Pitch Black

by Frank Lauria

  The plump dealer pursed his lips sweetly at Audrey. “Now did you run away from your parents? Or did they run away from you?”

  Audrey shrugged and ran a tiny finger along the edge of her knife.

  The skeletons were huge, with mammoth, hollow skulls the size of cave dwellings.

  Fry and the others shuffled slowly into the vast boneyard, unnerved by the eerie wailing carried by the wind. Like discordant echoes of long-lost souls.

  “Is this whole planet dead?” Fry muttered.

  As if in answer, one of the pilgrims said something in Arabic.

  “He asks what could have killed so many great beasts,” Imam explained, voice hushed. They continued farther, pausing before a perfectly preserved skeleton that seemed part crocodile, part camel—and all predator.

  “Some communal graveyard perhaps, like the elephants of Earth,” Imam suggested.

  Fry didn’t answer. She was preoccupied by one of the towering bones. She guessed it was a rib of some sort. But Fry was more interested in the deep cut marks etched along the bone. Almost as if the rib had been hacked by a sword.

  Graveyard? Or killing field? Fry wondered, inspecting the sharp cuts. She was so engrossed she didn’t notice Johns come up behind her. “Long time ago. Whatever happened,” he said, as if that solved everything.

  Fry glanced up in annoyance. But before she could respond, one of the pilgrims laughed. The sound was oddly out of place. Spurred by curiosity, and a sudden aversion to Johns, Fry hurried to see what was so funny.

  It was like moving through an enormous web of hot light and blind shadow. The bones formed a stark, lacelike maze, and Fry circled the edge slowly, rather than lose her way inside. Then a delighted shout cut through the constant moaning. Guided by the sound, Fry ventured deeper and spotted the pilgrims. As she neared Fry heard someone singing.

  The youngest of the pilgrims, Rashad, was bent over a giant jawbone lined with serrated teeth. Fist-sized holes honeycombed the jawbone. The constant wind hitting the honeycomb produced the low moaning. Rashad had discovered that by moving his hand over the honeycomb, he could “play” dirgelike music. He grinned at Fry, proud of his new trick.

  Well, that answers one question, anyway, Fry thought, glancing around. If Rashad’s jawbone resembled a church organ, the skull it belonged to might have been a chapel with a domed ceiling. A very dark chapel.

  “Ali!”

  Fry flinched, startled by Rashad’s cry. She turned and saw Rashad looking for his friend Ali. As Rashad spun slowly in search of Ali, Imam stood unperturbed, as if he’d seen this before.

  “Harrh!”

  Ali popped out of the darkened skull like a laughing ghost. Then he disappeared again. Rashad started after him, but Imam stopped him with a stern look.

  As Imam moved toward the skull, Ali scrambled outside.

  “Get out, dammit!” a gruff voice shouted after him. “This ain’t no playground.”

  Fry recognized Johns’ voice. Shaking his head at Fry, Imam gave Ali a gentle push toward his fellow pilgrims. Fry knew what he meant. Johns had no right to treat the boy that way—or anybody else for that matter.

  “At ease, Johns!” Fry said sharply. “Nobody put you in charge.”

  “Maybe you better come in here,” Johns drawled.

  It was more a challenge than a suggestion. Cautiously, Fry moved inside the hollowed skull. Blinded by the darkness after long exposure to brilliant sunlight, Fry stood for a moment until her eyes adjusted. Light streamed inside the skull from various holes, cracks, and sockets, amplifying the chapel-like gloom. She spotted Johns, kneeling on the ground as if praying.

  “Look at this,” he muttered.

  Fry crouched beside him. Johns pointed at a circle of sharp bone chips, illuminated by a slash of light. The chips were about the size of a fingertip. They seemed freshly cut somehow, one side whiter than the other. Probably those sides were more exposed to sunlight, Fry speculated.

  But Johns had other ideas. “Big Evil is around here somewhere,” he muttered. “I can feel it.” The lawman hefted his shotgun and stood up. He slowly inspected the inner wall of the huge, hollow skull, probing each shadowy nook and cranny with his weapon.

  Despite her instinctive dislike of Johns’ crude manner, Fry felt reassured by his vigilance. Like having a trained pit bull, she mused. Even though Riddick was probably miles away by now.

