Pitch Black

by Frank Lauria

  By the light trickling from the window, Ali began to explore. He knew enough about mining techniques to recognize the coring drill in the middle of the room. He moved closer. The drill’s diamond bit was somewhere at the bottom of the dark shaft. Ali wondered what they were mining for. He moved back to the window and saw a flat metal disc on the sill. Ali brushed the dust off the disc.

  It was a solar panel. The moment Ali exposed it to light, the disc began to revolve, orienting itself to the sun. Mouth open, Ali watched with a mixture of delight and apprehension as the long dormant equipment whirred to life.

  CLACK! CLACK! CLACK! Ali glanced up and saw storm shutters begin to unlatch on the roof. A burst of suns’ rays cascaded over the drill, and it slowly turned, squeaking in protest.

  Ali moved to the small opening in the door. He wanted to tell Imam right away. He also wanted Riddick to know . . . An odd skittering noise lifted his head.

  Ali scanned the rafters. He thought he saw something move. Then the storm shutters yawned open, activated by solar panels. Relieved Ali turned back to the door, but the skittering sound grew louder, more agitated, like the chirping of angry birds.

  As Ali looked up, his belly turned over. In the emerging light he could see the rafters were encrusted with thick black nests. When sunlight hit the first nest, it exploded with life.

  Ali screamed and hurried to the door. He never made it.

  More nests exploded, billowing into madly fluttering creatures, winged hatchlings swarming like bats in a fire, their sharp talons tearing and hacking at anything in their path. The creatures blocked Ali’s exit, forcing him to veer into a dark supply room.

  Ali scrambled inside and slammed the door shut. He was bleeding from some small cuts on his arm, but otherwise he was unhurt. Heart booming in the sudden quiet, Ali mumbled a prayer of thanks and crouched down, waiting for the storm outside to pass.

  As he waited, the darkness around him began to rustle . . . like the frenzied scuttling of a thousand rats.

  The party was in full swing when Riddick entered the communal room.

  The pilgrims had revived the moisture recovery unit. They now had a water supply. Rashad poured the cloudy liquid into crystal goblets Paris had found somewhere. The plump merchant had also rehung a fallen Thanksgiving garland, giving the dusty room a festive touch.

  Riddick was the last one to get water. There was a dark layer of sediment at the bottom of his goblet, but nothing tasted finer.

  “And for this, our gift of drink, we give thanks in the name of the Prophet Mohammed,” Imam intoned, raising his goblet. “And in the name of his father, Allah the compassionate and the all-merciful.”

  The Muslim pilgrims murmured their amens, while the others lifted their glasses. All except Riddick. He sipped his water slowly, letting it wash over the bit sores inside his mouth. He was aware of Johns’ watchful eyes but he had other things in mind.

  Like Fry. Riddick found her extremely attractive. Perhaps they’d find some time to explore their chemistry, Riddick thought, if they ever managed to get off the planet alive. Something very lethal lived here. And it didn’t like tourists.

  “Perhaps we should toast our hosts,” Paris offered grandly. “Who were these people anyway? Miners?”

  “Look like geologists,” Shazza corrected. “Advance team, moves around from rock to rock.”

  Company locusts, consuming everything in their path, Riddick thought, his eyes still on Fry.

  Johns squinted at Shazza. “Musta crapped out here, huh?”

  “But why’d they leave their ship?” Audrey asked.

  No one spoke. It was a question they weren’t prepared to deal with. Because the answer was a skull-fuck, Riddick reflected. He’d seen how Zeke got taken. One second he was digging, the next he was dog meat.

  He glanced at Imam. The Muslim was staring at an unclaimed water goblet on the table.

  “Well, it’s not really a ship,” Johns said finally, giving Audrey a paternal smile. “It’s just a space skiff. Disposable really . . .”

  “Like an emergency life raft, right?” Paris said hopefully.

  “Sure,” Shazza assured him. “Coulda had a real drop-ship take them off-planet.” She grinned at Audrey. “Long gone.”

  Paris raised his goblet. “A toast to their ghosts, then.”

  The others lifted their glasses. Except for Riddick.

  “Didn’t leave, these people,” he told them flatly. “Whatever got Zeke got them. They’re all dead.”

