The Chronicles of Riddick (16 page)

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 sulfurous 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

T
he 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.

Riddick was petting the hellhound. Toying with it, slapping it playfully back and forth across its lethal muzzle. Once, the Guv could have sworn he saw the newcomer put his clenched fist
inside
the predator’s mouth. Instead of snapping off the morsel in one bite, the hellhound gnawed on it affectionately. The Guv would have doubted it all, attributed what he was seeing to age and delusion, except for one thing: as he stared, the hellhound’s flushed skin changed from an energized deep red to a neutral slate gray.

Within the mist-shrouded cascade, Riddick continued to play with the carnivore. As he did so, he noted the deep scars on its muzzle and body, the dark slashes that were the mark of a maulstick applied at maximum power. He chucked the hellhound under its chin and it snapped at him playfully.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Know how it feels.”

Outside the cascade, a sharp whistle sounded, piercing the unwholesome air of the cavern. At its sound, the hellhound dropped to all fours, backed off, and departed.

With reluctance.

As the lift touched bottom, the quartet of guards that was riding it jumped off. Adjusting breather units and checking weapons, they headed for the base of the lavafall. Periodically, it was necessary to perform a comprehensive sweep of each part of the prison. One never knew what kind of fiendish devil-try the prisoners might get up to if left too long to their own devices.

Today, it was the turn of the cavern bottom, the top of the volcanic plug that had choked off the flow of magma to the now empty core. There wasn’t much to it. Anything resembling a permanent, functional installation had been pretty much ruined by the surprise lava flow of decades before. But with convicts, you never knew. Better to regularly scan every centimeter of the prison than to wake up one morning to find out the system had overlooked something potentially dangerous.

The area around the base of the lavafall was exactly where one might expect to encounter such problems. Full of nooks and crannies of tormented stone mixed with the remnants of the prison installation that the lava had destroyed, it was the perfect place for a convict to dwell in self-imposed isolation, away from guards and prison routine. A place where plots might be hatched. While the handlers and their hellhounds cleared the tiers elsewhere, the four-man team began probing places where sedition might lurk.

What they found was Kyra. Light beams joined together to focus on the single figure, momentarily blinding her.

“And just when you thought the cull was over,” one of the guards commented as the shape of the prisoner was identified. A nice shape, too, he thought to himself. Of course, down here, you never knew whether a protrusion beneath prison clothes was part of the prisoner, or a portent of something potentially treacherous. So even though there were four of them and only one of her, the guards still advanced with caution.

“Runnin’ solo.” The nominal leader of the group let his light sweep their immediate surroundings, search for scat or urine. “Hounds ain’t been through here. Could be she’s trying to hide something. Which is why we’re here.” He used his light to gesture at the unmoving figure. “Check her out, make sure she’s clean.” Alongside him, his three colleagues hesitated, looking at each other, avoiding their superior’s gaze.

“C’mon,” the senior member of the foursome chided his comrades. “What’re you afraid of? What is she, fifty kilos? Search her.”

Taking the lead, one of the other guards warily entered the open cell where Kyra had retreated. Making himself as large as possible, he gestured with his maulstick.

“Let’s go, sweetheart. You know the routine.”

Without a word, she turned, placed her hands against the wall, palm forward, and spread her legs, assuming the classic, age-old search position. Her compliance was more than encouraging: it was stimulating. Thus motivated, the other guards edged forward to join their colleague.

“Too bad Pavlov couldn’t see this,” one of them murmured.

The guard who had been bold enough to approach moved closer. Close enough for her booted foot to rub up and down his lower leg. The action simultaneously calmed and encouraged him. This wasn’t going to be so difficult after all. Some of the female inmates, now, they made a habit of being troublesome. That was what the maulstick was for. But this one . . .

Eyes closed, Kyra was repeating some private mantra. “‘Sokay . . . it’s okay . . . it’s okay. . . .”

The guard thought she was murmuring to him: mistakenly so. But, momentarily mesmerized by the inviting sight spread out before him, that part of his brain that should have been on full alert had turned to tapioca. Advancing the rest of the way, he put one hand on her back. It was well muscled, of course. Young or old, male or female, there was no fat on any of the inmates. Crematoria’s diet was not conducive to the accumulation of excess avoirdupois. His other hand reached up between her legs . . .

At which point a pair of steel spurs snapped out of the heel of her boot, driving upward and back, gaffing him like a trapped fish. The way his eyes bugged out was pretty piscine, too. He was too startled to scream.

That would come later, when he had time to fully comprehend where the steel had struck home.

Rabbit quick, her head snapped straight back to break his nose. Whirling around, she grabbed the maulstick and slammed it into him, driving the already half-unconscious mass into the cell bars. Libido literally crushed, he slid to the hard ground as limp as a sack of Jello.

It was the best she could do. Her intent, her hope, had been to break through and escape to the other side of the cavern, where she could take refuge in the sweltering hideouts of the sulfide collectors. She was not quite fast enough. One of the remaining three guards caught her as she dodged past the other two. Despite taking a solid whack from the purloined maulstick, he held on long enough for his companions to pile in. She crumpled beneath the sheer weight of massed muscle and raging testosterone.

The maulstick was wrenched from her fingers. Behind, as the three of them wrestled her toward a smooth patch of ground, the guard she had gaffed had lapsed into unconsciousness. Too bad, the leader of the remaining trio thought grimly. He was going to miss all the fun. They would make it last as long as they could, of course. But of one thing he was certain: this was one convict who by tomorrow morning would no longer be around to collect her food ration. She’d earned that end for what she’d just done.