  The big drawback was, she had to wait there until Johns finished his search. Finally he was satisfied and backed toward the exit. Fry lagged behind, pausing to snap a fresh O2 unit in her breather.

  She was so engrossed in her task that she never noticed the figure dangling just above her head, poised to strike.

  It would be so easy, Riddick speculated. He gripped his newly chiseled bone shiv and visualized how he’d do it. First he’d neutralize the woman. Then, when Johns came back to find her he would cut the bastard’s throat. Johns would never utter a sound.

  But Riddick remained perfectly still, body wedged in a bony crevice above Fry’s head. Intently he watched her step outside. A few moments later he swung down to the ground as quietly as a python. Peering through his goggles he spotted Fry standing just outside the skull, less than an arm’s length away. Very carefully, Riddick eased his blade toward Fry’s neck.

  A shadow crossed the honeycomb of light, moving toward Fry.

  Johns took a hit of scotch and extended the bottle to Fry. “Care for a taste?”

  She leaned against the skull wall, inches away from Riddick’s blade. “Probably makes it worse. Dehydrates you even more.”

  Riddick’s shiv reached out for the back of Fry’s neck.

  “Probably right,” Johns muttered.

  Fry took a drink anyway. Just as Riddick’s blade extended closer, she stepped away from the opening.

  Shit! Riddick fumed, crouching back. Now I have to listen to their alcoholic bonding. But he wasn’t about to leave until he got what he wanted.

  Johns took another swig. “You know, I woulda played road dog for these guys. You could’ve stayed behind. Probably should’ve . . . because, you know, if we don’t find water . . .” He paused to pass her the bottle. “. . . we may not make it back.”

  Fry shrugged and took the bottle. “No, I . . . wanted to get away.”

  “So I noticed. Never seen a captain quite so ready to leave her ship.”

  Listen to him, Riddick thought, the slick bastard. She’s scared about something and he knows it. He’s reeling her in like a hooked catfish. Riddick eased closer, his bone shiv ready to go to work.

  “Better keep moving,” Fry said. She handed Johns the bottle and stepped away from the skull.

  Johns remained where he was. “What did Owens mean? ’Bout not touching the handle?”

  Fry paused and leaned back against the skull.

  Son of a bitch, he’s got her, Riddick fumed, again edging closer. His anger made him reckless. If either of them had turned around, they would have seen him through the small holes honeycombing the skull.

  Johns, too, could tell she was ready, so he pressed. “Hey, see anyone else around here?” He lowered his voice. “Just between you and me. Promise.”

  When she didn’t answer he tossed the bottle aside and leaned close to her. “Carolyn,” Johns said, using her name for the first time, “sittin’ on our secrets ain’t gonna help us now.”

  Carolyn, Riddick repeated silently. How can you sit still for this bullshit?

  “I’m not the captain,” Fry said slowly. “And during the landing . . . when things were at their worst—Owens was at his best. He’s the one who wouldn’t let the docking pilot dump the main cabin.” She paused to make sure he knew what she was saying. “The passengers.”

  Johns straightened up. “The docking pilot being . . .”

  “Me.”

  Even Riddick was taken aback by Fry’s confession. No wonder I like her, he reflected. The bitch has the makings of a mass murderer.

  This time he would not be den
ied. Ignoring Johns just inches away on the other side of the skull, Riddick moved—and struck. Deftly, his blade snipped a lock of Fry’s blonde hair.

  A souvenir of you, babe, Riddick thought, melting back into the shadows. That’s all I want . . . for now.

  “Fuck,” Johns said finally. “Guess I’m more glad to be here than I thought.”

  As Riddick watched them walk away, his goggled eyes looked over at the scotch bottle Johns left behind.

  It still had one good swallow.

  Johns waited a good five minutes, marching a few paces in front of the group. Then he held up his hand. As the others waited he hopped onto a low ridge and put the scope to his eye. He scanned the boneyard until he found the bottle.

  “Didn’t bite,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  Johns glanced at Fry and shook his head. Then he returned the scope to his eye and looked again. The bottle still held that one good swallow.