  The survivors glared at him as if he’d just urinated in church.

  Riddick shrugged. “Why do you think they left their clothes on the lines? Pictures on the walls?”

  “Maybe they had weight limits,” Shazza snapped, balling her fists. “You don’t know.”

  “I know you don’t uncrate your fucking emergency skiff unless there’s a fucking emergency.”

  “Fucking right.” Audrey said, gazing at him with adoration.

  “Rag it, Riddick,” Johns warned. “Nobody wants your theories on . . .”

  Fry turned to Riddick. “So what happened? Where are they, then?”

  Riddick smiled. At least she and the little girl were willing to face reality—or take a peek at it, anyway. He looked over at Imam who was strangely quiet. The man was at the window, scanning outside.

  Imam half-turned. “Has anyone seen the young one? Ali?”

  Riddick glanced at Audrey. “Has anyone checked the coring room?” he suggested.

  As if in answer a faint human scream drifted up like smoke.

  “Ali . . .” Imam muttered, hurrying to the door.

  As the others ran toward the coring room, Riddick moved calmly around the table and drank their water . . .

  Imam and Johns were the first to find the chained door. Johns racked his shotgun and fired, blasting the hinges. Imam hit the door with his shoulder and it caved in. They stumbled inside.

  Empty. The dust-covered coring room was as still as a mausoleum. Behind them, Paris peered inside then carefully entered. He looked at Imam, who shrugged and began circling the large drilling chamber. Without warning the drill began to turn. Paris jumped back, heart pounding and sweat oozing through his clothes. Then he saw the solar shutters on the ceiling and realized the drill was on automatic. Even so, he remained motionless, war-pick pressed against his chest.

  Imam heard a noise. Then another. He moved to a closed door. “Ali?” he called softly. No answer. The boy could be too frightened to respond, Imam speculated. He tried again, louder. “Ali?”

  Imam glanced back and saw Johns peering down the coring shaft. He grabbed the door handle and pulled.

  A thick, black cloud of winged creatures flooded through the open door, squealing like rabid bats. Driven by some sort of mass intelligence, the fluttering horde circled the room in a wave then soared high into the rafters. Then they disappeared.

  At that moment, Ali emerged from the dark room, lurching unsteadily toward Imam. He was gushing blood and oily viscera from long, ragged tears across his shredded torso.

  Suddenly the writhing, shrieking creatures burst from the rafters, flooding over them. Huddled on all fours, Paris watched in horrified fascination as the alien flock poured down into the coring shaft, their sharp cries fading into the bottomless silence.

  As Ali collapsed at Imam’s feet, he disintegrated; skin, flesh, and bone separating like slimy red banana peels. The pulsing remains oozing out were no longer human.

  Imam blinked at the darkness beyond the door. Ali stumbled into their nest, he thought numbly. He bent over the boy’s mutilated remains, trying to fight back the heaving nausea.

  Behind him, Johns was edging over to the coring shaft. After sweeping the darkness below with his weapon, Johns unhooked a percussive flare from his belt. He tossed the flare into the shaft and waited, shotgun held ready.

  When the flare hit bottom, it burst in flame, illuminating the oddly familiar debris, littering the floor.

  Human bones. The
skeletons of the missing settlers—scattered about and picked clean . . .

  Nobody slept for the rest of the twin-sun day.

  When the blue sun began to rise, the pilgrims held a prayer service. Paris and Audrey attended, while Riddick watched from a distance.

  Whatever happened to Ali had nothing to do with God, Riddick thought. He saw Johns and Shazza heading over to the coring room and decided to join them.

  As Johns and Shazza entered, they saw Fry was already inside. The blond captain didn’t acknowledge their presence, intent on the shelves lining the walls.

  “Why was this door chained up?” Shazza demanded. “Why the bloody hell would they lock themselves in like that?”

  Johns moved closer to Fry. “Not sure. But tell you what, those Muslims better not be diggin’ another grave out there.”

  Fry glanced up, but she wasn’t looking at Johns.

  “Other buildings weren’t secure . . .”

  Johns whirled. Riddick was standing in the doorway, goggled eyes sweeping the gloomy interior. “So they ran here. Heaviest doors. Thought they’d be safe inside here. But . . .” Riddick moved to the coring shaft and peered down. “Forgot to lock the cellar.”

