The Chronicles of Riddick Part 12

Between picking up what they could of the terse conversation and combining it with what Ridd.i.c.k was doing, even the slowest-witted prisoner soon had a pretty good idea of the big man's intention. Realization provoked disbelief, and debate.

"He's out of his mind," one man declared without hesitation. "Won't last five minutes out there."

His companion was staring out a port as the control room surfaced. It was still pitch-black outside- for a little while. "Five minutes?" He nodded at the vista of blackened, blasted lava; a twisted maze of extruded volcanic rock that could alternately trip, trap, or cut a man to shreds. "Sixty seconds in the sun will light you up like a match. You don't tan out there- you combust."

The prisoner behind him was nodding vigorously. "Traditional twenty-mile buffer zone. That's thirty klicks to the hangar. Then you got to find a way in- if you still got water in you."

"What is it?" another man was saying over and over. "What's he thinking?"

As he stared outside, the first convict was shaking his head: slowly and with conviction. "Thirty klicks. Over that that terrain. Even if it was dead flat and covered in gra.s.s-" terrain. Even if it was dead flat and covered in gra.s.s-"

"Don't talk about gra.s.s," another convict growled despondently.

"It'd still be a tough slog," the first man finished. "And me, I ain't no runner."

"Better alive in here than fried out there," someone else declaimed fervently.

Ridd.i.c.k was busy collecting guns from the floor, as indifferent to the discussion as he was to the ident.i.ty of the weapons' former owners. Muscular arms almost full, he started to turn, hesitated, bent, and added a bag of nuts to the acc.u.mulated a.r.s.enal.

Trying to muster his own courage as much as that of his compatriots, the Guv gestured first at the blasted landscape outside, then at a surviving instrument. "Check out the chronograph. The terminator line's moving in the right direction-toward the hangar, more or less. We travel with it, stay behind the night and in front of the day. In the tolerable zone." Out of ideas, he turned to Ridd.i.c.k.

Black goggles surveyed the suddenly attentive convicts. "Gonna be one speed: mine. Anybody wants to tippy-toe their way is on their own. If you can't keep up, don't step up. You'll just die." He nodded toward the man who had indicated a preference for remaining behind. Clearly, his opinion was not an isolated one. "Dog that stays in its doghouse doesn't get many chances at freedom."

With that he started forward, brushing past Kyra. Her conflicted expression was almost as tormented as the terrain outside.

They had to blow a window. Designed to withstand the incredible extremes of temperature and the howling winds to which Crematoria was subjected, it could not simply be kicked out. Fortunately, one thing they now had plenty of was ammunition. Once some fringing, shattered shards of clinging acrylic was cleared, Ridd.i.c.k stepped through.

And out onto the surface of Crematoria.

No smooth-surfaced walkway or tunnel underfoot here. No comforting, protective walls. Nothing but black lava-mostly solidified ropy pahoehoe, with a sprinkling of dangerously sharp a'a.

f.u.c.k geology, Ridd.i.c.k mused as he started forward without pausing. The bleak, blackened surface was something to be got over, to be crossed, to survive-not to be a.n.a.lyzed. Ridd.i.c.k mused as he started forward without pausing. The bleak, blackened surface was something to be got over, to be crossed, to survive-not to be a.n.a.lyzed.

He was followed by three of the convicts; their mouths set, their expressions intense, their arms full of weaponry. Every man and woman dies someday, they all knew, and they were of a mind to do it fighting for their freedom rather than squatting in a hole in the ground waiting to be fed and toyed with like mice at the bottom of a well. If nothing else, they might get a chance to take one of their malevolent tormentors with them.

If they could catch up to the guards, or get to the hangar before them. they could catch up to the guards, or get to the hangar before them.

Another window got blown out. Kyra always did prefer to make her own way. Stepping through the new gap, she advanced to stand close to Ridd.i.c.k. As close as he ever let anyone, that is.

"I'm really not expecting this to work out, okay? Just looks like a cool way to check out." She offered up a wan smile. "I was getting kinda bored with the lifestyle, you know?"

"Just one rule this time." Digging through the gear he had scavenged, he tossed her an oxygen unit. "Stay out of the light."

She nodded knowingly. "Kinda reverses things, don't it?"

"Till I get my payday," voice interrupted.

