and stretch underused muscles. Then they would return to the embrace of cryo travel while automatics and a skeleton crew watched over the vessel. But for now, they talked.
Vaako was engaged with his navigators. The process of trying to track another ship through deep space was a complicated one. Without advanced computational predictors, it would have been impossible. But with people as dedicated to their work as to the cause, the commander was confident of eventually finding what they were looking for.
The Purifier entered and stood off by himself, observing. Occasionally, his gaze would travel from the distorted stars visible beyond the port to the converts busy at their stations—and eventually, to Vaako. It unsettled the commander more than he would have cared to admit.
It was better when the Purifier came toward him. At least the man wasn’t standing off by himself, lingering in the background, piercing everyone with his critical gaze. Talking to him reduced Vaako’s feeling that he had been weighed and found wanting.
He did not know the half of it.
“Long journey.” Standing behind the commander, the Purifier peered past him, his gaze focused on the glistening firmament ahead. When the commander did not reply, the other man continued. “They can be a test, these deep runs. A test of our inner selves as well as of crew and vessel. Difficult to be so long away from the comforting confines of Necropolis. Yet sometimes they must be done. Long and lonely they are.” His attention shifted to the martial figure before him. “Do you find that to be true, Vaako?”
“I know some do,” the commander replied without admitting to anything. Unlike the Lord Marshal or his fellow commanders, the Purifier could sometimes be frustratingly cryptic. When beset with questions that were enigmatic, it was best to provide answers that were equally nonspecific. Vaako considered it only tactful. Dame Vaako would have called it self-preservation.
Not that he felt any threat from the Purifier. On the contrary, he was usually quite relaxed in the other man’s presence. It was only when the spiritual head of the cause was standing behind him, out of sight, that he found himself wondering about the nature of the other man’s thoughts. What did he think of Vaako? Of the Lord Marshal? Of their respective abilities, for example? It would be useful to know.
He couldn’t ask, of course. That would have been worse than tactless. Such a blatant need to know would have suggested uncertainty: a dangerous trait in a high commander. But the fact that he dared not ask such things did not keep him from wondering about them.
“Just being so far from the armada,” the Purifier was saying, “your head can fill with strange thoughts. Doubts. Don’t you ever have doubts, Vaako? About the campaign? About our Lord Marshal?”
Was the Purifier trying to bait him? If so, the transparency of
the attempt was an insult to the commander’s intelligence. Surely a wise, knowledgeable adviser like himself could do better than that. It was a good thing Dame Vaako wasn’t there, he knew. She would have been hard-pressed to keep from bursting out laughing at such obviousness. There was a woman, he knew, from whom even the most cunning diplomat could take lessons. Not for the first time, he found himself thinking how glad he was that she was on his side.
As for the Purifier’s questions, he was able to respond straightforwardly and without hesitation.
“If you’re here to test my loyalty, you succeed only in testing my patience. I have a task to perform that allows little time for such barefaced nonsense. Take your testing elsewhere and annoy others with it, Purifier. I am Vaako: first and always a Necromonger commander, a defender of the faith, and a leader of converts new, old, and always.”
To this the Purifier only nodded, giving no indication whether he was satisfied or disappointed by the response. “Well spoken, noble Vaako. ‘First and always.’ Have you ever paused to consider the full meaning of the words we all speak? For myself, I have always wondered what that really signifies . . . ‘always.’” Without another word, he pivoted and headed out of the command center.
Vaako watched him go. Peppered with queries, left in custody of a riddle, he was more disconcerted by the fleeting exchange than he had been when the Purifier had been staring at him from behind. What was the meaning of the brief confrontation? If the other man was not checking his loyalty, then what had been the purpose of it all? Amusement? Somehow that did not fit with what he knew of the Purifier’s personality. The interpreter of the faith was nothing if not somber by nature.
A navigator was pressing him for a decision. Reluctantly, he abandoned the mystifying line of thought to return to the business at hand. This was what was important, he reminded himself. The work. The task that had been set before him. Not the philosophic ramblings of a solitary theologist. He respected the Purifier for his learning and for his devotion, but that did not mean Vaako had to admire him slavishly, nor pay close attention to everything he said.
The Chronicles of Riddick Page 14
