The Chronicles of Riddick (2 page)

The occupants of the kennels howled louder. Fingers tensed on triggers. Eyes focused with unblinking intensity on the minimally acceptable space between open kennel and open box.

Nothing happened.

Maulsticks came out and were jammed through the box’s air vents. Muttered invective filled the air. Delaying the inevitable meant that less insufferable duties were also being delayed. Already in a bad mood, the recalcitrance of the box’s occupant was making the guards’ mood worse.

It was not improved when the box’s inhabitant managed to grab the end of one maulstick, turn it around, and jab its owner in the hand. The guard howled at the pain, a feeble parody of the hellish growling that filled the chamber, and grabbed his injured hand. Blood appeared that was not the prisoner’s.

Disgusted, the man in charge of the delivery quintet moved forward. So did a companion. Maulstick still slung at his belt, grim faced, the latter was raising the muzzle of his riot gun.

He did not need to use it. Which was just as well, since he didn’t have time to bring it to bear on its presumed target. That individual streaked from the interior of the box into the waiting kennel, a blur that would have been difficult even for the most alert marksman to draw a bead on.

Monitored by automatics, the kennel door slammed shut. Lockseals slipped into place. They were old and well used, but they functioned efficiently enough. Transfer completed, the guards let out sighs of relief. The delivery had gone off more or less as planned. The idiot who’d been jabbed by his own maulstick had only gotten what he’d deserved for his carelessness. A hand that would sting for a few days was a cheap enough lesson.

Relaxed now, ignoring both the safely secured prisoner and the howling of her inhuman kennel-mates, they moved to vacate the area. Behind them, their delivery pressed against the narrow space between the restraining bars. She was, in her own way, pretty. Just like a finely crafted stiletto. One would want to sleep very, very carefully with either. Maybe she was seventeen. She certainly was not sweet. At the sight of a human abandoned in their company, however unreachable it might be, the things that inhabited the surrounding cages redoubled their alien howling. Eyes glistened, damp with unfulfillable expectation. The girl reacted.

“Can we SHUT UP THE GODDAMN NOISE?”

Delivered with the force and sharpness of an ascending razor, the unexpected demand was fulfilled— for about two seconds. Then the howling resumed, wilder and more crazed than ever. Within the narrow cage, the girl sat down on the hard, smooth floor, a surface as unyielding and uncomfortable as that of Crematoria itself. Putting her hands over her ears, she closed her eyes and began to rock back and forth, slowly, reciting something silently to herself even though there was no one else to overhear.

“Big Foe,” indeed.

T
he snow came in waves, like breaking foam absent the surf. It swirled around the disgruntled mercenary like wet sand. On high alert, his thoughts occupied elsewhere, he hardly noticed the squall. He was wary but not afraid. While the storm cut his personal visibility down to next to nothing, his instruments cut through the white-out as if the day had dawned clear and sunny.

He
was
cold, however. Despite his high-tech arctic gear, the wind and damp found ways through to his skin, burrowing beneath layers of clothing to sting like ants. His hands were steady, however. It would not have mattered had they been shaking, because the gun he carried was designed not for accuracy but for spread. It would stop anything that materialized in front of it within a 140-degree range of spray. Telltales on its top and side indicated that it was powered up and ready to kill.

It was a good thing all his instruments were working. Never bright, the light of this world’s sun shaded all the way over into the ultraviolet, much as its fauna tended to the ultra violent. Right now there wasn’t much to see by, or to see. For the latter he was grateful. With one exception. Despite his advanced gear and a wealth of personal experience in the trade, Codd’s quarry continued to elude him. That it continued to do so was beginning to grate. His was a business in which personal as well as professional pride was taken in delivering the goods. This was one delivery that was particularly overdue.

Something stained the low snowdrift in front of him. Moving closer, he flashed his organalyzer at it. Blood. But whose? Or in the case of this particular planet, what’s?

His communicator sputtered something unintelligible. Preoccupied with the stain, he moved closer and waited for the organalzyer to deliver a more detailed verdict. The discoloration in the snow was dark purple, but in the light of this world’s sun, that was no sure indicator of origin. A second time, the communicator in his ear buzzed for attention. He tapped it with one finger, as if by so doing he could simultaneously clear the static and deliver a smack to the caller at the other end. Dammit, he was
busy
.

“Hang on, hang on. I’m on something here.”

The screen on the organalyzer cleared, uninformative statistics and DNA details giving way to a schematic extracted from a series of exploration scans. The result was a diagram of something big, alien, and white as the snow sifting steadily down around him ought to be. It was bipedal and equipped with serious dentition. One did not have to be an experienced xenobiologist to deduce that the latter were designed for something more than masticating vegetables.