It was Toombs. Weapon in hand, grinning unpleasantly, he stepped outside. A couple of the convicts thought about intervening, but hesitated. Whatever they might think of the big man, this was his business to settle, not theirs. And the mercenary had already demonstrated a disquieting ability not only to survive, but to thrive. Which was one way of saying he was a h.e.l.luva quick shot.

"Technically speaking," the mercenary went on, losing the grin, "you're still my prisoner."

Ridd.i.c.k made no attempt to bring one of the guns he carried to bear. With black goggles between his eyes, and those of everyone around him, it was impossible to tell where they were focused. The same ambiguity did not apply to his words.

"Don't move."

Toombs took umbrage. Maybe the present situation wasn't quite what he would have preferred, but he was d.a.m.ned if he was going to put up with that kind of s.h.i.t from a lousy prisoner.

"Me don't move? What is this, Reverso World? You're forgetting the totality of the reality, man. don't move? What is this, Reverso World? You're forgetting the totality of the reality, man. You You don't move." don't move."

The big man didn't-but not because the mercenary had voiced an order. "Better adjust that att.i.tude if you want to have a chance of getting out of this. And whatever you do, do not not point that weapon at me." point that weapon at me."

Toombs's face twisted as if it had suddenly turned to putty. It might have been working toward another grin. No one would ever know, because as soon as the muzzle of the gun he was holding started to come up, something big, superfast, and nasty slammed into him fang first from behind.

Convicts blanched and backed away as the h.e.l.lhound ripped into the mercenary. With the mad strength of the d.a.m.ned, Toombs somehow managed to wrench his gun around and fire. It blew a hole through his attacker, but by that time the beast was already crunching the mercenary's throat in its jaws. Man and monster died together, alien blood and human blood mixing indiscriminately on the black rock of a world foreign to both and beloved by neither.

In less than a minute, Toombs lay motionless, his life seeping out onto the rocks. Atop him, the h.e.l.lhound was still breathing in short, shuddering gasps despite the gaping wound in its torso. Moving close, Ridd.i.c.k happened to notice the tag on the beast's ear. Number Five. Thrash. He bent over the dying animal.

Anxiously, the Guv was eyeing the predawn sky. Was the dark drape of the heavens a fragment brighter than just a few seconds ago? Or just a figment brighter? The distinction was crucial.

"Ridd.i.c.k," he muttered uneasily, "we'd better get moving."

Still staring down at the dying h.e.l.lhound, the big man straightened. His words were directed to the animal before him, not the men beside him.

"I know how it feels."

Then he turned and, without a look back, started off into the rocks.

They ran as fast as they could, which is to say, as fast as the landscape would allow. There was no direct route straight through the congealed lava, no convenient path connecting the nerve center of the prison compound with the distant promise of the hangar. It had never occurred to the designers and the builders of the complex to construct such a route because it was impossible to envision anyone foolish enough to try and make use of it, even in an emergency. Anyone planning a jog across the open surface of Crematoria would have to be disturbed, deranged, mentally addled.

Or Ridd.i.c.k.

Being in prison often damages the mind but frequently improves the body. Diet may suck, but overeating is rarely a concern. So the fugitives stayed together pretty well as they made their way through the twisted, bizarre hoodoo towers and frozen cataracts of black stone. No one fell behind. No one dared to. It was unspoken but understood by all that if someone fell and twisted an ankle, or proved unable to maintain the pace, they were on their own. There would be no improvised stretchers, no willing carriers, to help them along. Even if any of the convicts were inclined to help a comrade in such a situation, everyone knew there would not be enough time. Better one should perish than two more trying to help him.

And all the while, they were being pursued. Not by something as mundane as guards or even h.e.l.lhounds, but by a danger infinitely more threatening. Implacable, remorseless, and lethal. Dawn.

Hints of it began to show themselves back the way they had come; flecks of illumination, suggestions of sunshine. Innocent enough in themselves, but in reality the advance scouts of an approaching h.e.l.l. Survival depended on their remaining within the terminator as they ran on; within that tiny stripe of tolerability that divided Crematoria's fading, freezing night from its namesake approaching day. Meanwhile, the planet continued its slow but steady rotation, stalking them with a pursuing sun.

Mere thoughts of what was advancing steadily behind them were sufficient to keep them from freezing. That, and the heat of their own bodies as they burned calories to keep running. And always out in front, Ridd.i.c.k leading, searching, scanning with glittering eyes that could see better in the continuing dark than any instrument. Eyes that saw only the immediate future, backed by a mind sharply focused on the moment, and not the morrow.

