“Not so wrong as when you left him alive,” she chided her companion. She knew that, had she been on Crematoria, that oversight would not have occurred. Her thoughts swirled as she tried to anticipate possible eventualities. “It’s twice a mistake. Not only your failure to make certain of his passing, but now we have to live with your report that the expedition was a success.” She was pacing fiercely now, a panther barely caged, muttering to herself as much as to him. “How do we salvage this . . . how . . . ?”
Vaako chose that moment to reveal that they were not thinking along similar lines. “The Lord Marshal,” he exclaimed with a start. “He’s got to be warned. Even if it turns out that you were mistaken, it’s a risk that cannot be ignored.” He turned and started for the door.
She did not move to intercept him. Nor did she raise her voice or sputter curses. Her tone was perfectly steady. “You will never see UnderVerse. He’ll kill us both before due time. And it won’t matter whether Riddick is here or not. I’ve seen how he acts when the breeder is discussed. Just the possibility that you might have failed will be enough to set him off. Is that what you want?”
Vaako halted, confusion and uncertainty writ plain on his face. “Then—what do we do?”
“It is truly the wise one who can turn seeming adversity into advantage.” She moved closer, her voice at once conspiratorial and ferocious. “This Riddick is persistent beyond reason. I say give him his chance. You saw what he did when confronted by the Quasi-Dead. No one in my experience or I daresay in yours has shown such resolve, such resilience. Such skill. If he is half of what Lord Marshal fears, then perhaps he can at least wound him.” Her gaze met that of her companion, bold and unwavering.
“It may be enough. If hurt, he will hesitate. When he hesitates, that is when you must act.”
Vaako balked. What she was saying, this woman to whom he had hitched his life, went against every teaching he had absorbed since becoming a soldier. “Just to take his place? I am made commander general. Is that not enough? Must I do this just to keep what I kill?”
“It is the Necromonger way. No lord marshal reigns forever.” She all but spat the words. “This one’s time for replacement is overdue. You will be doing him a favor. Send him on his way to UnderVerse. Advance him to his due time.”
Torn between desire for her and loyalty to his superior, between his own dreams and the faith to which he had pledged himself, he looked away and gave voice to the emotions that were churning inside him.
“It is not enough.”
She contained her exasperation. Where would this man be without her to motivate him? On the battlefield he reigned supreme: none could touch him for bravery or skill. But when thrust into the maze of politics and court intrigue, he was like a lost child. It fell to her to lead him.
“Then if you will not do it for yourself, and you will not do it for me, do it for the faith.”
That brought a reaction. The intended one. Having struck the right nerve, she continued without pause.
“He fears this Riddick. If he shows fear, he demonstrates weakness. Weakness can be treated and cured within the junior ranks, and tolerated among the senior staff, but a lord marshal who exhibits weakness proves himself unworthy of that office. That is not the Necromonger way.” Sidling close, she placed a hand on his chest, ran it slowly up and down.
“You know that what I speak is the truth. Sending you all the way to a distant system, in the midst of war, to find and kill one man. Does that demonstrate the kind of nerve that is needed to lead our people? At the time, you questioned the decision. Why can you not now see the need to question the man behind the decision? How can someone so fearful of one individual be deemed fit to continue defending the cause?” She stepped back.
“You must act. There is no one else. No one with your ability to seize the moment. No one with your skill to carry out the sentence. What we do now, we do not for ourselves, but for all who subscribe to the Necromonger way of life. And of death. Besides,” she added, “you will only be sending him onward to the place where we all wish to go. That should be considered a boon, not a punishment.”
“What,” he wondered, slowly warming to the idea in spite of himself, “if it is not his due time?”
“The Lord Marshal? It is always his due time. He only needs someone to give him a helping hand to the Threshold. You will be doing him, as well as our people, a great favor.”
He was coming around, she saw. He always did. It was only a matter of time, of placing the right words in his ear and sometimes hands in the right places. The best blade, she knew, was a sword that was malleable in the hands of the one who wielded it.
“To protect the Faith . . . ,” he was murmuring, his eyes now focused on something distant.
“To protect the Faith,” she echoed impatiently. Get on with it, man! But she saw that he still needed further reassurance. “This can still be a day of days, as the Lord Marshal declared. But the timing must be flawless.” Without a hint of cynicism she added, “The Lord Marshal may not entirely approve of the generous gesture you are going to make on his behalf.”
One more time, he met her eyes. Were they really going to do this? Once committed, he knew, he would have no chance to back out. There would be no turning back. Explanations after the fact were unlikely to be accepted.
Unaware of the complex machinations being plotted by others, Riddick strode purposefully down the corridor. Having traded battle armor for the stolen lightweight dress cloak and attire of an off-duty officer, he advanced without being questioned by the occasional guard or preoccupied passerby. Everyone was too intent on discussing the preeminent issue of the moment to notice him anyway, as soldiers and support personnel alike tried to come up with a reason why the armada should be ordered off the surface of Helion Prime before that stubbornly resistant world had been fully subdued. Such an action was unprecedented. Some even, in carefully guarded whispers and dark corners, were bold enough to voice concern about the current Lord Marshal’s resolve.
