The Chronicles of Riddick (4 page)

“Never mess with a guy with a loaner.”

He checked the monitors. The merc ship had sustained some damage from the deliberate collision. The longer it flew, the more likely that the damage would become severe, then fatal. That didn’t trouble him. Right now, all he wanted to do was get down in one piece. Whether the ship did so in sufficient shape to rise again or not concerned him considerably less. While maintaining the too-steep descent, he punched in some evasive maneuvers just in case the now departed pilot happened to have colleagues in the area and in the air.

The ocean was green. Riddick had seen oceans of liquid methane as different in hue as they were brilliant. Green suited him. He’d always had an affinity for water. As he fought to slow the heavily vibrating ship, blue-green waves gave way to those colored yellow and white and beige: sand dunes, rangy and extensive.

It wasn’t the gentlest of touchdowns, but the hull held as he slammed right into the thickest dune he could find. Blackness covered the viewport. External visuals began to go dark. Forward motion ceased. Following prescribed and preprogammed merc procedure, concealware took over. A battery of small powered devices adjusted the ship’s hull. To an onlooker, of which there presently happened to be none, it would have appeared as if the vessel was shimmying itself into the sand. When relevant instrumentation deemed the procedure complete, all was dark within. Outside, nothing appeared to have changed. It would have taken more than a sharp eye to determine that the shallow rut that now ran the length of the sand dune’s crest had been caused by anything other than the wind. Riddick let out a deep breath and slipped out of the pilot’s harness. He had arrived.

Somewhere else. Again.

III

T
he immense dome that dominated the skyline of Helion Prime’s capital city was impressive, but it was dwarfed by the beacons, the temples of light, that dominated the sprawling metropolis. Shafting skyward, they bespoke the nature and power of Helion’s achievements in culture as well as in technology. Famous in this part of the galaxy, at least, they were an unmissable expression of all that was Helion. On its neat, clean streets, citizens went about their business with the air of those who believed themselves just slightly superior. In its skies, transport craft of every imaginable size and description hurried along their predetermined paths. Helion Prime was a crossroads.

The makeup of its citizenry attested to that. The city was home to every variation in stature, shade, and sensibility of contemporary humanity. It was reflected in the city’s art, in its commerce, in its entertainment venues.

It was also amply evident in its politics, which at the moment were undergoing an upheaval that found them uneasily balanced somewhere between the fractious and outright hand-to-hand combat. Uncommon to Helion government, yelling and shouting filled the outer chambers and anterooms of the capitol dome.

Pulling on a cloak, one man fled the cacophony. His expression showed him to be as disgusted as he was depressed. Curious beyond restraint, an aide intercepted the fugitive as he strode from the dome. With a nod of his head, he indicated the barely controlled chaos that presently filled the interior.

“Delegate Imam, I have worked for this government for twenty years. Never have I heard or seen such signs of serious dissention. What’s happening in there?”

The delegate paused, glanced back. “When all is said and done? Much will be said—and nothing will be done.”

Cloak swirling around him, he swept away. Behind him, the aide stared back toward the towering doors that opened into the dome. Like the majority of his Helion brethren, he was keen on order and predictability. The shouting and arguing within did not bode well for a continuation of such things. It was just as well he was not privy to the debate raging inside. More than a few of the comments and observations being made would have unsettled him a good deal more than he already was.

The defense minister was adamant. She was also louder than most of her fellow officials. Even in an age of advanced technology, a strong voice still had its uses.

“Shut down the beacons!” she roared. “We need to save the energy, save all resources for
this
world! We cannot continue to export at a time of such uncertainty, when planetary defense should be everyone’s first priority.”

Steramad disagreed, as he usually did. “We can’t be slaves to fear. What kind of message would that send to the people? Helion Prime is expected to set an example for the lesser nearby worlds. A specific threat must be identified before radical action is approved. We cannot react in panic to every rumor that—”

The respected clerical delegate ar-Aajem cut him off. “Rumor? Is it rumor that we have lost communication with
another
world?” He gestured emphatically to his colleagues. “One such incident suggests communications failure. Multiple ones suggest something far more sinister. You all know to what I refer.”

Someone shouted, “We should try and make contact, negotiate with them.”

“Them?” another delegate countered. “Who’s even seen ‘them’? Who even knows what they want? If ‘they’ even exist. There could be other explanations, as Steramad says.”