While the dawn, normally a bringer of life but on Crematoria a burning, fiery angel of death, continued to gain on them.

The thing about the man leading them, was that nothing seemed to slow him down. If the fissure yawning ahead was too wide to jump, he angled left or right until it narrowed sufficiently. If the hill ahead was too steep or too slick with volcanic gla.s.s to climb, he would race around it. Where they might have stopped to argue and discuss, he just kept going. For men who had spent much of their lives leading others, it was a relief for a change to follow someone else. Especially someone who clearly knew what he was doing. They knew without having to discuss it what would happen if he did not. So they sucked oxygen and water from their respective suit units and sent to their legs the energy that normally would have been spent on complaining.

They had a bad moment when the big man seemed to have vanished into thin air. Anxiety rising, they searched their immediate surroundings in vain. There was no sight of him to right or left. As for straight ahead, that was blocked by an impossible rock face.

On top of which Ridd.i.c.k stood, waiting when he said he wouldn't wait. He continued to wait for them to scramble up to join him. No place to fall here, each of them knew. No time to slide back down and try again. No one looked downward, not because they feared the heights they were scaling, but because none of them wanted to see a place where they could never set foot again, and still live.

First one, then another, then Kyra and another, until almost all of them, panting hard, had joined the big man at the top. Slowed by his size, the Guv was last up, but he made it. As he did so, he shot a relieved look behind him. Something was tickling his shoulders, his upper spine, the back of his neck. Something persistent and creeping. It was the glow of the coming dawn. A rivulet of sweat coursed down his cheek.

He knew it would only be the first of many.

XIV.

The escapees were not the only life-forms pantingly venting carbon dioxide into the thin atmosphere of Crematoria. Spread out within the transport tunnel, the fleeing guards were double-timing it up a rise, flanking the now useless sled rails. The ascent brought the tunnel, and those within, nearer to the actual surface.

It was the guard Anatoli who, after stepping around an unexpected headless body lying between the sled rails, noted the mole hole. s.p.a.ced along major and minor transport tunnels alike, capped with tough, heat-resistant alloy, these shafts allowed engineers and service techs to carry out the occasional quick and easy manual check of the terrain above the conduits. There was no reason to bother with one now, of course, but . . .

Anatoli hadn't survived as a prison guard for as long as he had without taking every precaution in his work, even when precaution seemed superfluous. Now he slowed slightly, frowning at the shaft. No real reason to bother with it, of course. No reason except that years of experience had told him that the best way to keep one's head on one's shoulders was to use it when everyone else was ignoring theirs. Besides, carrying out a quick check couldn't hurt anything, and those were the best, most rea.s.suring kind to make.

"Boss," he muttered, nodding in the direction of the shaft. Wordless agreement pa.s.sed between wary superior and valued subordinate. Douruba spoke curtly to the man on his right.

"Malak, grab a look. Check out the flowers."

The guard protested. "What the s.h.i.t for? There's nothing up there. All the slugs are boxed up back in slam. Why waste the time? Because Anatoli says so?"

The slam boss was in no mood to argue. "Because his nose nose says so." says so."

Grumbling under his breath, Malak turned to comply. Douruba ignored his muttered curses. In a job like this, in a place like this, a man needed to be able to let off steam. Let off steam on Crematoria, he thought. That was pretty funny. Nothing much funny had happened ever since that last f.u.c.kin' quick-tempered merc crew had arrived at his place with their one unsettling package.

Well, it would all work out. They had all the payoff money on hand and the mercs would get blamed for the destruction. The a.s.sorted powers that be who needed and funded a s.h.i.t hole like Crematoria would b.i.t.c.h and moan about the cost of replacement. Then they'd sigh, suck it up, stick their const.i.tuents with some artfully hidden special tax, and come in and rebuild. He wouldn't be around to see it, though. He intended to take his share of the money and retire. To someplace cold. Where it snowed.

Still complaining, the guard at the bottom of the shaft activated the self-powered lift mechanism. There was a grinding sound as the metal cap elevated on screws that were miniatures of the ones that raised and lowered the slam control room. Punching through acc.u.mulated crust and dust, it hummed to a halt half a meter above the surface.

Resigned to the work, the muttering guard climbed up and cautiously positioned himself beneath the cap. From there he had a more or less 360-degree view of the surface terrain. A check of his chronometer showed that the sun was still below the horizon. If it wasn't, he wouldn't be up here. No sane person would.

