Alan Dean Foster - The Chronicles of Riddick

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The Chronicles of Riddick

Alan Dean Foster

Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as

"unsold or destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

The Chronicles of Riddick is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used

fictitiously.

A Del Rey® Book

Published by The Random House Publishing Group

House Publishing Group, a division of Random House Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada

Limited, Toronto.

Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc. ^

www.delreydigital.com

ISBN 0-345-46839-2

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition: May 2004

OPM 10 98765432

No matter how long or how hard they strive, no matter how extensive their education as a species, no

matter what they experience of the small heavens and larger hells they create for themselves, it seems that

humans are destined to see their technological ac-complishments always exceed their ability to

under-stand themselves.

Certainly there was no understanding, no meeting of the minds, on the world called Aquila Major. There

was only the devastation of one mind-set by another. Proof of it took the form of a statue fash-ioned of

advanced, reinforced preformata resin. It was an imposing piece of work, for all that it had been

reproduced by its originators on many other worlds. Too many other worlds, according to some. Not

nearly enough, according to those who had put it in place, its massive footing firmly rammed into the

resistant soil of Aquila Major.

It was a Conquest Icon of the Necromongers. Over five hundred meters tall, it gaped openmouthed at

the utter desolation and wreckage that spread outward from its base. Whether it was seen as wailing in

de-spair at its surroundings or moaning in triumph de-pended on whether one was a surviving citizen of

that world's once-splendid capital city, now reduced to waste and ruin, or a member of that peculiar

space-dwelling group who called themselves follow-ers of the faith known as Necroism.

They had been preparing for such moments for a very long time. They had burst out of the great

dark-ness to impose themselves on the civilized worlds with a forcefulness and cool brutality that was as

stunning in its single-mindedness as it was in its effi-ciency. Aquila Major was not the first of their

con-quests, nor would it be the last. As long as there were worlds to be freed, as long as humans lived

who dwelled in ignorance of their true destiny, the Necro-mongers would continue with their work.

Unlike so much of the humankind who had spread explosively throughout the galaxy, the Necro-mongers

were driven by genuine purpose beyond the need to merely exist. They believed fervently in their work,

and went about it with a determination and competence that was breathtaking to behold. In the majority

of cases, literally breathtaking. Further-more, there was no meanness in them, no suggestion of brutality

for its own sake or of sadism. Like all true believers since the beginning of time, they saw only good

arising out of the destruction they in-flicted. Everything they did was for the benefit of the destroyed, they

knew. Nor was their great work de-void of irony.

For it was the dead who triumphed by passing on, while only the most dedicated forced themselves to

carry on the work by continuing to live—until due time.

The Lord Marshal knew this better than anyone. While longing for his own time of passing to arrive, he

continued to consecrate his continuing existence on the present plane of existence by seeing to it that as

many as possible of his unaware, improperly in-formed fellow humans preceded him onward toward

bliss. During the preceding days, many had done so here on Aquila Major. A great many.

Clad in battle armor that was intended as much to instill fear and intimidate any who cast eyes upon it as

it was to protect its wearer, he stood scowling thoughtfully at the scene of desolation and redemp-tion

that flamed below him. The fires were beginning to die out. While the capital had been taken, opposi-tion

to the balm and comfort his people brought re-mained strong in other cities and in isolated pockets

across the planet. There was still much work to be done on Aquila Major.

As to its final outcome, the Lord Marshal had no doubt. Some worlds resisted the bringing of the

mes-sage more obstinately than others. A few proved sen-sible and buckled under at the mere sight of

the Necromongers' ships. Such worlds were much more to the Lord Marshal's taste. While they were to

be admired for having reached a newer, higher state of being, dead resistance fighters were no use to the

great cause. The deceased were to be envied, but could not be recruited.

