The Chronicles of Riddick

by Alan Dean Foster

  There was no shower, no UV room where dirt could be removed and potentially infectious organisms destroyed. What the bottom level of the slam did have, however, were several streams of geothermally heated water. While they smelled of sulfur, the odor would soon wear off, and the minerals dissolved in the liquid actually made for a healthier soak than an equivalent amount of purified dihydrogen monoxide. The problem was not an insufficiency of hot water but an oversupply. Prisoners desiring to take a bath had to time their immersions carefully, as the temperature of the flows frequently jumped according to unpredictable variations in subsurface magmatic levels. Hop in too soon, and the flow might stop entirely. Linger too long, and you could find yourself parboiled redder than the last dinner delivery of unidentifiable alien arthropod. Or you might not emerge at all, until the guards came to fish out your boiled, blistered corpse.

  Right now Riddick found the temperature just about right. Soaking away layers of grime and sweat was about the only real pleasure available to prisoners on Crematoria, and he relished the opportunity. There was no soap, but the mineral content of the water rendered unnecessary the need for artificial epidermal abrasives. The water stung the small gash on his cheek: a departing kiss from the woman who now called herself Kyra. The thought, or something else, made him turn and peer out from beneath the sweltering flow.

  She was there, watching him from across the way. Watching and sharpening something reflective, edged, and pointed. Her expression was unreadable, her thoughts concealed. He kept an eye on her as he started to dry himself. A different voice greeted him, coming closer.

  “Still passing through, I see.”

  Though outwardly studiously neutral, there was a twinkle in the Guv’s eye. The possibility that at any moment it might turn to uncontrollable rage did not escape Riddick. He listened politely without letting down his guard.

  Unexpectedly, the older man held up one hand. The fingers looked as if they had been run over by a transport sled. Several times. But they were all there, which spoke volumes about the man’s ability to take care of himself even in the worst surroundings imaginable. A gold band glinted on one finger. It was nearly as scarred and beat-up as the flesh it encircled.

  “I remember how gorgeous she was—well, gorgeous in the right light. But for the goddamn death of me, I cannot remember her name anymore.”

  Compressed in the quiet observation was an entire personal history: one the Guv chose not to expound upon. Instead, he motioned to another nearby convict. The second man was squatting around a particularly hot spot in the cavern floor. Suspended above the hot spot was a crude but serviceable setup for brewing liquids. In this case, Riddick suspected, the local variety of slam tea. Ingredients varied from prison to prison, but it was always something conjured out of fragments of edible material that was not part of the regular slam diet. In its own quiet, scalding way, seeping slam tea was a means of one-upping the guards, who were never granted access to it. If one was intrigued enough to come nosing around, the teapot was always empty—even if it had to be “accidentally” knocked over and its laboriously prepared contents dumped on the ground.

  “Have one on me,” the Guv offered. “Since we’re all going to be here for the rest of our unnatural lives. Not exactly the kind of welcome drink you get at the better outsystem hotels, but brewed with more honesty and care than you’ll find anywhere else. And the price is right.”

  Riddick nodded. “Where do you get the water?”

  The Guv gestured upward. “Distill it ourselves. Anytime you got this much water and this much heat, it ain’t difficult to put together a still.” He moved off, but stayed within earshot.

  Displaying a certain coarse pride, the brewmaster offered a steaming cup to the new arrival. “Tobacco, syrmoss, bits and pieces of this and that. Sweetener when we can get it. Nothing harmful.” He grinned, showing an impressive deficiency of teeth. “Nothing diuretic. Tastes better than you think.” When Riddick kept his hands down and continued to eye the cup, the brewer’s attitude changed instantly. “What, you don’t want to drink the Guv’s tea?”

  At this, a number of the other convicts in the immediate vicinity began to gravitate closer. In a moment, they had surrounded Riddick. A prisoner could go solo if he wanted to, but violating hospitality— that was something that could not be allowed to pass unremarked upon. Preparatory to making any remarks, several of the convicts had picked up fist-sized rocks or hand-made utensils.

  “Maybe he knows nothing’s free in slam,” one of them commented.