  Shazza joined him at the edge of the shaft. They gazed down together at the distinctively human bones, scattered ribs dull white in the flare’s ebbing glow.

  “So that’s what come of me Zeke?” Her harsh whisper echoed down the shaft. She looked at Riddick, lips curling like an aroused predator. “An’ you saw it. You was right there. You were tryin’ to kill him, too.”

  “Not necessarily,” Riddick said calmly. “Just after his O2.” He shrugged, goggled eyes meeting hers. “Though I noticed he tried to ghost my ass when he shot stranger-man instead. Stranger-man coulda’ told us the fuckin’ ground rules here.”

  Shazza couldn’t deny it. She looked down the shaft, unable to meet his blank accusing stare. Hypocrites don’t last in this business, Shazza reminded. She had done Riddick a grave wrong. Beat him bad while he was in chains.

  When Shazza looked up, she saw Riddick differently. Wily, dangerous—but dead honest. She didn’t believe he was a damn psycho killer. And she knew killers. Her Zeke had been one of the best.

  Shazza took off her O2 breather and extended it to Riddick. “Take it.”

  Surprise flickered over his stony features, then faded. “What, it’s broken?”

  Shazza shrugged and put the breather in his hand. “Still a few hits.” The sudden air depletion squeezed her chest as she turned away. “Startin’ to acclimate anyway.”

  Riddick knew better. Even cold turkey he hadn’t acclimated to the sparse air. Gratefully he sucked down some pure O2 and felt his ragged lungs expand like cacti in a summer rain.

  Across the room Johns watched the exchange with growing unease. He didn’t much like Riddick’s sudden promotion from psycho scum to oxygen-breathing human.

  Johns turned to Fry, voice edged with annoyance. “Let’s board this up and get the hell gone. They seem to stick to the dark, so if we all stick to daylight, should be all ri—”

  “Twenty-two years ago.”

  Fry’s quiet words had an ominous tone.

  “Wha . . . ?” Johns snorted, half-convinced Fry had snapped.

  Fry gestured at the coring samples, arranged neatly on the shelves.

  “Core samples are dated,” she said carefully, as if instructing a child. “Last one is twenty-two years ago—this month.”

  Uncomfortable without her breather, Shazza wasn’t impressed. “Yeah? So what?”

  Fry hefted the dense, green rock. “I dunno,” she muttered thoughtfully, as if trying to remember something. “Maybe nothing, but . . .”

  Fry’s intent expression softened. She looked at them, blue eyes pale with sudden clarity. “The settlement house . . .” she said, almost to herself. “The Orrery.”

  Only Riddick knew what she meant. The others had doubtful scowls as they trudged back to the main house.

  Once there Fry went right to the solar-powered mechanical galaxy that tracked the planet’s orbit around the three suns. The whirring, creaking device had a year counter. At the moment it was clicking over to 17.

  Fry opened the drive box and started turning the main gear by hand, accelerating the mechanical orbits. The counter clicked monotonously: 18 . . . 19 . . . 20 . . . 21 . . .

  They all saw it. At 22 it came into view.

  An immense ringed world that eclipsed all the three suns and plunged their planet into darkness. Total, persistent darkness.

  “Are you pullin’ my prong?” Johns said in an awed voice.

  Riddick took a final hit and returned the breather to Shazza. “Not ascared of the dark, are you?”

  But they all were.

  Fry was all business.

  Suddenly acting like the captain everyone mistakenly thought she was, Fry crossed the compound with wide, determined strides, briskly snapping orders. “. . . Need those power cells from the crash ship right away . . .” She stopped short when they reached the skiff. “Shit—still gotta check out the hull, patch the wings . . .”

  “Let’s wait on those power cells,” Johns suggested.

  Fry thought she had heard wrong. “Wait— For what? Until it’s so dark we can’t find our way back to . . .”

  “We’re not sure when it happens,” Johns said with condescending logic. “So let’s not . . .”

  His self-righteous arrogance touched a nerve. “Get the fucking cells over here, Johns,” Fry directed. She looked at him as if examining a mental case. “What’s the discussion?”

  Johns glanced around covertly. Then he leaned closer. His breath reeked of alcohol. “Ever tell you how Riddick escaped?”