Nevertheless, by craft or cajoling, by force or by bribery, the faith was advanced. Aquila Major was only

the latest, not the last. No time was to be wasted here. As soon as the last pockets of resistance had

been eliminated, the armada would move to the next, carrying enlightenment and revelation to the

disbe-lieving. How he longed for his own moment of final-ity, for his turn to be done withrthis sordid,

unnatural temporal plane!

But he could not simply embrace that of which he knew so much. Having striven to rise to the exalted

position of lord marshal, it did not behoove him to surrender it voluntarily. By the edicts of his kind he

was compelled to master all that it offered, by offer-ing his talents to the cause. This he would continue to

do. That he would not be the one to finish the work he knew well, as had the various lord marshals who

had preceded him. That he would be joining them eventually he also knew.

But first, there was much work to be done.

Vaako stood nearby. A fine commander, as dedi-cated as one could ask for and a superb solo fighter in

his own right. While his attention was focused on the Lord Marshal, that of the saintly Purifier, who stood

nearby, was directed at the destruction below. Neither man spoke. There was no need. They had done

what needed to be done, and saw no reason to comment on it.

Nor did the Lord Marshal have anything to say. The fire and smoke, the ruined buildings and flaming

vegetation beneath them were more eloquent than anything those beholding it could have voiced. There

were times when it was best to say nothing, he knew. Time enough for discussion later, when the last of

Aquila Major's resistance had been eliminated.

Turning, he moved up the steps on which he stood. His commanders and the chief spiritual adviser of

their people followed. Once they were within the Basilica, the massive portal, through which they had

briefly emerged to view in person the horrendous yet beautiful vista below, closed tightly behind them,

sealing them in the ship that was their home and their purpose.

Rumbling to itself, the immense Basilica vessel that had been hovering over the once-striking and now

thrice-struck capital city lifted skyward. Slowly at first, but with a gathering speed and momentum that

were as formidable as the purpose for which it had been built.

There are habitable worlds, and there are unin-habitable worlds. There are also worlds that can be

rendered marginally habitable, but never should be. Foremost among the latter was a hellish, geologically

schizoid, melted and re-formed planetary body of un-remarkable size and appearance whose

astronomical designation no one bothered to repeat because it had long since been supplanted in the

vernacular by the name that had been given to it by its inhabitants. Or rather, its inmates.

Crematoria.

On most worlds, the time just before sunrise is a period of calm and preparation. Of quiet introspec-tion

and looking-forward. A time to awaken and gather oneself in readiness for a bright, new day. On

Crematoria, pre-sunrise was a time to be denied, avoided, shunned. This was one world where dawn

killed.

The two prison guards lugging their burden along the rough path that wound its tortured way through the

scarred, twisted lava field knew that. They moved with the urgency of men assigned to an unpleasant

duty that they had tried, and failed, to avoid. The fact that their load consisted of one of their own

en-gendered no special feelings of additional sympathy on their part, even though they knew it could just

as easily have been one of them. The fact that the dead man was a former colleague and friend did not

make his demised corpus any less heavy.

Relieved at having reached their destination, they finally halted near a shallow depression that had been

machine gouged from reluctant rock. The small hol-low was not empty. It was filled with ash, from which

protruded a few angular objects. On closer inspec-tion, one became recognizable as a human femur,

an-other as part of a skull. The rest were well on their way to being reduced to the powder that was

slowly engulfing them. No artificial agency had been em-ployed to reduce these remnants of what had

once been human beings to their constituent chemical components. None was needed.

They only had to wait for sunrise.

From the container they had been carrying, the two men extracted the body of a third and dumped him

unceremoniously onto the pile, sending up a small cloud of dust. The body was not intact. It was marred

by deep bruises and multiple lacerations. One glance was enough to tell that these wounds had not been

incurred in a fall or some other accident. The unfortunate had been involved in a fight that, as clear as the

sharp-edged horizon, he had lost. Among the few effects that still adorned his corpse was a visual ident

that read "V. Pavlov." Some wag back in the prison had ventured to say that the guard had died like a

dog. No one had laughed.