  “Got nothing to sell, nothing to trade.” Another greedily eyed Riddick’s boots and goggles, even though he had no idea of the special nature of those dark lenses. “Nothing he’ll give over voluntary, that is.”

  “We can make him comply,” a third insisted, shuffling the sharp rock he held back and forth between his hands.

  “Information,” exclaimed still another member of the gathering pack. “First newcomer in months. Information for tea. That’s a fair trade.”

  “What kind of information?” the one who envied Riddick his boots snapped.

  “News.” Two of the inmates voiced the wish simultaneously. “Outside news. Outsystem news. Like about the rumors.”

  “Guards’ rumors,” growled a bigger man. “Shit and spittle.”

  “No,” insisted his companion. “Too much natter about the same matter.” He looked hopefully at the still silent, attentive Riddick. “We hear things. Even down here. Visitors talk to the boss, boss talks to the guards, guards bitch among themselves. Talk about some kind of widespread invasion. Multiple worlds, not just one. Some kind of spirits, or spirit-infested folk.”

  “More like gods, I heard,” another inmate chipped in uneasily.

  “What planets? Which ones?” the second speaker demanded.

  “They can’t be killed,” the one whose concern had prompted this line of talk insisted. “At least, it’s said that their leaders can’t. Because they’re already dead.”

  Initially skeptical, the biggest of the convicts now found himself peering uncertainly at Riddick. “Is it true? Any of it? Or is it all interplanetary bullshit?”

  Riddick let his gaze travel slowly over each and every one of them. “They call themselves Necromongers. And it sure as fuck was true on Helion Prime.”

  Now he accepted the tea and drank thirstily from the metal cup. While he did so, the news rippled through the assembled convicts and rapidly passed up the rings of tiers all the way to the top of the uppermost prisoner level. Whispers winged from cell to workstation and back, traversing the prison like a bad wind.

  “Helion Prime—they’re on Helion Prime. . . .”

  One of the convicts who had spoken first stepped forward, his tone and expression a confused mix of pride and fear. “I’m Helion Four. You’re not just sunning us, newcomer? These people really exist, and they’ve taken Helion Prime?”

  Riddick peered over the rim of the cup. “I was there. I saw it. I smelled it. Bunch of mercs snatched me clear.” His goggled eyes dropped back down to the cup. “Right now, not much difference between there and here. One hell’s noisier, the other’s hotter.”

  Another inmate presented himself. “Helion Six— dammit. Still got family there.” His eyes pleaded with Riddick even if his voice did not. “You think these freaks are gonna take Helion Six, too?”

  Riddick said nothing. Stating the obvious would only make the two men feel that much worse. It was transparently clear that if Helion Prime completely went under, the entire Helion system would fall to the Necromongers. He knew military strategy, even if these poor cage monkeys did not. There was no need for the Necromongers to attack Helion VI, or IV, because both secondary inhabited worlds relied on Helion Prime for the basics necessary to keep their commerce and societies functioning. The Necromongers knew this, too, hence their bypassing of the outer worlds to launch a straightforward attack on Helion Prime itself.

  Faces turned to the Guv as the other convicts waited for him to
announce the name of his home world. Whether he would have done so or not no one knew, because they were interrupted by the sound of multiple doors opening somewhere overhead. And another sound, different entirely.

  To the prisoners, an all-too familiar, unearthly, and bone-tingling howling.

  It was new to Riddick, however. Head tilted back, he stood and listened with interest. Meanwhile, the Guv put an end to the conversation. “Doesn’t matter where anyone’s from. Not here. There’s just one world now: this one. And we didn’t get to pick it.”

  Above, security doors opened and shut as the detachment of guards entered the prison proper. Working quickly, they unfastened bridles and removed muzzles. As soon as the latter came off, they stepped back fast. No matter how much experience one had with the hellhounds, it was impossible to predict their initial reactions at being released. Usually, the beasts followed their training. Usually. It was the occasional, rare, but not unknown psychoflip you had to look out for. More than one guard bore physical evidence of this in the form of scars not even modern medicine could completely erase. There were also a couple of ex-slam employees buried Outside. One had not reacted soon enough to his animal’s drastic mood shift. The other had made the mistake of teasing a large male by withholding its food. The enraged hellhound had eaten the guard’s face instead. That was a gaffe every other guard handler was careful not to repeat.