Though he made his way forward with care for the position of his cloak, Riddick could not prevent it from billowing slightly open as he mechanically saluted representatives of the lower ranks. At such times, anyone with a sharp eye and an inclination to peer beneath might have noticed that underneath his cloak of rank the big man’s vest was decorated not with symbols of accomplishment or medals of valor, but with blades. Lots of blades, among which was the unusual dagger that had once adorned the right deltoid muscle of a now dead soldier named Irgun. Primitive weapons, knives. But they wouldn’t jam on you, they emitted no telltale radiation, they were silent, they contained no electronics that could be jammed by a routine room-spanning security field, and they did their job just as effectively as any shell or beam weapon.
He stiffened slightly as he saw the two figures coming toward him. No one had questioned or challenged him until now, but—one of the figures was a lensor. Keeping his eyes straight and striving to appear preoccupied, he kept on. Like everyone else he had encountered in the Basilica, the pair walked right past him.
Right past him, and then the lensor turned. And issued an alert.
“You, sir—a moment, if you please,” the soldier with it exclaimed. Not too loudly, for which Riddick was grateful.
Turning, he waited while they approached. “Something wrong, soldier?”
The younger man hesitated, glanced at the lensor, received information, and gathered courage. “Nothing really, sir. Might I speak with you a moment?”
How to play this? the big man thought rapidly. At the moment, the corridor was not crowded, but neither was it deserted. Taking another step forward, he lowered his voice.
“Sure. But I’m not really supposed to be off duty right now.” Turning to his right, he gestured toward a dark side alcove. “Over there, okay?”
The soldier nodded knowingly. Together, he and his lensor accompanied Riddick into the recess. Once inside, Riddick reached beneath his cloak and pulled out his identificat
ion. Two of them.
No one else confronted him as he emerged from the now silent alcove, resumed his march down the corridor, and disappeared around a corner.
The view of Helion’s capital as seen through the large, floor-mounted port continued to expand as the Basilica gained altitude. Very soon now, every ship would be in position. There was nothing left to do but issue the necessary commands. Obliged by the need to preserve the lives of as many potential converts as possible, he had already put this off too long.
“Final protocol,” the Lord Marshal told the officer responsible for following through. “It is time to deliver a lasting lesson and simultaneously put an end to this obstinacy on the part of a few reluctant locals. With one blow, we will crush any remaining will to resist.” He turned back to the port. “Execute on my order.” Interesting he mused, how certain words could have such significant double meanings. “Execute,” for example.
Wordlessly, the officer made the necessary preparations. Among them was the appearance at his station of a control whose appearance was as much ceremonial as functional: a small replica of the great conquest icon itself.
Far below, the surviving citizens of the capital crept from their hiding places to gaze skyward in wonder at the impressive gathering of invading ships. One such house had suffered comparatively little damage. Its patriarch was dead. Unable without his help to reach the evacuation vessel that had been designated for them, mother and daughter had returned home. As one of the warrior ships thrummed malevolently low overhead, Lajjun clutched Ziza even tighter to her breast.
One by one, their massive engines combining to generate a deep-throated mechanical drone that drowned out every other sound, warships were gathering around the conquest icon, almost as if they were on parade. But their assembling had nothing to do with pageantry, and everything to do with death.
Like a broken piece of machinery, the dead lensor was dumped at the Lord Marshal’s feet. Ordinarily, it would not have been brought directly to his attention. Especially not now, when an event of considerable significance was about to transpire. But someone had already reviewed the lensor’s recording pack and deemed the information contained therein of sufficient importance that it should be viewed immediately by the highest authority.
To preserve the privacy of the transmission, an umbilical was jacked into an appropriate port in the lensor’s back and the other end into a console. The use of a cord was testament to the sensitivity of the information about to be displayed: any over-the-air transmission was susceptible to interception.
As the technician adjusted the flow, a wall screen displayed the lensor’s final recordings. A Necromonger handler was shown walking down a corridor in the company of a subofficer, both of them with their backs to the lensor. Entering a darkened alcove, they turned to face one another. Seeing the face of the subofficer in profile, the Lord Marshal sucked in his breath imperceptibly.
There was a brief exchange of questions. Then the scene turned chaotic as Riddick, in the guise of a Necromonger subofficer, attacked in a blur of motion. The screen went dark, as had the lensor.
The Lord Marshal ripped the umbilical out of its socket. “Commander Toal . . .”
Toal was already at his leader’s side, anticipating. “Don’t worry, Lord Marshal. He won’t escape twice.” He gestured freely. “This time, there’s no place for him to go. If he seeks to flee again via one of the landing support struts, this time my men will be there to help him step outside.” His expression was mirthless. “It will be a longer step, this time.”
Whirling, Toal mobilized his subordinates. Shouts and orders were exchanged. The commander known as Scalp-Taker began relaying instructions to the subofficers in charge of the Elites.
Indifferent to the rising frenzy of preparation, the Lord Marshal stood staring at the connection cord he still held in his hand. Then, very deliberately, he wound it securely around his palm, the action coming naturally to him, as if he had done something very similar once before.