Two of them were putting her down on the ground, pinning her with their weight. They ignored her curses and involuntarily moans of pain, not caring if they broke anything in the process. They were all three of them plenty mad: mad at what she had done to their colleague, mad that she had managed to get away with it, and particularly mad that they had been so easily put off their guard. That wouldn’t happen again.

The guard holding her left arm down frowned. Something was hovering in the shadows behind them, in the direction of the central cavern. As he stared, it emerged from the darkness. Just another convict, drinking calmly from a metal cup. Well, no matter how long he lingered or what he saw, the intruder was not going to get any. If he was lucky, the guards would let him disappear back the way he had come, instead of making him disappear permanently. Not that the slam boss was likely to raise an eyebrow over the death of one more prisoner. Especially after being told what she had done to a member of his staff.

The figure spoke. “You should take your wounded and go.” The newcomer nodded in the direction of the guard lying unconscious and bleeding in the cell. “Chalk it up to lessons learned. Take him and get out. While you can.”

Slowly, the guards rose from the slender shape they had been pinning to the ground. Raising her head slightly, Kyra lay there, not getting up. Not wanting to meet the business end of another maulstick. The three guards formed a small semicircle facing Riddick. They were not happy at having their fun interrupted.

The biggest of them sneered at the would-be knight with no horse and no shining armor. “Is there a name for this private little world of yours? The one you seem to be living in at the moment? And what happens there when we don’t just run away, huh? You kill us?” He gestured. “With your soup cup?”

His friends snickered, appreciating their colleague’s wit. For his part, Riddick contemplated the metal cup, as if sizing up its potential.

“Tea, actually,” he murmured.

The big guard frowned, uncertain he’d heard correctly. “Whazzat?”

“I will kill you with a teacup.”

Inverting the container, he set it down just soooo on a nearby rock. No guest at a formal dinner could have been more precise. Unnerved, but not unduly so, the big guard’s eyes flicked between convict and cup, cup and convict. A part of him insisted that he was missing something. Another part insisted that it didn’t matter. The latter won. He looked over at his superior.

The leader of the trio shrugged indifferently. “You know the rule. They aren’t dead if they’re still on the books.”

The big guard nodded, then seemed to lapse into introspection. What he was actually doing was slipping the illegal blade from its sewn-in scabbard in the back of his pants. Once the point cleared his ass, he charged.

Even before he started forward, Riddick had picked the cup up again—and slammed it down. Hard and sideways, at a carefully precalculated angle. The rock it scraped was ragged and broken. It imparted a similar edge to the rim of the cup. A serrated edge, though not one that would win any prizes at a tool-sharpening competition.

It didn’t have to. The result was not neat, but it was effective. As the big guard reached him, Riddick blocked the slicing knife strike. Instead of retreating, he lunged ahead, right into his attacker. His right hand jammed the jagged rim of the cup forward, driving it in and down with tremendous velocity. The metal was thin but well-forged and composed of a particularly tough alloy, designed to take a good deal of rough treatment and last. Despite the force behind it, it did not snap and break.

The muscles of the guard’s belly were composed of less sturdy stuff. The ragged cup rim ripped through them, making a very impressive hole. When Riddick drew his arm back, the hole filled with blood and bits of some slick, colorful internal organs. Stunned, the guard grabbed at himself. Riddick threw him back into his comrades.

Dodging around the flaccid body, they leveled maulsticks and other devices designed to subdue unruly prisoners. As they did so, Riddick removed a food-tin key from a pocket, showed it to them, and set it down on a prominent rock. Just soooo.

The two survivors hesitated, exchanged a glance. Then they started backing up. It wasn’t easy for them to lug their surviving wounded colleague from the cell. But they managed.

It was less debilitating than the alternative.

Slowly climbing to her feet, Kyra sauntered over to the guard Riddick had killed, bent, and with an effort, yanked the bloody cup from his body.

“Death by teacup. Damn, why didn’t I think of that?”

Ignoring the fact that she was now in possession of the lethal cup, Riddick turned and looked back the way he’d come. “Wouldn’t have worked for you. Insufficient mass behind it. Wrong kinetics.”

“Another time, other circumstances,” she replied sharply, “that might be taken as a compliment.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, searching for any indication that the guards might have already managed to summon reinforcements. “Not that I mind playing Who’s the Better Killer, but it might be a good idea if we move along to the next thing.”

“Oh, you don’t get off that easy. Not when you started it. ’Sides,” she whispered into his ear as she darted past him, “it’s my favorite game.”

She started to whirl away from him, but he was too fast. A viselike hand whipped out to catch her and spin her around. He was tired of games. Tired of riddles.

“Did I hear right about you? That you came
lookin’
for me?”

Her expression was half smile, half snarl. “If that’s what you heard,” she shot back rebelliously, “then you missed the good part. I hooked up with some mercs out of Lupus Five. Said they’d take me on, teach me the trade, give me a fair cut.” Turning briefly away from him, she spat at the ground. “But first job out, they flipped me to a pack of ’Golls. They slaved me out, Riddick.” She stared at him, seeing her own face reflected in his goggles.

“You know what that can do to you? When you’re that age? When you’re twelve years old?”

She was selling the sympathy thing, and Riddick wasn’t buying. He never did. Life was a bitch, you looked out for yourself or you didn’t, and the galaxy was a cold, cold place. Not all the steam that was rising came from the vents around them.

“I
told
you to stay in New Mecca. Why didn’t you listen to me?” He added, almost to himself, “Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me.” His voice returned to normal and he was in her face now, at once accusing and advising. “I had mercs on my neck then. I’ll
always
have mercs on my neck. And then you go and sign up? With those no-good wannabe
badges
? The same guys I was steerin’ away from you?”