  “Thought he might be coolin’ it in the boneyard,” Johns explained. “Could either double-back to the ship or slip in behind us. So I left the bottle out as bait.”

  Suddenly Fry realized she had underestimated Johns. She also regretted her mawkish confession. Just deny it, she told herself. This is no time to get religion.

  Johns reluctantly came down from his perch. “But nah. Didn’t bite,” he mumbled, half-surprised.

  They resumed their trek in silence. But had Johns taken the trouble to retrace his steps, he would have found the scotch in his decoy bottle had indeed been emptied. And replaced with sand . . .

  The scouting party descended a narrowing canyon lined with giant rib bones. Fry felt like she was being squeezed inside the belly of the beast. To prevent a panic attack she focused on the sharp pinnacles outlined on the canyon rim. They jutted above them like crooked teeth. What are they? Fry wondered. Mineral deposits of some kind? Or nests for thousand-year-old eggs?

  “Captain! Captain!”

  Ali’s cry yanked her into action. Fry sprinted to the front of the group. She saw Imam and Johns inspecting something Rashad had found. Everyone was talking at once. Is it a plant? Looks like a fruit. Where did you pick it up? Is it edible? Others were excitedly jabbering in Arabic.

  Fry looked closer at the object cradled in Rashad’s hands. It had leathery petals that folded back, exposing a hard, stringy core.

  “It’s a desert plant,” Ali declared.

  “Maybe it contains water,” Imam suggested.

  Fry looked closer. “Wait, wait, wait . . .”

  Heart pounding, Fry pushed back the “petals” and examined the core. Then she remembered.

  “It’s a goddamn baseball,” she said in a hushed tone.

  Imam immediately grasped the significance. “We are not alone here, yes?”

  They all looked up at the pinnacles that loomed like sentinels above the stark bones, wailing in the wind.

  Everyone drew a second wind after the find.

  Energized and excited, the younger pilgrims led the way, followed by Imam and Fry. Sometimes ahead, sometimes behind the group, Johns roamed freely keeping a wary eye out for Riddick.

  Just the kind of thing the smart bastard would set up, Johns speculated darkly, his shotgun tracing an arc as they passed another skeletal hiding place. Use some familiar object to lure them into a trap. Right up Riddick’s alley.

  Fry kept glancing up at the oddly symmetrical pinnacles. Were they mineral deposits, or volcanic cones, or dwellings of some sort? she wondered. Were they connected to these extinct creatures? And what was an old baseball doing in this godawful desert graveyard?

  “Allahu Akbar!”

  Rashad’s cry jump-started Fry’s heartbeat. She could hear the note of triumph in his voice. As she hurried after Imam, Fry saw what were emerging from the bone yard. Rashad and Ali were standing on a rise about fifty yards ahead. Johns was trotting up to join them, his shotgun ready.

  Too ready, Fry thought. As she headed up the steep rise Fry realized that even the minimal shade offered by the huge bones was a significant relief in the scorching heat.

  Sweating profusely, Fry crested the hill in time to see Rashad, Ali, and Johns descending the other side. A small shock numbed her belly.

  There at the bottom of the hill was some sort of human outpost.

  Fry recognized the type immediately. Aluminex Pre-Fab. Standard Company issue before they discovered that Opalar was lighter, stronger, and cheaper. Why then wasn’t this planet registered? Fry thought, as she watched the scouting party warily approach the settlement.

  “Assalam ahlaykum!” Ali shouted.

  The trio paused as Ali’s greeting echoed through the metallic buildings. Fry and Imam came up behind them. In the silence Fry heard the flapping of tattered window shades. She spotted another familiar shape. A rusty bike lying on the ground.

  “Assalam ahlaykum!”

  “Forget it, raghead,” Johns snorted, moving toward the nearest building. “Long gone. Whoever they were.”

  From the photos left behind on walls and dressers, the settlers had been just ordinary humans. Miners, traders, seekers, all chasing their dreams from tiny Earth into an infinite universe. Although everything was covered with centuries of dust Fry could feel the life in the communal social hall. There were pictures on the wall. Men and women tilling modest gardens. Playing baseball. Posing with children. There was a ping-pong table, and an old holofilm deck.