  The name of the creatures derived from their appearance, which was vaguely caninelike without possessing so much as a single strand of earthly doggy DNA. At times they could also appear strikingly feline, though there was no more cat in them than dog. They were wholly alien, imported from a world noted for the ferocity of its native fauna. That they were manipulatable at all was a tribute to a few small dedicated families who had settled on their home world and made quite a nice business out of training and exporting the animals. In nowise, however, could the hellhounds be called domesticated. Their inherent and unsuppressed wildness made them that much more useful in such occupations as prison work.

  Occasionally, as a special treat, they got to eat a prisoner.

  Just watching them deploy was a lesson in vertebrate efficiency. Flying over a walkway, their scaly, slate-gray skin changing color as the chromatophores within reacted to the animals’ heightened emotional state, they were a perfect image of racing terror. Seeing them, the last thing anyone, down to the toughest of inmates, would want to do was get in their way. Relaxed and at ease, knowing that the path ahead would be cleared for them by the eager patrolling beasts, armed guards followed.

  Word traveled quickly throughout the prison. Shouts of warning made the rounds of the ranked tiers, descended to areas inhabited only by those who scavenged for food in the sulfurous depths. Cell doors slammed shut; not to keep prisoners in, but to keep four-legged berserker carnivores out. The inquisitive crowd that had gathered around Riddick evaporated as convicts sought shelter in open cells or among the rocks.

  “Here they come!” The shouts rained down. “Slot up, slot up! Get off the tiers!”

  Head back, the Guv all but shook a fist skyward. “A herd! A goddamn herd. Is that all we are to you?”

  Pushing frantically past his fellows, the man who had first questioned Riddick scrambled around him toward safety. “Flee now, talk later! The cull is on!”

  Lowering his gaze, the Guv turned to Riddick. Without saying so, he had apparently come to a decision regarding the new prisoner. “Just don’t let the howlers catch you out. Find an empty cell, a crevice, anything. Make sure it’s solid—you can’t believe how strong the bastards are. If they think they can get at you, they’ll try to bite their way in right through the rock. And if you’re confronted, do not—do not— make eye contact. Play deaf and dumb and you might get away with it.” He started off in the opposite direction. “Or you might get to be lunch.”

  Above, more guards were descending via the lift. One hound was giving its handler added trouble. Snarling and hissing, it snapped at the guard’s maulstick but was finally jabbed into compliance. Its ear tag identified it as #5, but the nameplate it wore was considerably more evocative: Thrash.

  Circling the prison singly and in pairs, hellhounds did their work, making sure level after level was clear of prisoners. To their disappointment, it usually was. The slam on Crematoria had no need of elaborate scan and check systems, no need for guards to inspect every cell and hiding place individually. The hellhound pack did it for them. Furthermore, the pack could not suffer from systems failure, or electronic breakdown, or a power outage. Should any of those events take place, either as a result of an escape attempt or naturally occurring breakdown, all prison administration had to do to secure the entire complex was release the hellhounds and let them run free.

  Years earlier, a trio of prisoners had tried just that. They had succeeded in shutting down all electronics in the hope of reaching the landing hangar and overpowering the crew of the regular supply ship. They were found in the transport tunnel, barely ten meters from the prison access station, with half a dozen snarling hellhounds on top of them. By the time the handlers managed to pull the pack off the would-be escapees, there was nothing left but a pile of bones, cracked and broken to extract the marrow.

  That was the one and only time anyone had tried such a stunt.

  Continuing on their patrol, multiple animals leaped gaps between tiers that no human could manage without mechanical aid. One brute, hungrier and more hopeful than its fellows, disdained the ramps in favor of sliding down the solidified lava fall. Its claws left grooves in the rock.