There was also a name—provisional, as was usually the case with examples of alien life-forms that were rarely encountered, aggressive, and disagreeably homicidal:
Urzo giganticus.

Unwilling to go away and let him concentrate, the voice in his ear finally cleared enough to demand, “Whatcha got, Codd?”

“Sit on it a minute, willya, Doc-T?” Holding his weapon a little tighter, Codd checked to make double sure there was a high-explosive shell in the launching chamber before moving past the stain. Beyond, in a slightly protected hollow, he found something more impressive than blood. A footprint, clean and made too recently to have been filled in by following snow. Its appearance was formidable.

“Christ, all we need . . . Like this job hasn’t already been trouble enough.” Remembering the querying voice in his ear, he raised his voice above the wind as he spoke toward the communicator’s pickup. “Hey, Johns, you know that big extinct thing? The one Preliminary kept talking about? Well, it ain’t. Watch your spine, and I don’t mean when it’s held up in front of you. Between this and our other problem—”

He broke off. Was that a shape, moving within the storm? Quickly, he checked his scanner. Nothing. Shit, a man could get twitchy out here. Even someone as experienced as him. He took a step forward. Good thing he knew how to—

His scanner wailed at the same instant he did. Before the feeble lavender light of this world’s sun went out permanently, he had a brief glimpse of something behind him. It was massive, and white, and perfectly horrible. Its mouth flashed lethal ivory.

The communicator’s earpiece crackled in the snow. There was no one to hear or respond to the increasingly fretful queries it emitted, even though it was still attached to an ear. Unfortunately, the ear was no longer attached to anything except the earpiece.

II

J
ohns spat snowflakes out of his mouth, took a sip from his hotflow, and adjusted his communicator. It didn’t matter how much he fiddled with the controls. Codd had gone cold, a deafening silence most likely caused by something other than the enchanting local climate.

“Say again? Codd, say again. Talk to me, buddy.”

The communicator was nonresponsive. Or rather, it crackled and hissed, popped and hummed. It was the absent Codd who had nothing to say.

Equipment trouble, Johns told himself. He kept telling himself that as he plowed on through the snow, in the hope that sheer force of repetition would render hope into reality.

Snow gave way to ice. The fall was a shattered jumble of nearly transparent blocks and boulders, the water from which it had formed as pure as the women Johns could only dream of. Turning slightly, he followed the icefall eastward, searching patiently for an easier way over or through the new barrier. Snow continued to swirl around him. He fought to keep focused on the task at hand as his thoughts drifted toward memories of warm surroundings and solid food instead of the nutrient soup the hotflow provided.

The face behind the ice startled him badly. Though blurred, there was no mistaking it for a trick of the purplish light. Almost as of their own volition, his hands raised the rifle and his finger contracted on the trigger. The double shot blew a jagged hole in the icefall in the vicinity of the unexpected visage, sending stinging fragments of ice in all directions.

When the frozen equivalent of the dust had settled, he squinted into the cavity his weapon had so violently excavated. A few lingering shards broke free and fell from the roof, clinking against the uneven floor. He ignored them as he activated a light and eased tentatively forward. The gap in front of him was bigger than anything his weapon, destructive as it was, could have created. He’d blown a hole into a larger void.

At first glance he couldn’t tell if the hollow was natural or had been melted by artificial means. Regardless of origin, it had clearly been turned into temporary living quarters. Better, he told himself, to think of it as a lair. He had a bad moment when his light revealed an
Urzo giganticus
. The air he’d sucked in went out of him in tandem with the tension when he saw that the monster was not moving. Nor would it move again. For one thing, it was missing its feet. For another, it had been neatly and efficiently quartered before being hung from the roof of the ice cave by its massive right arm.

Urzo blood dripped softly into a collection pail. Neither the pail nor the smartly butchered condition of the massive corpse suggested that the bloody work had been carried out with scientific research in mind. Additional artifacts scattered around the cave hinted that someone hereabouts had exerted knowledgeable efforts with the aim of personal survival.

A slight movement made him turn sharply and raise the rifle, but this time he didn’t shoot. As he shifted the light, its beam touched on a second strung-up figure. He recognized it immediately: Codd. John’s sphincter tightened. It was Codd’s face he had glimpsed through the ice, Codd’s face that had caused him to fire. He knew this because the hole in his partner was about the right size to have been made by one of his own explosive shells, notwithstanding that its shattering effect had been somewhat muted by the ice barrier.

He had fired an instant too soon.