The anxious pair who had been charged with con-veying the former V. Pavlov to his final resting place

looked around uneasily, plainly in a hurry to get away from where they were. There was no thought of

digging a grave. It would be a wasted exercise. None would arrive to bear witness over it or view it.

Any-thing they might erect over such an excavation would quickly go the way of the body itself.

Crematoria would see to that.

"Should we, uh, say something? I mean, I knew Vladimir pretty well. He wasn't a bad guy." On

Cre-matoria, this might be considered a high compliment: one that could be applied equally to guard or

pris-oner.

His companion was gazing nervously eastward. The dull maroon glow that had been seeping over the

ragged, distant mountains was beginning to pale toward crimson. Very soon now it would fade to pink,

then yellow, and then to white. When it turned white, anything organic would do well to be as far

underground as possible.

"Sure. Recite a whole sermon, if you want." He indicated the motionless body of their former col-league.

"I'm sure Vlad won't interrupt you. Take all the time you want. I'll wait for you—inside." A curt nod

indicated the coming dawn.

His friend was already starting to backpedal, phys-ically as well as spiritually. "Maybe I'll say something

later. I knew Vladimir. He wouldn't want us to be late for breakfast."

The other man had already started for the nearby access tunnel. "Shit, if it was you or me, he'd already

have gotten the hell out of here."

It was as appropriate a description of their situa-tion as it was of their surroundings.

Down Below was business as usual—which is to say, messy, loud, crude, and unpleasant. Used to their

surroundings, the three guards muscling the transfer box did not comment on it, did not bemoan their fate.

They were being paid good money to endure a routine of daily crap, money that was piling up in distant

credit accounts even as they toiled to move the box. They often let their thoughts drift toward such

accounts. It helped them to get through each day. Sometimes such thoughts were all that helped them to

get through each day.

No noise came from within the box. No trouble. That suited them just fine. Occasionally, one would

bend slightly to peer at one of the air vents that rid-dled the container. Its contents did not look back.

Just as well. There were rules. As a guard on Cre-matoria, you bent the rules at considerable risk to your

comparatively elevated status. Bend them far enough and you might find yourself on the other side of the

social divide. That would be more than un-comfortable: it would be fatal. So the guard kept his thoughts

to himself and concentrated on the work at hand.

As they passed one of the kennels, something with eyes bright with murder moved closer to the bars of

its cage and began to howl. Its neighbors joined in. No human throat was capable of producing such

sounds, though human ears could hear them. One of the guards snapped a curse in the direction of the

cen-ter cage. Shining eyes swiveled to focus on him. The guard met the luminous, unearthly stare for a

brief moment before looking away. He was not concerned. The cages were strong, and the howling

things within, insofar as they could be controlled, were allies.

His tone spiced with agitation, the man in the lead looked back at the box. "Oughta know better by now.

You act like an animal, gonna slot you up like one. Rules. Shoulda worked it different."

While carrying out his duty, the speaker's nearest companion was also experiencing a moment of

un-usual thoughtfulness. "Poor fuckin' Pavlov. Never had a chance, one-on-one like that."

The first speaker was less than sympathetic. "He shoulda watched himself. Always relyin' on his size,

underestimatin' the opposition. Never, never do that. Size don't mean nothin' if you ain't got the moves."

Glancing back, he directed his words to the inhabi-tant of the box. "You know all about that, don't you,

Big Foe? You get what you give 'round here. But

when you get it—aw, that's the thing. When." It was not a direct threat, but the ugly implication in his

voice could not be ignored. However the inhabitant of the box felt about it, the observation was greeted

only with more silence.

Still muttering to himself, the other guard in front continued to remember his overconfident dead

col-league. "This one's always been trouble. I knew it from the first. I smelted it."

Behind him, another guard thought to comment, to make a joke. In the end, he kept his thoughts to

himself. Pavlov had always gone looking for trouble. Finally, he'd found it. While helping to move the

transfer box, the guard was careful to keep his dis-tance from it.

