The Chronicles of Riddick (26 page)

Whirling, Toal mobilized his subordinates. Shouts and orders were exchanged. The commander known as Scalp-Taker began relaying instructions to the subofficers in charge of the Elites.

Indifferent to the rising frenzy of preparation, the Lord Marshal stood staring at the connection cord he still held in his hand. Then, very deliberately, he wound it securely around his palm, the action coming naturally to him, as if he had done something very similar once before.

If Riddick was half the trouble he appeared to be, it would take time to hunt him down. Meanwhile, there remained the little matter of a stern lesson to be delivered to the intractable population of Helion Prime. Idly, he moved to the balcony that overlooked the reaches of Necropolis. A mass of new converts, drawn from the world below, was shuffling across the floor on their way to the First Stage of Education. The sight was pleasing and relaxed him a little. But it did not change his mind.

Protocol needed to be followed.

Behind him, the officer in charge of lesson deliverance methodically opened the three heads of the fateful icon control. Visible via the floor port, on monitors throughout the Basilica and the rest of the armada, and from the surface of Helion itself, the three heads atop the conquest icon that impaled the surface of the planet began to bow. A gigantic maw appeared between them, its dark interior now open to the sky. From within, something belched skyward. A swirling, rotating mass of multicolored energy, in appearance and shape it was not unlike the gravitational weapons that had been used against massed Helion foot soldiers and their reinforced installations. There was only one significant difference.

This one was much,
much
bigger.

Rising like a ring of flashing, lightning-imbued cloud, it expanded in diameter until its outermost fringes shadowed the farthest reaches of the capital. It hung there; ominous, growling, alight with foreboding. Waiting for a command.

The command to deliver a lesson.

XVII

U
nder Toal’s personal direction, a special squad of soldiers and lensors rushed through the most significant portions of the Basilica, all senses on high alert, searching for one subofficer who shouldn’t be there. Among the militarily sensitive sites they scanned and cleared was the dark grotto of the Quasi-Dead. Finding it empty, as expected, the search team moved on.

In doing so, the otherwise alert commander just missed seeing one Quasi sliding out of its protective hollow. There was nothing unusual about this. When they were not in full sleep, curious Quasis sometimes moved about on their own. What was unusual was the presence on the Quasi’s torso of a live person. One hand covered the Quasi’s mouth while the other gripped the dagger that was plunged into the creature’s heart, visible indication that one Quasi-Dead had recently and unwillingly been promoted to Full Dead. Whether out of ignorance of what had taken place or out of fear of knowing that it had, the remaining Quasis remained completely silent.

Slipping down from the dead thing’s body, Riddick advanced soundlessly until he came to a door panel that allowed him to see into the throne room. Standing before that imposing seat and tantalizingly near was the Lord Marshal, speaking to an important new convert. Both his back and the rear of the throne faced the wall where Riddick hid.

Silently, the big man calculated. Angle, distance, time required. There was the small matter of some ceremonial guards located between him and his objective. He moved.

The pair of Elites stationed inside the doors that separated the throne room from the sacred grotto of the Quasi-Dead heard the peculiar metal scraping sound at the same time. When it continued, they exchanged a glance and turned to peer through the decorative ports set into the ceremonial doorway.

A sound came from two blades being scraped together. Not that they really needed the additional sharpening, but Riddick needed the attracting noise. Corkscrewing up and around as he sensed the presence of the two Elites on the other side of the doorway, he buried both blades in their curious faces and in the same motion threw his weight against the doors. He did not so much enter as explode into the throne room.

He’d run through it all in his mind before he’d taken a single step. Dispose of the two guards—done. One quick-step and leap over the back of the throne—done. The inimitable dagger he had pulled from the back of the murderer Irgun in his hand, bringing it down and forward toward. . . .

The Lord Marshal—who spun, caught the dagger hand, countered, and slammed Riddick halfway across the floor. The speed and strength the big man encountered were unprecedented in his experience. He had been ready for a possible defense, but nothing like this. It was almost as if he was fighting two men simultaneously.

Which, in a sense, he was—except that one of them was not exactly a man.

Gathering himself quickly, Riddick sprang to his feet and readied himself for another charge. Recovering from the shock of his appearance, flanking Elites surged forward to intervene, to interpose themselves between the attacker and the esteemed Lord Marshal. As much to Riddick’s surprise as to their own, that worthy swept out a commanding hand as he stepped forward away from the throne.

“Stay!”

A trick, Riddick thought. His attention was everywhere—watching, waiting, expecting an assault to drop from the ceiling or rise from the floor. What he did not expect, what no one in the room who was privy to the drama being played out before them expected, was for the Lord Marshal to approach not his assailant, but a simple convert.

