The Chronicles of Riddick (10 page)

Shifting his attention from the Quasi-Dead, the Lord Marshal focused intently on the subject.

“Keep him out. Out of the mind loop.” The volume of their voices increased. Suddenly, there was a sense of panic. “Shut down the dark thought! Shut it down! Keep him away from us. Just keep him—”

Awed, Dame Vaako gave voice to her thoughts. “It’s not possible. Not possible. He’s scanning the Quasi-Dead. . . .”

“Kill the breeder!” the unearthly chorus was now shouting shrilly. “Kill the Riddick. Kill the Riddick! KILL THE RIDDICK!”

Within the grotto, the Quasi-Dead were jerking on their platforms as if an electric current had suddenly been applied to their supports. Cadaverous faces contorted, vacant mouths gaped wide. Bits and pieces of nearly decayed flesh and bone flaked from bodies one step removed from the dust.

In the stunned echo of the Quasi-Dead’s rising dirge, the Purifier reached out and fired a hand over the console before him. Instantly, the gravity lens that had restrained the subject disappeared. Was it the correct reaction, or simply the first that came to mind? Clearly, the Purifier was reacting to the wailing of the Quasi-Dead. Whether he had reacted properly remained to be seen. But no one observing the unexpected turn the interrogation had taken could deny that something had to be done, and quickly.

Riddick did not waste time contemplating his restored freedom of movement. As soon as the agonizing pressure that had kept him pinioned in place was removed, he straightened. All around him, beleaguered Quasi-Dead were moving away, sliding backward on their mobile supports.

Outside the grotto, everything the Lord Marshal had seen and heard compelled him to agree with the conclusion reached by the Quasi-Dead. Though he had not received all the information he sought, neither was he of a mind to go against their assessment of the subject. Without hesitation, he addressed himself to the nearest pickup.

“Kill the Riddick.”

In response, three of the elite soldiers in attendance on the balcony leaped into the grotto. Vaako himself was not far behind them. Fighting to put themselves as far from the subject as possible, physically as well as mentally, the psychologically battered Quasi-Dead continued trundling unsteadily backward toward the hollow places in the walls, seeking the safety of their lightless sanctuaries.

Riddick did not have time to watch them go. He was busy.

The most active and eager elite was the first to go. Wanting to make it personal, he charged with blade in hand, a comrade close behind. As the first to make a mistake, he was also the first to die. Riddick blocked the blow, twisted, and sliced. As the blade was emerging from the soldier’s already crumpling form and his colleague was raising his own weapon to strike downward, Riddick saw that the third soldier and Vaako were not about to engage in similar primitive foolishness. Both were leveling guns in his direction. He grappled with the second soldier.

And flung himself, dropping and rolling, just as Vaako and the other soldier fired. The shaped charges of their weapons arrived simultaneously, on opposite sides of the second soldier, and crushed his armor as if it was a can. With its owner inside. A mess resulted.

Four of the five Quasi-Dead had reached the safety and sanctity of their hollows. As Vaako and the surviving elite realigned their weapons, and as other soldiers came pouring into the grotto, Riddick picked up one of the dead soldiers’ weapons, grabbed at the transport of the one remaining exposed Quasi-Dead—and let it drag him backward.

Fearing for the safety of the revered Quasi, Vaako got there fast. Just in time to see it slide into the security of its dark cubicle—preceded by Riddick, who held back the approaching soldiers with their dead comrade’s own gun. Crouching, the frustrated commander tried to take aim. But the darkness within rendered any shot uncertain, and he could not risk hitting the Quasi-Dead. As he tried to decide what to do, the armored portal slammed shut—and sealed.

The subject was gone.

Above, her garb of rank draped around her, Dame Vaako stared down at the milling soldiers on the grotto floor. Everyone was shouting, moving, trying to decide what to do next. Outside, the Lord Marshal and the Purifier were engaged in deep, intense conversation while technicians swarmed around them. Her gaze moved to the sealed doorway through which the last Quasi-Dead and the only subject had vanished.

