The Chronicles of Riddick (9 page)

“He’s not a man,” the commander explained patiently, as one would to a child. “He is the holy Half Dead who has seen the UnderVerse. He is much more than a man.” He gestured toward the central dais, where the dead husk of the impertinent politician still lay. “Did you not see with your own eyes the palpable demonstration of his abilities?”

Riddick eased away from the wall, just enough for Vaako to twitch in response. But the big man made no move toward the commander. “Tell you what. I’m not much into the bow-and-beg thing. Just doesn’t do anything for me.” He jerked his chin toward a massive figure that was rapidly approaching, recognizing the shape if not the face. “But I
will
take a piece of him.”

A smile of expectation split the face of Irgun the Strange as he lengthened his stride. No one had asked him to silence this arrogant blasphemer. No one had given a formal order. But, sensitive as he was to the moods of his commanding officers, he knew that if he took the initiative to do so, no one would interfere to stop him. Raising not one but two ceremonial war axes, he knew that at this point, no one
could
stop him. His sole regret was that he was zeroing in on only one opponent. It would be over much too quickly, and he needed the exercise. Perhaps, he thought hopefully as he advanced, he could make it last long enough to be entertaining.

Seeing Irgun draw near, recognizing the look in the assassin’s eye, Vaako stepped back out of the way. “A piece you’ll have,” he informed Riddick coolly.

Apparently unarmed, the intruder held his ground. Seeing that Irgun’s quarry was not about to break and run, Necromonger soldiers and Helion politicians alike strained for a better look. Taking the measure of his opponent, Irgun saw nothing to give him pause. The prey even had something wrong with his eyes that forced him to wear some kind of special goggles; a maggot with shades. Irgun was not in the least ashamed to slaughter someone with a visible handicap. He was very much the egalitarian executioner.

Slowing slightly, he crossed the two axes he was holding in front of him. A few preliminary cuts— here, here, and here, he decided. Then a leap, perhaps with a twist, and he would bring both blades down and across simultaneously, neatly severing the foe’s head from his neck. If the double stroke was delivered cleanly, blood should fountain from the severed neck for several seconds before the decapitated body collapsed. He intended to do right by the killing. Though more than slightly mental, Irgun took pride in his work.

Without preamble, he rushed forward. His target was big and muscular, therefore slow. Both axes came down and around to slice through . . .

Empty air. Faster than a scream, his target had moved to one side, twisting and spinning. As Riddick wisped past the charging assassin, one hand reached out, grabbed the hilt of the dagger that protruded from Irgun’s back, and pulled it free. As he wrenched the shaft out of his attacker’s flesh, the blade brought with it blood and bits of nerve.

Twin axes still gripped firmly in both hands, Irgun straightened. His expression of grinning expectation was replaced by one of surprise. He looked astonished. Then he looked dead. Falling forward like a tree cut straight through at the base, he formed an impressive heap on the floor—weapons, armor, communications gear, and all.

Those Helions in a position to see everything that had transpired let out a collective gasp. Among the Necromonger soldiers there was a disbelieving shifting of bodies and raising of weapons. Murmured conversation among dissimilar groups traveled along similar lines.

Indifferent to the reaction he had provoked and satisfied with the statement he had made, Riddick turned and headed for the gaping portal. A single word boomed behind him.

“STAY.”

Riddick paused. Abandoning the central dais, the Lord Marshal was moving toward him. As before, citizens of Helion and Necromonger warriors alike stepped back to give him more than ample room to pass. The radius of fear he projected seemed lost on the man he was approaching. Riddick held his ground before the Lord Marshal as stolidly as he had when faced with the onrushing Irgun. This fact was not lost on the Lord Marshal, nor on the Purifier who accompanied him.

Halting before Riddick, the Lord Marshal wordlessly looked him up and down. Riddick responded by doing exactly the same to the Lord Marshal. Like the man’s indifference, this bit of calculated insolence did not go unnoticed by the Lord Marshal. He filed it for further reference. Every reaction of the defeated, even the disrespectful, was useful.