  The overall effect was one of controlled panic, if that wasn’t a contradiction in terms. Stumbling over one another, shoving fellow prisoners out of the way, grim-faced convicts scrambled to find cells with doors that closed tight. Caught out far from their chosen abodes, one group resorted to grabbing a dehinged door off the ground and frantically propping it into place, wedging it tight with rocks and whatever other materials they could find.

  Loping along one of the lower levels toward her own residence, Kyra found herself cut off. Ignoring the ramps, one of the hounds had come down a service chute. Half crazed with longing for the taste of human flesh they might be, but they weren’t stupid. Repetition prompted learning. One day she would not be surprised to see members of the pack using the lift in an attempt to beat unlucky prisoners to their cells.

  Spotting her, the hellhound lengthened its already impressive stride, then leaped. Instead of trying to dodge the animal, she accelerated straight toward it. At the last possible instant she dropped, sliding feetfirst beneath it, and was up and running on the other side before the creature hit the ground. It turned within its own body length, but by that time she was on a rope and rappelling her way to the bottom of the cavern.

  One group of guards was methodically patrolling the upper tiers, whistling menacingly as they walked. The second group made its way downward via the central lift. A couple of them carried powerful spotlights. These were used to pick out prisoners foolish enough to remain out of their cells. Whether it was done for reasons of security, to provide a quick snack for the hellhounds, or simply for the guards’ amusement it was impossible to say. It was just the way it was in Crematoria slam.

  At the bottom of the cavern, a pair of sulfide scavengers vanished into a fissure so rank with the smell of sulfur-laden steam not even a hellhound would enter it. Not far away, a prisoner who had hatched the crazy idea of waiting in hiding in hopes of grabbing onto the bottom of the lift and finding himself hoisted to the half freedom of slam control found himself confronted by one of the remorseless creatures. He turned to run but wasn’t nearly fast enough. The sounds of human shrieks mixed with delighted snarl-hisses drifted upward through the cavern. Fortunately, the accompanying crunching sounds were too subdued to be heard more than one tier up.

  Riddick had sequestered himself behind one of the geothermal cascades the prison population used for bathing. The steaming rush was loud enough to mute any sounds, the s
ulfurous stink strong enough to mask any body odor. Droplets of heavily mineralized water beaded up on his goggles as he stared silently into the surge.

  They did not prevent him from seeing the approaching hellhound. He lifted his goggles in an attempt to obtain a clearer view. Head sweeping back and forth over the ground, the creature would occasionally lift its muzzle to sniff at the air, then drop its jaws to the surface again. As it strode past, Riddick had the opportunity to observe the muscles rippling along its flanks, the razor teeth that flashed in its jaws, the feral glint in its predatory alien eyes. Powerful and lightning fast, it was capable of easily overwhelming any human.

  It continued past the cascade—and stopped. Maybe it sensed movement not generated by water. Maybe some smell lingered in the air. Whatever the reason, it turned sharply, growling deep in its throat, and approached the waterfall. Pushing through the aqueous veil, it nosed steadily deeper within. Rising up on its hind legs, it was even more impressive than it had been on all fours. As it probed, an identification tag jiggled against one ear. Number five. Piercing, animal eyes flashed menacingly.

  And came face-to-face with Riddick. Eyeshine to eyeshine.

  XI

  The Guv’s chosen living quarters lay nearby. While the majority of prisoners preferred to live on one of the upper tiers, near the control center, he and the other, more wizened convicts had made their homes at or near the bottom of the cavern. There was no sky to be glimpsed from the upper levels, anyway, and the guards got to you sooner. Sure, the air was a little fresher, but for a lifer that was only a tease best avoided. It wasn’t really fresh air, anyway, a commodity that was sorely lacking on Crematoria. Down bottom, a man or woman had time to think. And to forget.

  In his convoluted, troubled, difficult life, the Guv had seen it all. Or thought he had, until that moment. Moving to the bars of his self-sealed cell, he gaped in amazement at what he thought he was seeing. It was hard to tell, at a distance and with all that falling water. There was Riddick, that was for sure. And there was a hellhound—that was a surety also. It was the interaction that caused him to blink and rub several times at his sulfur-stained eyes. Because it could not be happening.