“Who is this man?” she found herself muttering. Who—or what.

The interior of most starships, the working sections not seen by interstellar travelers but only by the technicians who occasionally had to visit to service problems the automatics could not handle, were a maze of conduits and channels, life-support systems and electronics, engine components and proactive apparatus. A difficult realm through which to travel and a harder one for a stranger to puzzle out. Always one for seeking the simplest solution to a problem, Riddick used the gun he had taken from a passing soldier to punch his way through one level after another. Knowing his pursuers would try to predict which of several possible passageways he would take, he chose wherever possible to make his own.

Tenders working engine support were startled to hear a pounding over their heads that was not associated with their work. Eyes turned upward toward the source of the sound. Several technicians tracked it as it moved slightly to the right. They drew back when a hole was blasted in the ceiling. Shredded metal lined the edges of the new opening, through which a large man promptly dropped. Landing on his feet, gun in hand and knife secured, Riddick looked around to get his bearings. Aloud, he said nothing. Attitude-wise, it was very much “Don’t mind me— just passing through.”

Though every Necromonger was trained in the arts of war, technicians on the Basilica had no reason to carry weapons and went about their duties unarmed. No one moved to challenge the man with the gun. Even had they been armed, they would not have been inclined to do so. Clearly, the intruder was a problem for soldiers to deal with. And speaking of soldiers, where were they? One tech moved to sound an alarm and call for assistance.

Riddick ignored him just as he ignored the others. Moving fast, he found what he was looking for: the gap bordering one of the many stabilizers that kept the huge Basilica ship level on the surface of Helion Prime. There was more than enough room for him to drop through the opening to the surface below. He moved toward it.

And halted when a gravity orb intercepted him. If he hadn’t seen it coming, it would have taken off his head. A smaller version of the one he had previously watched smash dozens of Helion soldiers in the city plaza, it positioned itself in the gap, blocking his exit like a live thing. No doubt similar orbs had been deployed to prevent his escape at other exposed locations throughout the ship.

There was noise and commotion behind him. Elite soldiers were pouring into the engineering room, drawing weapons as they ran. Seeing them, Riddick pulled the pistol he had appropriated. But instead of firing at the oncoming troops, he turned and threw it as hard as he could, directly into the slowly rotating orb.

Programmed to attack anything that impacted on its field, the orb promptly contracted around the weapon. The result was that, where a moment before a solid sidearm had been spinning through the air, a piece of compacted metal no bigger than a fingernail now fell onto the stabilizer housing, landing with a tinny clink. The way now clear, Riddick leaped for the opening and threw himself into the gap. Landing on a portion of the stabilizer housing, he clambered down it like a gibbon. Above, soldiers arrived and gathered around the opening. A few pointed their weapons downward at the retreating figure, but did not fire. Their line of sight was not good, and there was too great a risk to the stabilizer mechanism itself.

With the vast bulk of the Basilica looming above him, Riddick emerged in the rubble of buildings that had been crushed beneath the great weight of the Necromonger command vessel. He was free. If the craft above him shifted even a centimeter or two in any direction, he would probably be crushed. But that would require reprogramming its position. By the time anyone might think to do so, he would be gone.

And he was, out from beneath the ship and clear of its threatening mass in a matter of minutes, disappearing into the ruined warren of streets and blasted buildings that had been the Helion capital.

Settling on a suitably inaccessible basement for a hiding place, he waited there for nightfall, when his unique eyes would once more give him an advantage over his ordinary, day-sighted brethren. Emerging only then, he was gratified to see that he was not alone. Numbers of citizens were about: moving fast, not wanting to be picked up for questioning, rooting through the rubble of their city in search of anything useful. They reminded him of ants scrabbling over the remains of a picnic. As he looked on, men and women stumbled out of the ruins carrying all manner of goods, from small valuables to still functioning electronics. He shook his head disapprovingly. Within a day or two, they would be trading such trifles for food and water.