They reached their destination: an empty kennel. Around them, the howling of the unseen things with the

shining eyes intensified. Intent on their work, the guards ignored the inhuman baying. Moving the box was

one thing. Safely transferring its single occupant from box to kennel was something else.

Setting the box down in front of the open kennel slot, three of the men positioned themselves at inter-vals

around the container while their remaining two companions warily moved to open it. Safeties were ^lid

simultaneously off box and weapons. Operating together, the pair at the front of the box worked the seals

until the doors clicked open. Almost immedi-ately, they stepped back. Fast.

The occupants of the kennels howled louder. Fin-gers 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 in-jured hand. Blood appeared that was not the pris-oner's.

Disgusted, the man in charge of the delivery quin-tet moved forward. So did a companion. Maulstick still

slung at his belt, grim faced, the latter was rais-ing 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

pre-sumed target. That individual streaked from the inte-rior 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 effi-ciently 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 be-tween

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 in-habited

the surrounding cages redoubled their alien howling. Eyes glistened, damp with unfulfillable ex-pectation.

The girl reacted.

"Can we SHUT UP THE GODDAMN NOISE?"

Delivered with the force and sharpness of an as-cending 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.

The snow came in waves, like breaking foam ab-sent the surf. It swirled around the disgruntled

mer-cenary like wet sand. On high alert, his thoughts oc-cupied elsewhere, he hardly noticed the squall.

He was wary but not afraid. While the storm cut his per-sonal visibility down to next to nothing, his

instru-ments 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 work-ing. 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

con-tinued 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 unintelli-gible. Preoccupied with the stain, he moved closer and

waited for the organalzyer to deliver a more de-tailed 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, uninforma-tive statistics and DNA details giving way to a

sche-matic 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 usu-ally 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

increas-ingly 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.

Johns 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 con-trols. 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 ice-fall 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

vio-lently 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.

Re-gardless of origin, it had clearly been turned into tem-porary 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

quar-tered 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 part-ner 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

lit-tle 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 con-dition 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 ne-cessity 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 hu-man. Automatically his eyes followed them

upward.

What he saw surprised him, insofar as he was still ca-pable of being surprised.

The feet no longer belonged to their original owner. He remembered the condition of the quar-tered,

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 cob-bled-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 confi-dence. 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 re-vealed the

contents of his hand. It was a human ear, raw and bleeding at the base.

"Yours?" the man murmured quietly. Though de-ceptively 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 com-bined 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 anchor-ing him to the protruding rock. Grip lost, he

scram-bled 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 man-aged to coax a few final shots before hitting

the ground far below. The multiple rounds were as thun-derous 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 al-ways been good for a running gag among his

col-leagues 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

pos-sessed a certain vicious charm that constituted some-thing 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

percep-tibly. "And now cuzza you, CUZZA YOU, you sub-human piece of shit, they won't be around to

split the reward, will they?" He jabbed the double barrels for-ward 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

un-moving as the rock that had been grasped so desper-ately, 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

trans-parent. "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 with-out so much as glancing down in its

direction. Un-blinking, 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

mur-ders? Can I use all nine of my toes to run the tally?" He was fairly dancing now with repressed

excite-ment. "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 re-ward. 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. Re-moving a pair of cuffs from his utility belt, he dan-gled 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 ex-plosive shells

passed close enough to the quarry's skull to riffle his tangle of hair. They were more elo-quent 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 contortion-ist, 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 do-ing

so, he also kept a watchful eye on the prey's urzo-shod 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 reg-ister 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

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TheChroniclesofRiddickAlanDeanFosterSaleofthisbookwithoutafrontcovermaybeunauthorized.Ifthisbookiscoverless,itmayhavebeenreportedtothepublisheras"unsoldordestroyed"andneithertheauthornorthepublishermayhavereceivedpaymentforit.TheChroniclesofRiddickisaworkoffiction.Names,places,andincidentseitherarep...

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