But while he might be blamable for Codd’s death, he was not responsible for the mercenary’s position— bound and secured with his own cuffs. And Codd was not quite dead. Not yet. Not that a wound such as he had suffered due to the too-quick trigger finger of his own partner was in any way repairable.

Johns leaned forward. As he was wondering what to say, or if he should say anything—Codd’s lips moved slightly. Johns slipped closer. Should he try to apologize? In his and Codd’s business, there was little time or inclination for apologies. Hell, everybody made mistakes. Though the dying mercenary’s voice was little more than a whisper, Johns thought he could just make out what the other man was saying.

“Behind you . . .”

Behind . . . Johns whipped around. In perfect condition and as fast as he was, the blur that slashed at his head still grazed him. Ice, wind, and bad light conspired to impair his vision, leading him to fire blindly, repeatedly. Already unbalanced on the slight slope inside the cave, the powerful recoil sent his twisting form stumbling backward. Landing on his butt, he continued to fire in the general direction of whatever had taken the big swipe at him. Obedient to Newton, each shot sent him sliding a little farther backward.

Toward the precipice that fronted the cave.

He nearly went over. Nearly. Reflexes born of necessity saw him throw out one arm. It slid off the rock it clutched, but his strong fingers locked into a crack just wide enough to offer a grip. His other hand clung to the rifle. Carefully, very carefully, he eased off the weapon’s trigger. Given the downslope on which he now found himself, one more shot would break his grip on the rock and send him over the edge.

It was all right. He was okay. All he had to do was work his way upward, using his knees and his hand, until he was safely back up on the more level portion of the ice. It was then that a pair of feet stepped into his view. They were white, thick with fur, and not human. Automatically his eyes followed them upward. What he saw surprised him, insofar as he was still capable of being surprised.

The feet no longer belonged to their original owner. He remembered the condition of the quartered, dripping alien corpse he had seen in the cave. Its feet had been removed. At the time, he had been left to wonder at the reason. Now it was self-evident.

They had been turned into boots for a thick hulk of a man whose hair, while not white, had grown out to the point where it was now a suitable match for that of any urzo. Johns could sense, if not see, the musculature rippling beneath the apparition’s cobbled-together cold-weather attire. The man’s eyes were hidden behind reflective goggles that were at once minimal in size and of clearly advanced design. Johns didn’t recognize the style. They did not look like any of the extensive variety of snow goggles with which he was familiar. It was even possible they were intended to serve some purpose other than protecting the wearer from snow blindness.

Ambling unconcernedly forward, as if Johns no longer held the powerful rifle, the man crouched down to stare at the mercenary. His posture, as much as his indifferent attitude, suggested either lingering brain damage, supreme stupidity, or ultimate confidence. Johns did not have to debate long over which was the most likely. He found that he could see his own snow-scarred, wind-battered face reflected back at him in those shiny lenses that were as inscrutable as their owner.

The man brought one hand forward. Johns flinched slightly. Opening his fingers, the man revealed the contents of his hand. It was a human ear, raw and bleeding at the base.

“Yours?” the man murmured quietly. Though deceptively soft, his voice pierced cleanly through the wind.

There was a pause. Then Johns clamped a hand to one side of his head. His gloved fingers came away bloody. Biting cold and surging adrenaline had combined to numb him to a point where he hadn’t felt the appendage being torn away. Unfortunately, in the shocked realization of the moment, he’d grabbed for his missing ear with the hand that had been anchoring him to the protruding rock. Grip lost, he scrambled briefly for a second handhold. The smooth ice was not compliant. He went over the edge of the deep drop silent except for his gun, from which he managed to coax a few final shots before hitting the ground far below. The multiple rounds were as thunderous as they were wild.

Rising, the hirsute stranger in the deviant footwear walked fearlessly to the edge of the precipice and peered over. Thanks to the swirling snow, there was not much to see. His expression unchanging, he backed away from the brink and turned. Though he did not reveal it through expression or emotion, he was surprised at what he encountered.

The double barrels of a particularly nasty weapon were aimed directly at his midsection. They suited the individual who held them. Toombs’s name had always been good for a running gag among his colleagues in the business. None of them had ever used it to his face, of course. At least, none could be found alive who had done so.

Whereas his partners, Codd and Johns, had been quiet and businesslike, Toombs liked to talk. He possessed a certain vicious charm that constituted something of an attractant to the ladies and allowed him to get into places and away with things that defeated less animated types like Codd and Johns. He was not feeling particularly charming right now. But he was far too experienced to let the anger boiling within him assume control. Having a good idea who he was facing, he kept his distance and his cool. But neither could keep him from talking.