Roughly pulling the figure up off its knees, he ripped back the convert’s cowl to reveal the face beneath. For an instant, Riddick refused to believe. Reality, unfortunately, is cold, remorseless, and will not be denied.

Kyra.

On the balcony above arrived two figures with more than the usual interest in the clash taking place below. Having received word of the confrontation that was happening in the throne room, Vaako and his companion had rushed there just in time to see Toal’s men and Scalp-Taker’s Elites encircling Riddick. Not being present when the Lord Marshal had given the order for his troops to stay their hand, the commander general and his consort struggled to interpret the scene before them.

Breathing hard, Riddick was aware of the soldiers all around him. Any chance of escape was now blocked. He didn’t care. All that mattered was the tall man in the black armor standing before him. After that small business was resolved, he would deal with whatever else might come. Or so he tried to convince himself. Unfortunately, a new element had been added into the mix. He fought not to look at her.

Satisfied with the effect his revelation had produced, the Lord Marshal determined to use it to his best advantage. That would lie not in killing this intruder, which he was now confident he could do, but in winning him over to the Faith. That which does not defeat us makes us stronger, he knew. As true for a cause as for an individual. This audacious breeder would make a fine replacement for Irgun.

“If you fall here, now,” he boomed, “you’ll never rise. You’ll be as the rest of the unconverted: nothing more than food for worms. But if you choose another way,” and he glanced down at Kyra, “if you choose the
Necromonger
way, you’ll die in due time—only to rise again in the UnderVerse. Rise afresh to a new beginning, and a new life.”

Controlling his breathing, Riddick stared at the Lord Marshal. “I’ve made my choice.”

“This life is nothing. A spark in time. The UnderVerse is everything.” Glancing down at the woman kneeling at his feet, he said commandingly, “Go to him. Save him.”

As she approached, Riddick noticed that even her walk was different. Instead of the bold, confident stride he knew from memory, she came toward him with steps that were measured and hesitant. His augmented gaze roved over her, taking in the paled flesh, the downcast eyes, the freshly applied purification marks that scarred both sides of her neck. She had been altered, and not just physically. It was Kyra— and yet it wasn’t.

Seeing the uncertainty in his expression, she struggled for an explanation. Even her voice was subdued, beaten down by hopelessness and circumstance. “It hurt at first. It hurt a lot. They want to be sure of you. But after a while, pain goes away just like they said it would.” She mustered a wan, humorless smile. “I’ve had so much pain, Riddick. I didn’t want any more. They promised to make it go away, and they did.”

His expression didn’t change an iota. “Did they? What else did they make go away, Kyra? I don’t wanna know what you had to do. I don’t need to know what you had to do. What I do need to know is, where you comin’ down?” His eyes bored deep into her own. “That’s all I wanna hear.”

Her gaze rose, and he saw that she’d hardly heard what he’d said. She was in another place now, and it was one where he knew he would never go.

“Then there was—a moment,” she was saying, as if trying to recount the details of a dream. “A moment where I think I saw it. Saw this new ’verse through His eyes.” She glanced in the direction of the Lord Marshal, who stood stolid and approving, saying nothing, but watching, watching. She turned back to the man standing motionless before her. “It sounds beautiful, Riddick. A place to really start over in. A place without—pain.”

He swallowed what he really wanted to say, said quietly instead, “Which side, Kyra?”

From across the floor that separated them, that was at once smaller than the throne room and larger than space, the Lord Marshal paraphrased. “Which side, Riddick?”

Kyra looked up at him. “I thought you were dead. I thought. . .” With that, she shuffled away, leaving him to his fate. Leaving him to his decision. He shut his eyes, but it did not shut out the pain.

“Convert now, or fall forever,” the Lord Marshal challenged the intruder, seizing on the other’s obvious hesitation.

The play was almost over, and the Lord Marshal knew the ending as well as he did its heroes and the villains. If the breeder would only make the right choice, there would be none of the latter and he would be welcomed into the fold. It was what the Lord Marshal expected. It was the logical, right thing to do.

It was, however, not the Riddick thing to do.

Moving so fast his action was literally a blur, the big man drew the Irgun dagger, spun, and flung it so hard and fast at the Lord Marshal that it was impossible for any human to avoid.

The Lord Marshal, though, was no longer wholly human. Nor were his reactions.

Reaching up, an armored hand deflected the blade. Or did it? A collective gasp of disbelief filled the throne room as the defender of the Faith dropped to his knees.