A second cleric rose to speak. “Seven worlds, at least seven worlds have gone silent! That is all the explanation I and my department require. Can one be blind to the deafness of one’s neighbors? What more proof do we need?” He waved in the direction of the defense minister. “We must prepare, and quickly.”

“Twelve worlds!” The new voice teetered on the edge of panic. “My sources say
twelve
have gone silent!”

Steramad’s strongest ally in session was Teyfuddin. Raising his voice, that worthy attempted to counter the rising feeling of hopelessness. “But not one in this system. Planets are not countries. We share no direct border with those worlds that seem to be experiencing these problems. With those in our system we share a sun, and they continue to communicate with Prime as efficiently as always.” He regarded the sea of anxious faces.

“I share your concerns. Such increasing silence from beyond Helion is troubling. But civilization has known many troubles, and still survives. History tells us that not all troubles visit all worlds. Nobody here today knows where this mysterious silence will descend next. Or even if! I see cause for vigilance, yes, but not for panic.”

The defense minister did not sit down. She was growing increasingly frustrated at the turn the discussion was taking. This was a time for action, not for talk! She
had
to convince them.

“Again I say it. Shut down the beacons. Draw in our outer defenses. We only make ourselves more of a target the longer we—”

This time it was her turn to be interrupted. Steramad refused to be stampeded into a decision he felt was not only unnecessary but also counter to Helion philosophy.

“If we show fear—if we shut down the beacons and cower in the dark—our sister worlds will wither and starve. It falls to us to set the example, to be strong for all. For their children, as well as ours, we must stand our ground. We are Helion Prime! And we will do what we have always done: generate energy and then share it with all.”

Shouts greeted his declaration—some supportive, some questioning. Politician and defense minister, supporters and detractors, glared at one another across the chamber as the debate raged around them. Both had the best interests of their home world at heart. Neither had any idea of the nature of what was coming for them.

C
loak fluttering around him, a preoccupied Imam hurried along a street in New Mecca, one of the capital’s most famous districts. Full of atmosphere, it had been updated with modern technology that had been largely concealed behind walls and under streets to preserve the character of the area. Lost in thought, he barely noticed that the great beacons that were the hallmark of Prime were coming on line, surpassing the setting sun with their brilliance.

Rounding a corner, he came upon an information kiosk. Like scales on a snake, screens riddled the cylinder, broadcasting dozens of different news channels simultaneously. Clustered around it, concerned citizens occasionally adjusted the individual volume on the pickups they wore as they discussed what they were seeing and hearing.

“So tall it touches the clouds,” one man was saying. “And there is nothing around this thing, this ‘colossus.’ Nothing is left. They say it’s their calling card.”

The man standing next to him was dubious. “How is it possible? To accomplish so much, so quickly, and so completely? When no one even sees them coming?”

The concerns of his fellow citizens were no less troubling to Imam. As a delegate, it was his responsibility to assuage such worries. Yet how could he do so? He needed facts, hard truths. But when these showed up, a vast silence weighed in. It was more than disturbing. It was frightening. Despite what he had said earlier that evening, and had been saying for days, he had to admit that deep down, he too was frightened. It was not the implied threat of utter and complete destruction that scared him. It was not knowing anything, anything at all, about the possible source.

He was about to move on when something on one of the screens caught his eye. The briefest of updates from a minor broadcast, it showed close-up vid of a single pilot making an illegal entry into Helion Prime atmosphere. A customs craft engaged in forcing the visitor down had been damaged in the attempt. Before backup could arrive on the scene, the interloper had vanished. As no trace of the intruding ship had been found on land despite an extensive follow-up search, speculation was that the intruder too had been damaged by collision and had plunged into the sea. As to the identity of the illegal, there was as yet no firm determination. Authorities were working through records to try and identify the craft and possibly its pilot. Before being forced to break away, the pilot of the customs interceptor had obtained images of the intruder that had been effectively enhanced.

Moving closer to the screen, Imam intently studied the picture of the single human. People in the crowd, disturbed and agitated, jostled around him as each sought a different vantage point.

“‘Coming’?” one of them was saying forebodingly. “They may already be here.”