  He let it sink in, then motioned her into the privacy of the skiff.

  Johns told Riddick’s story quickly and graphically, especially the details about carving his victims’ body parts. But that wasn’t what alarmed Fry the most.

  “He can pilot?” she said incredulously. The skill required superior intelligence and intense training. It also elevated Riddick’s danger potential. Once the skiff was repaired he didn’t need any of them to escape—alone.

  “Highjacked a prison transport,” Johns confided. “Made a helluva good run ’fore I tracked him down.”

  But Fry saw the glass as half-full. “Okay, okay, maybe that’s a good thing,” she said hopefully. “Maybe I can use him to help with . . .”

  “He also figured out how to kill the pilot, Fry.”

  It worked. A mental shiver smothered Fry’s optimism. However, something else disturbed her. “You said we were going to trust him,” Fry reminded. “You said there was a deal.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Johns met her stare, jaw clamped like a white shark, eyes challenging.

  Fry didn’t like what she saw. “Oh, this is a dangerous game you’re playing, Johns.”

  “May’ve noticed chains don’t work on this guy. Only way we’re truly safe is if he believes he’s goin’ free. But if he stops believin’ . . .”

  “You mean if he learns that you’re gonna royally fuck him over.”

  Johns ignored her open contempt. “We bring the cells over at the last possible minute . . . when the wings are ready.” He went on urgently. “When we know we’re gonna launch.”

  Fry regarded him with undisguised amazement at his lack of basic human integrity. He was more evil than he claimed Riddick to be, Fry realized, because supposedly, Johns knew better. But through this whole ordeal the man had been obsessed with Riddick. From what she could see it was Johns who was psycho here.

  “You know he hasn’t harmed any of us,” she said in a level voice. “Far as I can tell he hasn’t even lied to us. Just stick to the deal, Johns. Let him go if that’s what it—”

  Johns’ fingers tightened on his ever-present shotgun. “He’s a murderer,” he rasped, eyes bulging with sudden rage. “The law says he’s gotta do his bid.”

  What law? Fry t
hought, struck by the absurdity. Company law on an unknown planet where they were facing a nightmare death?

  But the shotgun was far from absurd, and Fry knew Johns would use it. In the name of the law, of course. She shook her head sadly and looked off. “Dancin’ on razor blades here . . .”

  Johns exhaled and lowered his weapon. “I won’t give him a chance to grab another ship—or slash another pilot’s throat.”

  Fry waited for him to wave the Company flag. Instead, his point made, Johns exited the skiff and scanned the area for Riddick.

  He didn’t have to look far. As he descended the gangway stairs, he saw Riddick hunkered in the shade of the skiff, shaving his head with Imam’s knife. Johns glanced back to the cockpit, measuring the distance.

  He seemed to be out of earshot, Johns calculated warily. He gave Riddick a disappointed smile. “Thought we said no shivs.”

  Riddick lifted the knife, turning the blade in the sunlight. “This?” he said innocently. “This is a personal grooming appliance.”

  As their eyes met, chill shuddered across Johns’ belly.

  “Bad sign,” Riddick observed, carefully guiding the blade across his skull. “Shakin’ like that in this heat.”

  The pilgrims worked hard, shouldering a heavy roll of Vectran, the wing fabric material, all the way from the crash ship to the skiff. While waiting, Riddick constructed a crude cutting frame from metal pipes.

  A short distance away Shazza repaired the Sand Cat, assisted by Audrey. But the young girl’s mind wasn’t on her work. She gazed at Riddick with rapt adoration, following his every move.

  “You listenin’, girl?” Shazza scolded. “Hand me the big wrench.”

  Eyes fixed on Riddick, she passed Shazza the wrench.

  The pilgrims had returned with the Vectran and they helped Riddick drape the heavy fabric over the cutting frame. Then Imam climbed onto the skiff’s exposed wing struts.

  Riddick vanished behind the silvery Vectran. As Audrey watched, a long knife cut through the fabric and Riddick reappeared. He handed the trim to Rashad who scampered onto the skiff, balance-beamed across the wing struts, and delivered the section to Imam. The Muslim then hand-stitched the fabric to the struts like some ancient Berber rug-weaver.