Only one artifact interested him. Pulling the ship locator from a pocket, he activated the device and waited. He did not quite hold his breath. As it developed, he did not need to: the unit was working perfectly. The merc ship was right where he had left it, buried in the dunes, sending out a strong locator signal as it awaited the return of its crew. Him. Even if the Necromongers had by chance happened to have found it, he didn’t think they would bother with the hidden vessel. So far, that was apparently the case. Small and unarmed, it posed no threat to their invasion.

Aligning himself with the route the ship locator helpfully suggested, he started off purposefully through the destruction.

A few, but not all, of the survivors paused to glance in his direction. That was all they did. They were too busy trying to decide what to do next, how they would greet the following morning. That is, those that were not wandering aimlessly, still in shock.

One who seemed to know what he was doing wore the concealing robes of a Meccan cleric. The figure paused longer than others to plot the big man’s path. As it was doing so, a small Necromonger transport appeared. Lensors hung from its flanks, sweeping the surface, scanning, scanning. Both cleric and Riddick rushed for cover.

Concealing himself, Riddick found that his move had not gone unobserved. Eyes were staring at him, eyes that were all at once wide and pleading and confused. The little girl standing out in the open and crying softly was about the right age, the right height. His gaze narrowed slightly. It couldn’t be Ziza. Not here. Not alone. But the girl was about the right age, the right proportions. He fought to put it out of his mind. Doubtless there were a lot of children wandering the streets of the capital this night, homeless and alone. It wasn’t any of his business.

But it looked just like her.

The thrumming sound of the transport’s engines was fading into the distance. Making a decision, he emerged from his hiding place and approached the girl. Her back was to him, and he had to turn her around to see.

It wasn’t her. Actually, on close inspection, the poor child didn’t look anything like Ziza. His eyes had been playing tricks on him. Except, his eyes never played tricks on him. Never. As he held her, the girl started to cry harder than ever.

The transport reappeared far more quickly than it had gone. Whether the scanning lensors had picked up on the girl’s crying or on his presence he didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Only two things mattered now: him moving fast, and the fear on the little girl’s face.

A blur of motion, he dumped her in the safety of a ruined doorway and ran on. Hopefully, her parents would find her, or a relative, or a friend—if any of them were still alive. Those piloting the transport had definitely homed in on him now. The vessel was descending in his direction, troops gathering within in preparation for dropping down on their single running, swerving target.

Perhaps those aboard were so focused on their quarry that they neglected to follow proper defensive procedures. Perhaps they simply overlooked the threat. Whatever the reason, Riddick’s eyes registered the three bright streaks of light that pierced the night at the same time as did those aboard the transport. The important difference was that the streaks were aimed at the ship and not at him.

On impact, they blew the rear section of the transport to bits. Bodies flying, flames and secondary explosions turning night into day, the crippled ship retained a dangerous amount of rapidly falling forward momentum—in Riddick’s direction. He barely had time to dive for cover as the fatally wounded vessel passed directly over him. Slamming into the base of a standing structure, it finally ground to a fiery, burning stop. Within the flaming, crackling wreckage, nothing moved.

As Riddick rose from his hole, the sound of cycling armament made him turn. Four black-garbed figures stepped out of the shadows. All were carrying weapons, one of which was a still smoking missile launcher. Leading them was the figure garbed as a Meccan cleric who, along with Riddick, had also taken cover at the initial approach of the Necromonger troop transport.

All of the weapons, including the missile launcher, were now pointed in Riddick’s direction.

Pausing, the cleric took a moment to study the ruins of the Necromonger craft. His attitude was not sympathetic. Then he came toward Riddick, pushing back his cowl as he did so. Their eyes met. Their was nothing of the spiritual in either gaze.

It was Toombs.

Behind him, one of his new associates was intent on his instruments’ readouts. “’Nother one circling. Not focused yet, but closing. We should move. We should move
now
.” Looking up from the device, the mercenary glanced at the night sky.

All five of them looked uneasy. They were well armed and well equipped but not as experienced as their predecessors. Nevertheless, they were competent enough; the best at their jobs Toombs had been able to find.