I
mam could have taken a personal or public transport, but when possible he preferred to walk. It allowed him time to think, away from yammering politicians and self-righteous clerics. It also allowed him to hear the talk on the street, and to participate in it as well. A surprising number of citizens had no idea what the majority of their delegates in government looked like, and were more than willing to unburden themselves to a sympathetic, attentive stranger of their opinions on everything from energy costs to public morals.

Wending his way through side streets, occasionally pausing to chat with those he met, it took Imam longer than he planned to get home. While Helion Prime’s streets were reasonably safe, no society was perfect. These rumors and whispers that currently fogged the streets were exactly the kind inclined to fuel antisocial behavior. Better even for a known and respected delegate to be home before dark.

As he came within sight of his destination, the nearest wall glowed to life, bathing the approach to his home in soft white illumination. The automated reaction to his presence calmed him almost as much as the light itself. Out there, beyond the reach of Helion’s sun, something inimical and unknown might be stalking, but here, for now, all was as it should be.

Reading and responding to his biometrics, the doorway opened to admit him. Once inside, he had begun to relax when a sound informed him that he had been wrong: all was
not
as it should be. That he recognized the sound did not trouble him a tenth as much as the fact that he recognized the voice that spoke to him over the steady scrape, scrape of blade against synthetic stone.

“It was the worst place I could find. The worst place where I could survive by myself, without the burden of having to lug around special gear. See, I wanted to be free, but I also wanted to be ignored.”

Imam turned toward the voice. He knew that if its owner had wanted him dead, he would already be lying on the floor, a test-drive for decomposing bacteria. Or perhaps, he thought fearfully, his visitor was only taking his time.

There were any number of depilatory sprays on the market, as well as a plethora of advanced hair-removal gadgets. Disdaining them all, honoring selfsufficiency or possibly some unknown tradition, the big man leaning over the small hallway fountain was using the blade he held to shave his head in a manner that was as time-honored as it was currently unfashionable. As he spoke, he concentrated on what he was doing. Imam might have been in the room, or it might have been empty. The delegate knew one thing for certain. If he tried to flee before his visitor had finished whatever it was he had entered to say and do, he would not make it as far as the nearest doorway.

“Where?” he heard himself asking.

“Some frozen heap,” Riddick was murmuring as he worked. The blade slid smoothly over his increasingly bare skull; long, thick locks dropping like dead mambas into the small basin. “No real name, no real sun. Just scientific designations. No need for real names for a place nobody would want to go. Chose it just to get away from all the brightness. All the— temptation. Glare from snow and ice, but funny light. Thought it would put certain people off. Did, for a while. Just hoping to exist in the shadows of nowhere.” Straightening, he studied his handiwork in the mirror, almost as if he could see in the darkness that enveloped the anteroom. Except that, as Imam knew, there was no “almost” about it.

Riddick turned to the silent Imam. “But someone wouldn’t let me do it. Somebody couldn’t leave bad enough alone. Suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. People have always been a disappointment to me.”

In the poor light, eye contact was made. Imam said nothing. There was no point, until commentary was required, and he particularly did not want to do or say anything that might upset his uninvited guest. From experience, he knew that it might not take very much to do so. Without thinking he cast a glance upstairs. As soon as he did, he was sorry he had done it.

It didn’t matter. His visitor knew anyway. “She’s in the shower.”

Blade in hand, Riddick walked slowly toward Imam. “I told
one
person where I might go. Trusted
one
man when I left this place. After what we had been through together, I thought I could do that much. Was I wrong? Did I make a mistake?”

Imam swallowed hard and gathered himself. He did not want to stammer. Normally, that was not a potentially fatal condition. But in the presence of this man, there was simply no predicting what might constitute such. He needed to sound more confident than he felt.

“Honest and true, I say to you that there is no simple answer.”

At about the exact instant the last syllable was formed by his lips, the blade was resting on his neck. He never saw it move. One moment it was dangling from the big man’s hand; the next, the razor edge was resting against the delegate’s throat.

“Did I make,” Riddick repeated with deceptive softness, “a mistake.”

Despite Imam’s determination, there was a noticeable quaver in his voice as he replied, “I give you my word, Riddick. As a delegate to the government of Helion Prime—” The big man made a small noise that some listeners, had there been any, might have construed as unflattering. “—and as a friend, that whatever has been said was meant to give us a chance, a
fighting
chance. Were it not for the events of the past few months, events without precedent in the entire history not only of Helion Prime but of this entire sector, things might—”