With one armored hand he indicated the nearby corpse. “Superbly trained. Utterly converted. A true believer and a dedicated servant of the cause. One of my best, Irgun.”

Riddick didn’t bother to look in the dead man’s direction. His tone as well as his attitude indicated that he was singularly unimpressed. “If you say so.”

The Lord Marshal was intrigued, as he was by anything out of the ordinary. At the moment, whether the man before him was supernally brave or supremely stupid did not really matter. What was important was his novelty. That, and his fighting ability. The former was a diversion. The latter might prove useful.

“Rare, isn’t it? The knack for turning your enemy’s strength into his fatal weakness? Quite rare. Usually a talent found in machines, in predictors. Not in individuals. You’re an unusual man.”

Riddick was moved to repeat himself. “If you say so.”

The Lord Marshal almost smiled. With a nod, he indicated the bloody blade gripped with apparent (and only apparent) indifference in the man’s hand. “So you like that blade?”

Riddick considered the weapon, testing it with a few speculative flips and whirls. They might have been performed by a magician, for all that those nearby were able to follow the movements. Vaako was grudgingly impressed. The Lord Marshal watched with silent appreciation.

“Half-gram heavy on the back end.” Flipping it around, he considered it thoughtfully. “Not so good for throwing. Good metal, though. Unusual alloy. Never seen the like.” He indicated the body of the dead Irgun. “Obviously no problem penetrating bone.”

“In an age of high-speed compacted explosives, energy weapons, and internal guidance systems there is something comforting about a killing device as ancient yet reliable as a knife.” The Lord Marshal reluctantly watched the holder pocket the blade with one hand. “Yours, not mine. In our faith, we have a saying. ‘You keep what you kill.’” He leaned forward, squinting intently, studying the impassive face of the man standing before him. “Are you familiar to me? Did we meet before, on some distant field?”

Riddick met the other man’s gaze. And it was just a man’s gaze, he had already decided—holy Half Dead or not.

“You’d think I’d remember.”

The Lord Marshal nodded slowly. “You’d think I would, too. There’s an inkling there I can’t shake, but one I can’t place, either. I don’t like ambivalence. There’s no room for that in one who seeks the Threshold. I think perhaps further investigation is in order. Nor, in such matters and despite my position, am I so vain as to eschew assistance.” He looked to Vaako. “Bring him before the Quasi-Deads.” The interview over, he turned and stalked away.

Functioning as one, Vaako and the elite soldiers nearby coalesced to form a tight, threatening ring around Riddick. Had he been a cat, his hair would have bristled. As it was, the only visible sign of any reaction was a slight tightening of his fingers around the haft of the knife. A couple of the soldiers pushed toward him. At a glance from their intended prisoner, they promptly stepped back. Uncertainty hung over the incipient confrontation like one of the rotating gravity orbs that had remorselessly flattened sections of the city.

A slim figure pushed through the ring. She was unarmored, at least in the conventional sense, and carried no weapons—at least in the conventional sense. That did not make Dame Vaako any less dangerous than the soldiers who flanked her. On the contrary. She stared with unabashed interest at the axle around which the soldiers wheeled.

“Perhaps the breeder would do it if someone just asked him, instead of threatening him with dozens of weapons.” She advanced. Riddick’s goggles lowered as he studied the new arrival with interest. His grip on the knife did not slacken.

“It’s a rare offer,” she continued. “For a nonbeliever to pay a visit inside Necropolis.” Full of inscrutable promise, one finger rose to her lips and hovered. “Would you like to see me there?”

On his way back to the Basilica, the Lord Marshal now paused in the great portico. He frowned slightly. This was not a matter for Dame Vaako, and he disliked seeing her inserting herself in the middle of it. But being pragmatic, his primary interest was in results. He did not interfere.

Within the circle of soldiers, Vaako found himself liking even less the turn the confrontation with the insolent one had taken. Without an interjection from the Lord Marshal, however, he was obliged to let the scene play itself out.

Riddick was doing some investigating of his own. As he let himself be led onward, he inhaled deeply of the scent of one member of the party whose presence he was currently sharing. Anyone present would have had little doubt about whom he was referring to when he finally commented.