If Riddick was half the trouble he appeared to be, it would take time to hunt him down. Meanwhile, there remained the little matter of a stern lesson to be delivered to the intractable population of Helion Prime. Idly, he moved to the balcony that overlooked the reaches of Necropolis. A mass of new converts, drawn from the world below, was shuffling across the floor on their way to the First Stage of Education. The sight was pleasing and relaxed him a little. But it did not change his mind.
Protocol needed to be followed.
Behind him, the officer in charge of lesson deliverance methodically opened the three heads of the fateful icon control. Visible via the floor port, on monitors throughout the Basilica and the rest of the armada, and from the surface of Helion itself, the three heads atop the conquest icon that impaled the surface of the planet began to bow. A gigantic maw appeared between them, its dark interior now open to the sky. From within, something belched skyward. A swirling, rotating mass of multicolored energy, in appearance and shape it was not unlike the gravitational weapons that had been used against massed Helion foot soldiers and their reinforced installations. There was only one significant difference.
This one was much, much bigger.
Rising like a ring of flashing, lightning-imbued cloud, it expanded in diameter until its outermost fringes shadowed the farthest reaches of the capital. It hung there; ominous, growling, alight with foreboding. Waiting for a command.
The command to deliver a lesson.
XVII
Under Toal’s personal direction, a special squad of soldiers and lensors rushed through the most significant portions of the Basilica, all senses on high alert, searching for one subofficer who shouldn’t be there. Among the militarily sensitive sites they scanned and cleared was the dark grotto of the Quasi-Dead. Finding it empty, as expected, the search team moved on.
In doing so, the otherwise alert commander just missed seeing one Quasi sliding out of its protective hollow. There was nothing unusual about this. When they were not in full sleep, curious Quasis sometimes moved about on their own. What was unusual was the presence on the Quasi’s torso of a live person. One hand covered the Quasi’s mouth while the other gripped the dagger that was plunged into the creature’s heart, visible indication that one Quasi-Dead had recently and unwillingly been promoted to Full Dead. Whether out of ignorance of what had taken place or out of fear of knowing that it had, the remaining Quasis remained completely silent.
Slipping down from the dead thing’s body, Riddick advanced soundlessly until he came to a door panel that allowed him to see into the throne room. Standing before that imposing seat and tantalizingly near was the Lord Marshal, speaking to an important new convert. Both his back and the rear of the throne faced the wall where Riddick hid.
Silently, the big man calculated. Angle, distance, time required. There was the small matter of some ceremonial guards located between him and his objective. He moved.
The pair of Elites stationed inside the doors that separated the throne room from the sacred grotto of the Quasi-Dead heard the peculiar metal scraping sound at the same time. When it continued, they exchanged a glance and turned to peer through the decorative ports set into the ceremonial doorway.
A sound came from two blades being scraped together. Not that they really needed the additional sharpening, but Riddick needed the attracting noise. Corkscrewing up and around as he sensed the presence of the two Elites on the other side of the doorway, he buried both blades in their curious faces and in the same motion threw his weight against the doors. He did not so much enter as explode into the throne room.
He’d run through it all in his mind before he’d taken a single step. Dispose of the two guards—done. One quick-step and leap over the back of the throne—done. The inimitable dagger he had pulled from the back of the murderer Irgun in his hand, bringing it down and forward toward. . . .
The Lord Marshal—who spun, caught the dagger hand, countered, and slammed Riddick halfway across the floor. The sp
eed and strength the big man encountered were unprecedented in his experience. He had been ready for a possible defense, but nothing like this. It was almost as if he was fighting two men simultaneously.
Which, in a sense, he was—except that one of them was not exactly a man.
Gathering himself quickly, Riddick sprang to his feet and readied himself for another charge. Recovering from the shock of his appearance, flanking Elites surged forward to intervene, to interpose themselves between the attacker and the esteemed Lord Marshal. As much to Riddick’s surprise as to their own, that worthy swept out a commanding hand as he stepped forward away from the throne.
“Stay!”
A trick, Riddick thought. His attention was everywhere—watching, waiting, expecting an assault to drop from the ceiling or rise from the floor. What he did not expect, what no one in the room who was privy to the drama being played out before them expected, was for the Lord Marshal to approach not his assailant, but a simple convert.
Roughly pulling the figure up off its knees, he ripped back the convert’s cowl to reveal the face beneath. For an instant, Riddick refused to believe. Reality, unfortunately, is cold, remorseless, and will not be denied.
Kyra.
On the balcony above arrived two figures with more than the usual interest in the clash taking place below. Having received word of the confrontation that was happening in the throne room, Vaako and his companion had rushed there just in time to see Toal’s men and Scalp-Taker’s Elites encircling Riddick. Not being present when the Lord Marshal had given the order for his troops to stay their hand, the commander general and his consort struggled to interpret the scene before them.
Breathing hard, Riddick was aware of the soldiers all around him. Any chance of escape was now blocked. He didn’t care. All that mattered was the tall man in the black armor standing before him. After that small business was resolved, he would deal with whatever else might come. Or so he tried to convince himself. Unfortunately, a new element had been added into the mix. He fought not to look at her.
The Chronicles of Riddick Page 24