But someone was.

His jaw dropped as he spied the moving shapes. Their movements too loosey-goosey for machines, they had to be human. While their sanity remained a matter for conjecture, there was no question that they were advancing, and advancing fast. They shouldn't be advancing anywhere, he knew. They should be dead.

That was a correctable anomaly. Bringing up his rifle, he started to level it with the intention of sighting in on the first figure. But just before he could lock on, the advancing column made a sharp turn and disappeared into a fissure. Had they seen him? That seemed impossible. n.o.body could spot ground-level movement at such a distance. Or could they? Malak's thoughts turned, unwillingly, to a certain recently arrived inmate to whom Douruba had referred repeatedly.

"What the h.e.l.l's going on up there?" came the impatient voice of the slam boss. Malak looked down.

"Better see for yourself, boss!"

In a moment, Douruba and Anatoli had made their way up to join the first man. Crowded together at the top of the molehole and at first seeing nothing in the still dim light, it took a moment for their eyes to focus and register on the figures that reemerged from the distant fissure, still moving forward but on a tack that kept them well out of range. Only one of them was readily recognizable, and the slam boss wished it wasn't.

"Ridd.i.c.k . . ."

"No way," mumbled Malak. "No way. He was down in the tiers when we broke out. How in the h.e.l.l . . . ?"

"This is is h.e.l.l, remember?" snapped Douruba. He started hurriedly back down the shaft. h.e.l.l, remember?" snapped Douruba. He started hurriedly back down the shaft.

At the bottom, the new and unexpected development prompted a hasty conference. Various suggestions were mooted, some more hopeful than practical. Those Douruba ignored. If nothing else, he had always been a practical man.

"No chance do they get to the hangar first," Malak declared vehemently. "No chance."

"Nothin' but rock between here and there," another man put in. "They're in the c.r.a.p zone. Black lava everywhere. They're toast." On Crematoria, such an a.s.sessment was not metaphorical.

"I dunno," the man standing next to him exclaimed. "That one guy, that Ridd.i.c.k-I don't like the idea of walkin' into the hangar with him maybe hangin' from the ceiling, waiting for us."

"And he's not alone," Anatoli pointed out. "Couldn't get a for-sure count, but maybe half a dozen total. All armed."

This revelation spurred more concern. When the uneasy chatter had died down, the slam boss stepped in. "All right. We make sure sure they don't get to the hangar first." His expression was hard. "We make sure they don't get to the hangar at all. Move out." they don't get to the hangar first." His expression was hard. "We make sure they don't get to the hangar at all. Move out."

They did so, wordlessly and faster than before.

Up above, it was raining. On Crematoria, that meant ash: sometimes brown, occasionally white, but most often black. Where the crust was weak or thin and swirling magma came close to the surface, distant volcanoes and cinder cones erupted from the volatile ground, spewing hot tears of feathery-soft rock. Like black snow, it drifted down to layer the uncompromising ground with shards of shroud.

It also draped the fast-moving escapees in speckled cloaks. The freshly vented volcanic material was always hot. Fortunately, this particular ash fall was not searingly so. Under a.s.sault by falling ash and acc.u.mulated perspiration, the fugitives found themselves discarding bits and pieces of clothing as they ran. The ash clung to damp, sweaty skin, but it was still better than overheating inside attire that had not been intended for outside use. And there was at least one ancillary benefit: themselves covered in ash, the escapees blended in astonishingly well with their now ash-covered surroundings. Having unintentionally acquired the look of ancient tribal warriors, they ran on, following the big man in the lead.

Except he was no longer in the lead. Or at least, the Guv decided, squinting into the dense ash fall, he was no longer in view. He started to slow, only to be jostled from behind. Angry, he readied a choice couple of words for whoever had b.u.mped into him. Unexpectedly, it was Kyra, the ferret of a girl no one had been able to get close to. Running steadily, smoothly alongside, she communicated without words. A nod forward, a quick shake of the head, and then a lengthening of stride as she moved into the lead. He understood her meaning perfectly. He just wasn't sure he accepted it.

But there was nothing else to do. Out here, on the surface of h.e.l.l, he was no longer the Guv. He was just another batch of bound-together carbon molecules, another sack of animate water, waiting for the sun to come up and evaporate him. While it was not an end he looked forward to, it was an end he antic.i.p.ated and was prepared to suffer. It was one he would probably meet, too. Unless the soft-spoken newcomer who had now vanished into the ash fall could pull off some kind of miracle. The Guv was not confident.