“Long time since I smelled beautiful.”

VII

A
s a congealed celebration of death made of metal and stone, the interior of Necropolis was a daunting achievement. Designed by Oltovm the Builder and situated in the heart of the Basilica, the Necromonger command ship, it was a cathedral of the dead, a place to worship and salute the end of life. Towering and vaulted, it would have constituted an imposing enclosed space on any ground. That it existed and had been transferred whole and intact
inside
a starship only added to the effect it created on those who were allowed into its presence.

The sculptures that decorated its high walls, many commissioned by the great Kryll himself, were designed to make an indelible impression on all who looked upon them. Like the vast open space in which they were set, they were intended to impress upon visitors the inevitability of the final passage. Within its tomblike aura, dozens of the penitent and the hopeful trod the nearest thing to the Threshold the mind and skills of man could create. The overall result was to humble, to shrink, to reduce in stature any who passed through.

Riddick strode along coolly, taking it all in, his face betraying no clue to what he might be feeling. Flanked by Dame Vaako, the Purifier, and others, he followed the Lord Marshal without comment. The place was an absolute and unapologetic celebration of death, an embracing of biological termination that was almost loving. To almost anyone else, the sheer scale of it was nothing less than mind-boggling.

Riddick’s mind was not easily boggled.

Dame Vaako had acted as guide and interpreter ever since they had entered the ship. A fusion of fiery pepper and thick honey, her voice tended to stir more than academic curiosity in anyone it favored. With Riddick, however, only the words themselves penetrated.

She gestured at the imposing surroundings as they advanced deeper into Necropolis. “Six regimes of Necromongers have called this home.” She pointed to a row of imposing statuary. “Past Lord Marshals. All of them have crossed the Threshold. As will all those who believe, eventually. Magnificent, isn’t it?”

“Kinda dark, even for me,” Riddick replied, taking it all in. “I mighta gone a different way.”

“True of us all,” observed the Purifier candidly. “One’s fate cannot be predicted at birth. Only time, circumstance, and study can properly prepare one for a life. We never know until then which way we will be asked to choose. All too often, no choice is given, and that way is forced upon us.”

Continuing on, they passed beneath a suspension bridge of living figures. Clamped into coffinlike assemblies of wires and tubes and instrumentation, their expressions ran the gamut from the tormented to the beatific. At a glance from Riddick, the Purifier explained.

“Converts. Some have difficulty adapting to what they have chosen. Here they learn how one pain can lessen another.”

“Yeah,” Riddick murmured. “This place is a real cradle of education.”

They continued on, until a side passage emptied into a circular grotto that was as austere as the previous portion of Necropolis had been adorned with the lavishly macabre. It struck Riddick immediately that he had been allowed to take the lead and that no one had followed him in. He turned a slow circle. Dame Vaako stood in the portal through which he had entered. There was no sign of the others.

Too focused on the extraordinary to notice the ordinary,
he chided himself, waiting for whatever might come. What came first was the voice of Dame Vaako, her tone as serpentine as her shape. It was unbending, but tinged with sympathy. Sympathy for what? he found himself wondering. What did he need her sympathy for? He had a feeling he was about to find out.

“Relax,” she advised him. “Don’t try to fight it. The more you resist them, the greater the potential damage will be.”

“Them?”
he thought to himself.
“Who the hell is
‘them’?”

He looked around sharply. Those were his words, his thoughts. But they had sounded aloud in the grotto, echoed by voices as wraithlike as they were distinctive. There was no one else in the chamber but him. Nothing else but floor, ceiling, and walls. Walls indented with dark hollows. He chose one, peering hard into its inky depths. Behind him, a door closed, shutting Dame Vaako away from view. He had been brought here for something more than a tour intended to impress him with the might and endurance of Necromonger society. There was something else in the grotto with him.

“Something in here that’s—”
He stopped. Or rather tried to. Easier to stop talking than to stop thinking.
“Who’s saying that?”
His own mind was betraying him. Something was present; stealing his thoughts, repeating them out loud in a voice that was quavering but comprehensible. This was not something that could be shut down or cut off by the edge of a blade.