  Fry followed the pilgrims outside. As they moved around the corner of the building, they pulled up short. Before them, in all its rusted splendor, was a moisture-recovery unit. And the ground around it was littered with old jugs.

  “Water . . .” Imam said fervently. “. . . water there was here . . .”

  “Allahu Akbar . . .” the pilgrims chanted.

  Imam smiled at Johns. “God is great,” he translated. “True, yes?”

  “I’m born-again,” the lawman muttered, moving on.

  Fry veered off on her own and entered another abandoned building. “Lights!” she called.

  Nothing. Perhaps the lights were on manual, she reasoned. But after patting around the wall for old-style switches, she came up empty. Through the gloom she perceived a window covered by blackout blinds. She threw them open.

  A man was standing right outside.

  Fry’s breathing resumed when she saw Johns grinning through the window.

  “Hey. Don’t go too far, huh?” he warned.

  Fry nodded. Johns waved and turned away. But just as Fry’s heartbeat settled, she heard a loud, metallic creak behind her.

  Stiffly, she whirled. Something moved across her vision.

  Fry stifled a cry and peered closer. It was an Orrery, a mechanical device that showed the motion of planets around their suns. This Orrery was solar-powered. Slowly it came to life, gears and spokes creaking.

  Fry examined the device carefully. It showed five planets circling three suns. One planet seemed always to be in sunlight. Obviously it’s this little desert paradise, Fry observed. No wonder the settlers had no need for lights. No darkness.

  She wandered out to the back porch. Ragged clothing still hung from a frayed line strung across the railing. Fry parted the clothing and scanned the area behind the building. Nothing but hot sand and hard rock, as far as the eye could see.

  Fry started to go back inside, but a metallic glint at the edge of her vision stirred her curiosity. Seconds later she located the source of the glint—and identified it.

  Before Fry could move, she needed a few excited hits on her breather. Then she vaulted off the porch and started running.

  Fry knew what it was before she reached the grooved runway.

  “Allahu Akbar!” she shouted breathlessly.

  The others appeared and hurried to join her. Chest heaving, Fry just stood there, transfixed by the space skiff perched on the runway like a shiny metal insect.

  Digging graves in the desert heat was grueling work. The ground was hard and the twin suns burned down re
lentlessly, drying the sweat on Zeke’s back.

  Add low oxygen intake and Zeke found himself gasping before he had completed the long trench that would serve as final destination for the dead crewies. All three lay stretched out beside him, snug in their body wraps.

  Zeke glanced back often, keeping the damaged ship in his sight line. He saw Shazza appear beside Paris, and waved. She waved back.

  Paris was too busy to wave. Carefully he spooned some caviar onto a toast point and popped it into his mouth. Shazza shook her head in disgust and moved off the hull.

  Paris contentedly watched Zeke dig the communal grave. The portly art dealer enjoyed observing physical labor. It amplified his sense of entitlement. It was not enough that he was luxuriating, Paris reflected smugly. Everyone else must be laboring.

  The misting umbrella threw off clouds of cooling alcohol as he devoured another mound of caviar.

  An odd scribbing sound stopped Paris in midbite.

  Acid fear seeped through his belly and he tasted undigested caviar. Grasping his war-pick, Paris eased out of his chair. He moved carefully to the rear edge of the hull and looked down.

  A shadow ducked under him.

  “This now qualifies as the worst fun I’ve ever had,” Paris declared, stamping his foot in exasperation. “Stop it!”

  There was no answer.

  Paris slowly climbed down to the ground. War-pick aloft, he checked the perimeter and peered inside the ship. Nobody.

  That brat is fucking with me, Paris fumed. Actually he hoped she was. The alternative was chilling. He heard the scribbling sound, and turned.

  “Audrey?”

  “What?”

  Confused by the muffled response, Paris moved toward the sound. The voice came from a splintered cargo container, about thirty yards away.

  The container was shattered. Blades of sunlight streamed in through the jagged cracks in the hull. Paris carefully stepped inside and found Shazza and Audrey cutting open storage units, looking for useable goods.

  “Tell me that was you,” Paris said, frowning down at Audrey.

  The little girl seemed unconcerned. “Okay, it was me. What did I do now?”