Miracles tended to elude convicts.

Directly ahead of them and still some distance away, the ground shuddered and cracked. Not from tectonic forces, but to allow for a thick cylinder of metal to rise above the surrounding stone and acc.u.mulating ash. It was the cap to a second molehole. As soon as open ports appeared below the cap, the lethal tube shape of an a.s.sault rifle eased forward out the opening.

The slam boss might move slow at times, the guard behind the weapon thought, but he knew his business. Estimating the best speed the escapees could make over the difficult, tricky terrain, he had chosen this shaft as the site for the ambush. Even so, the guard noted, they were almost too late. The fleeing convicts were really hoofing it. The key word, he knew, was "almost."

He saw them through the ashfall; not clearly, but well enough to count individual shapes. They were just silhouettes moving toward him, but that was enough. A hand whacked his lower leg and he looked down and whispered.

"We're just in time. They're right here. Three o'clock and moving fast."

"Tough b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," another guard muttered from where he was squinched in below the first.

"Be dead b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in a couple of minutes." The guard who had spotted the fugitives adjusted his electronic scope. Below him, his companions busied themselves chambering ammunition. A few bursts would be all it would take: death erupting unexpectedly from the ground.

The guard's view through the gun scope cleared as internal electronics resolved the view. He sighted in on the lead runner-and hesitated. Puzzlement was evident in his voice as he looked up and over the gun barrel.

"Hey. Where'd the big guy go?"

Standing atop the molehole lid, Ridd.i.c.k swung the metal spike around and down, its tip describing a perfect arc through the ash. Formerly an anchor loosely attached to the top of the molehole, it had been pressed into duty for which it had not been designed, but for which it proved more than sufficient. Proof of this arrived in the form of a loud crunching sound as it made direct contact with the startled guard's face. The face lost.

Finger convulsing on the trigger of his rifle, the already dead guard slipped backward. Stance lost, life lost, he tumbled down the molehole shaft like a rag-doll casually tossed aside by an uncaring child, bouncing and b.u.mping off his stunned comrades who had cl.u.s.tered below. The single spontaneous shot from his weapon alerting the fugitives to the molehole's position, they unlimbered their own weapons and charged into the fray, firing at the pop-up target Ridd.i.c.k had already abandoned. After years of misery and abuse, the thrill of finally being able to strike back at their tormentors reinvigorated each and every one of them as effectively as a Spring shower.

Man-made chaos complemented the natural state of Crematoria's surface as the convicts attacked from several directions, careful to keep from spreading out too far lest they catch each other in a dangerous cross fire. Frozen lava provided plenty of cover that they used to good advantage, working their way ever closer to the molehole. Within, guards scrambled to bring their own weapons to bear. But they were constrained by their tight surroundings. With sh.e.l.ls exploding on the ground and sending flesh-cutting splinters of rock flying through the port, and others exploding with ear-shattering force against the metal of the molehole itself, it was almost impossible to line up a decent shot.

Meanwhile, the convicts were closing in. As the guards went down the chute, the jubilant escapees crowded around and began emptying their weapons into the narrow shaft. For their part, the guards fired frantically upward, no longer even trying to take aim, just trying to hold off the rain of death that was being poured in on them from above.

Inside the molehole shaft there was no place to hide, no cover to be had. One guard went down, then another. Men kept firing, slamming into one another, bouncing off flesh and walls as they fought to get out of the shaft that had become a cylindrical metal coffin. When the last survivor, wide-eyed and frantic, finally spilled out of the bottom of the shaft like a panicked gerbil, the grim-faced boss slammed the control lever hard over.

Above, the molehole cap began to descend, ratcheting downward until it was once more level with the surface. Elated, the convicts stepped back to savor the small triumph over their despised tormentors. Only one did not. Unsatisfied, her face crazed with hatred, Kyra immediately attacked the edges of the cylinder with the barrel of her weapon.

"Gonna go down there," she was growling ferociously. "Find 'em. Just cut 'em up, gut 'em up, into little bite-size pieces. Wolf 'em down and s.h.i.t them over the nearest cliff. C'mon, Ridd.i.c.k. Let's get nitty-gritty on their a.s.ses!" She looked up, frowned. "Ridd.i.c.k?"