Peering at the single figure within, the Lord Marshal nodded to the Purifier. “Touch is established. Any time.” Turning, the Purifier passed a hand over one lens among many that was set in a control panel.

Inside the grotto, focused gravity caught Riddick in its invisible grip and shoved him to his knees. The weight of his own body had suddenly become barely bearable. Hands pushing against the smooth surface, he fought to keep from being crushed all the way to the floor.

From a balcony above the chamber, elite soldiers watched the drama unfolding below. No matter how effective the tightly focused gravity or how helpless it appeared to render the subject, they had been instructed to be on full guard at all times. While privately questioning the need for what seemed to be excessive vigilance, they silently obeyed the orders they had been given. Standing opposite the guards, Vaako and his consort followed the play intently, knowing it could only have one ending.

In the center of the grotto Riddick struggled against a bond he was not only unable to break, but one he could not even get a grip on. As he struggled to keep suddenly heavy lungs working, he caught a change of light and shadow out of the corner of one eye. There was movement beyond the gravity lens that restrained him. Movement within the dark hollows that lined the far wall.

The shapes that came sliding out were tall and rounded. Whorls and inscriptions decorated their sides. They resembled the ancient ammonites of old Earth, but there was nothing primitive about the technology that drove them. Each supported, both physically and organically, a single body draped in a diaphanous shroud. Symbols and signs on shrouds and motile disks testified to the importance of the bodies they bore.

The bodies themselves did not move. They existed in a condition difficult even for accomplished biologists to properly describe. Commonly, they were known among the Necromongers who revered them as the Quasi-Dead, representatives of a unique order founded by Kryll himself. The same technology that preserved their bodies from final decay allowed the desiccated remains to serve as housings for minds that were as ruthless as they were insightful. All but freed from their physical forms, these minds were capable of inserting themselves into the mental pathways of others. They were able to view—and to search.

A wary Riddick tracked the apparitions as they trundled into place, forming a circle around him. Visually nothing more than a bunch of creepy corpses fastened to supportive platforms, mentally they were far more impressive. Almost immediately, they commenced their probing of the single subject pinned down before them.

“Wondering,” the voices chimed. Looking at them, appraising them, Riddick was unable to tell whether they were all male, all female, or a mix thereof. It did not matter. Inside his head, they were all the same.

“Wondering about us . . . realizing now that we’re in his mind. Beginning to fathom the Dark Thought. Trying to shut us out, shut down the here-and-now. Resisting—anything to resist. But vainly, so vainly. Cannot think not to think without thinking about it. The inevitable conundrum. It will fade and fail, as they all do.”

Eyes shut tight, Riddick flinched as a mental thrust tore through his brain. Doing everything possible to resist, he quickly realized there was nothing he could do. If not restrained by the gravity lens, he could have run headfirst into the nearest wall and knocked himself out. But that would have been a foolish defense. Unconscious, he would be safe from the prying, from the probing. And then he would wake up, and it would start all over again. That much was obvious. He could not outwait his silent interrogators. The almost dead had an infinity of patience.

So he remained conscious and cogitating, trying to mute and protect his thoughts while simultaneously striving, searching for a way to fight back. Restrained in both body and mind, he found himself wilting under the relentless assault from multiple minds. Sensing growing weakness, they probed harder. They were not worried about damaging the subject. The body was resilient. Besides, they were much experienced at their work. A dead subject was a useless subject. So while they pushed, they also moderated their intrusion. The process of dragging information out of an unwilling subject was always an adventure.

“Thinking of escape now.”

“Always an opening.”
Riddick tried, but was unable to keep from hearing his own thoughts repeated aloud for any who might be listening. And he had no doubt that many were.
“Wait for the chance and attack it. It’ll come, it’ll come. . . .”

“Having many ideas now,” the collective Quasi-Dead voice intoned solemnly. “All swirling, chaotic. A conscious attempt to confuse. As admirable as it is ineffective. An interesting specimen. An interesting mind. But still a mind; human, organic, unable to hide . . .”