Using the muzzles of the gun, he gestured slightly in the direction of the ragged, windswept cliff that had recently been depopulated by one. “Two of my best boys. Both gone. You got no idea how careful I brought ’em both along. Had real bright futures in the trade.” Self-control or no, his voice rose perceptibly. “And now cuzza you, CUZZA YOU, you subhuman piece of shit, they won’t be around to split the reward, will they?” He jabbed the double barrels forward threateningly.
“Will they?”

He began to laugh. More nasty whoop than chuckle, it was anything but appealing. Not everyone cackled when they laughed, nor made it sound like the final gasps of a dying man. Toombs chortled like a dyspeptic vulture.

In contrast, the man with the reflective goggles was as silent as the snow on which he stood, as unmoving as the rock that had been grasped so desperately, and briefly, by the now deceased Johns. Still crowing over his triumph, Toombs began to circle his trapped quarry—careful to keep his distance. He was in control, and fully intended to keep it that way.

“Let’s see,” he muttered, affecting a momentary uncertainty that was as false as its purpose was transparent. “Do I need to regale you with the contents of a hardcopy as to why I’m here? I don’t think so. Escapee from Koravan Penal Facility. Escapee from the double-maximum security joint on Ribald Ess. Escapee from Tangiers Three Penal Colony. Officially on the outs for the last fifty-eight standard months.” Feeling it with his foot, he kicked a rock aside without so much as glancing down in its direction. Unblinking, hard, his gaze remained locked on his silent quarry.

“Is there more? Oh, you know there’s more!” He sniggered. “Wanted on five worlds in three systems for . . .” Feigning thoughtfulness, he tapped his lower lip with one forefinger. “Lessee—how many murders? Can I use all nine of my toes to run the tally?” He was fairly dancing now with repressed excitement. “Oh, yeah, baby, I bagged the man in motion, the killin’ villain himself! Too bad about Codd and Johns. Shame they won’t be around to split the reward. I’ll just hafta handle their thirds for them. Life’s a bitch, but Death, she can give it up when she wants to. Guess I must live right. Guess I must live.” Now he did giggle, a sound more unsettling than his regular laugh.

Finger light on the trigger, he cradled his weapon in one hand. Short and nasty, it had two thick-bodied, large-caliber barrels over and under, butt and trigger snapping out from the lower half. A shot from either barrel would blow a man in half. Let loose with both barrels and—well, there wouldn’t be enough left on which to file a claim for payment. Removing a pair of cuffs from his utility belt, he dangled them like an enticement to a dance.

“C’mon. Party time’s over. Time to say bye-bye to this shit ball. Fulfill the drill.”

Toombs tossed the cuffs at his quarry. They bounced off the man’s chest and fell into the snow. The quarry glanced down at them, then back up at the mercenary, still not saying a word. He might act the mute, but Toombs knew he was not.

The mercenary could have grimaced, snapped something like “Put ’em on now, I’m not fucking around!” Instead, he took aim and let loose with both barrels of his weapon. The breeze from the explosive shells passed close enough to the quarry’s skull to riffle his tangle of hair. They were more eloquent than anything Toombs himself could have said.

Bending, the quarry picked up the cuffs and worked them around to his back. Cuffing oneself wasn’t an easy task, even for a renegade contortionist, but though the big man took his time, he made it look easy.

Edging around behind him, twin gun muzzles never wavering, Toombs checked the cuffs. While doing so, he also kept a watchful eye on the prey’s urzoshod feet. Explosive power sufficient to destroy a small aircraft hovered centimeters from the quarry’s spine. With practiced fingers, the mercenary checked and rechecked the bonds. No funny business there, at least. The cuffs were locked and secure.

Even more emboldened than before, Toombs moved closer until he was practically inside the other man’s protective suit. Licking his lips, he made his voice as low and intimidating as possible.

“An’ just for the file. Just so you shouldn’t forget it. The guy all up on your neck right now? It’s Toombs. The name of your new shot-caller is Toombs. Easy to remember. It’s what you’re gonna end up in.”

This time the quarry did react but not in the way Toombs expected. He was too big, too wide, to do what he did. The impossibility of it did not fully register on Toombs until later. All he knew was that one minute his quarry was standing in front of him, and the next, he had sprung into the air and backward somersaulted over the stunned mercenary. In the process, he simultaneously dislocated his shoulders and his wrists. One freed hand came around in an arc to smack the weapon out of Toombs’s hands. The other caught it before it had flipped halfway to the ground.

A grand total of perhaps two seconds had elapsed. Before, Toombs had been standing behind his bound prisoner, weapon in hand. After, he found himself with their respective positions exactly reversed. Though it had happened, the bewildered mercenary was unsure of how it had been accomplished.