On the balcony above, Vaako immediately grabbed one of the ancient, ceremonial poleaxes that formed a fence of blades behind him and started forward—only to be stopped by his companion.

“Wait, wait.” Dame Vaako’s attention was torn between her consort and what was happening on the floor below. “Too quick, it was too quick. A Half Dead doesn’t die so easily. You don’t take down a lord marshal with a knife throw.”

Truly, the resources of the Half Dead are astounding to see. Turning slowly, as if from a punch that could not put him down, the Lord Marshal once again faced his assailant. Blood trickled down his cheek. He had deflected the blade just in time, and it had only grazed his face.

One hand dabbing at the cut, he contemplated the red stain quietly. “A long time since I’ve seen my own blood. Maybe too long. One can become too comfortable. Success breeds confidence. Too much success breeds overconfidence. I should thank you for reawakening that within me that made me what I am.”

With one sweeping gesture he motioned everyone back; Elites, regular guards, onlookers—everyone. He would confront his own demons now. Both of him.

His astral self exploded forward, raging across the hall at the one who had dared to deny the offer of conversion, and who had drawn the Lord Marshal’s blood. When his physical body caught up, the two combined to strike.

The blow went right through Riddick’s defenses, slamming him backward into a pillar hard enough to dent it. As he slid to the deck, dazed, a new figure materialized high above. Unnoticed and unobserved, but intensely interested in the proceedings, Aereon watched from her hiding place.

Unaffected by the impact, the Lord Marshal gathered himself for another assault. This would be as profound a lesson as the coming destruction of the capital below, he had decided. Let everyone see and understand what it meant to be the Lord Marshal, who could command forces not only of this world but of the other. Let them see, and remember.

Unsteadily, Riddick struggled back to his feet. Pulling another blade, he made a sudden and unexpectedly forceful lunge straight at his adversary.

Or rather, where his adversary had been. As his physical self stayed clear of the fighting, almost a contemptuous observer, the Lord Marshal’s astral self blurred around Riddick, hammering on him from behind, below, above. Riddick fought back, as he’d always fought back, but every time he struck, his blade cleaved only empty air.

The beating went on until even the big man could no longer stand. Unable to absorb one more unblockable blow, he finally went down. Only then did the physical lord marshal move forward, astral hands exposed and extended, reaching for the man now prone on the ground. The ethereal claws reached down, digging into the thick body, until they found the soul they were hunting for and started to pull, to extract . . .

Howling in pain and outrage, Riddick somehow found the strength to kick free, jump back, and stand once more on his feet: battered, wounded, but still defiant. As he did so, his essence snapped back into place. This was one soul that would not be so easily extracted from its owner.

Muttering at his failure, the Lord Marshal saw that, lesson or no lesson, this was one foe he was going to have to full-kill first. Projecting, his astral self flew into one of the two giant statues that guarded the entrance to Necropolis and cracked off an oversized spike. Clutching now a weapon that was not only deadly but was rich with mythological import, the wraithlike shape again launched itself at Riddick.

Who dodged at the last possible instant. Striking the floor, the spike shattered in half, only for the broken end to be picked up by the Lord Marshal’s physical self and thrust toward Riddick. Preoccupied with his adversary’s constantly harrying astral counterpart, the big man found himself driven back all the way to the throne area. A blow to the head finally dropped him. He lay there, stunned.

It was time. Stepping over to an Elite guard, the Lord Marshal took possession of the man’s staff. Returning to his fallen adversary, he slipped the staff beneath him and seemingly with little effort flipped him into a standing position. With a simple twist of both hands, and before Riddick could fall back to the floor, the Lord Marshal positioned the staff firmly against the big man’s neck and began to apply pressure. Slowly but irresisitibly, so that this troublesome interloper would have time to feel death coming for him. Through his manner of dying, the breeder’s passing would serve as a reminder as well as a lesson.

Something was happening. A glow, lights, strengthening not within the prone figure’s clothing but from within the body itself. The Lord Marshal hesitated, uncertain, staring. The singular internal lights began to flicker.

And then—they went out. Faded away, along with the rest of the big man’s strength. Smiling viciously to himself, the Lord Marshal prepared to coil a length of cable around the breeder’s neck. Both his physical and astral self were completely focused on the task at hand. On finishing it.

“They’ll write poetry about this moment. A paean to the present Lord Marshal.”

His jaws parted and his mouth opened preparatory to letting out a cry of triumph. What emerged instead was a gasp, accompanied by a wide-eyed look of surprise and shock. His astral face spun around, seeking the source of the interruption. Of the surprise. Of the spike that had been plunged deeply into the back of his physical being.