The Lord Marshal had expected resistance. Subjects always resisted, at first. Some lasted only a few seconds before succumbing to the inevitability of the Quasi-Dead’s probing. Others managed to fight for minutes. A few, a very few, went insane before the desired information could be extracted. He had ample confidence that this man would not go that way. Not until the Lord Marshal had learned what he wanted to know, anyway. He hoped the subject would survive intact, both mentally and physically. If not dangerous, he could be useful, as every good fighter was. Provided just enough of his mind was preserved.

“Regress,” he ordered via a special pickup. One did not converse with the Quasi-Dead as one did to visitors across a table, with drink and food at hand and music playing in the background. But communication was possible.

There was a brief pause as the unique minds repositioned themselves mentally. Then, “New mindscape. Just hours old. Relevant image indistinct. Particularly strong retention factor. Wondering about some ‘visitation’—who she is. Where she is from. Her purpose in appearing before him. Wondering what her appearance means for— Wait. Subject attempting to dissemble. Overcoming. Wondering what she means by—
Furyans
?”

The Lord Marshal twitched slightly. The scene being played out within the grotto of the Quasi-Dead now had his full attention. “Again,” he ordered. “Regress again. Further. Distant past. Not hours, but years. All the way. Anything related. Seek significance. Seek clarification. Seek
link.
”

The Vaakos were monitoring not only the interrogation within the grotto, but the questioning from without. Now Dame Vaako turned to the man next to her.

“Curious. The unusual intensity. Have you ever seen him this way? The Lord Marshal?” Her attention was shifting back and forth between the session taking place below and the two men responsible for its direction.

Vaako had been wholly absorbed in studying Riddick’s attempts to fight off the inexorable intrusion of the Quasi-Dead. He glanced over at her irritably. “What’s that? What ‘way’ is that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she responded casually. “Concerned. Worried.”

Vaako shifted his attention to where the Lord Marshal and the Purifier stood talking together. “I don’t see it,” he replied finally.

She lifted one shoulder slightly. “I must be mistaken.”

On the floor below, Riddick fought the regression as hard as he had battled the initial intrusion. It was a door in his mind he did not want to unlock. Not only for the relentless, probing Quasi-Dead, but for himself. He was not going to be allowed the privacy of self. Questing thoughts ripped and tore at his past.

It took the form of a visual metaphor. From nothingness, a hand reached out and extended through space. Seemingly endless, it terminated in thick, powerful fingers. A world appeared, green and lush. Was it the same world he had seen in his recent dream, while locked in cryosleep? The fingers plunged downward and tore into the surface of the planet as if its granitic crust were skin. The fingers dug for a moment before emerging with thousands of life-forms in their grasp. Minuscule wriggling shapes, near microscopic human life-forms no more than hours old. Oozing through the massive fingers as they clenched into a fist, the figures fell away screaming and crying into the great void of space—until only one remained. One child shape, infinitesimally tiny, dangling from between two fingers. Hanging on, fighting for life, screaming in pain. Screaming infant defiance. Screaming, screaming . . .

Abruptly, Riddick’s eyes rolled back in his head. His body, already crunched beneath the force of the gravity lens, slumped forward. Outside the grotto, readouts unexpectedly went flat. Restless and disturbed, the Lord Marshal spoke forcefully from his position above.

“Bring it back. There is more I need to know. Where did he come from? His birth world? His subsequent history? These are things I need to know, and I need to know them—”

He broke off. Something was wrong. Leaning forward, he peered down into the grotto. The Quasi-Dead were shuddering atop their support platforms. Near-dead bodies twitched erratically. Legs virtually devoid of muscle spasmed atop their smooth, curving supports. Beneath ceremonial shrouds, sunken faces grew agitated.

“Something—new,” the unified voices were chorusing uneasily. “Feedback in the dark thought. Not resistance—something more. Not receding—coming out. Coming forward.” The sense of disquiet increased. “Need to stop. Stop the feedback before— before—”