The Chronicles of Riddick

by Alan Dean Foster

  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.

  Cloak 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.”

  Imam 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 o
ff. 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—”

  He broke off as a third presence established itself in the room. Riddick noticed it, too. The attention of both had shifted to the stairway mezzanine, where a slim, bright-eyed young girl was watching both of them keenly. While Riddick’s gaze shifted, the blade did not.

  The girl was nothing if not perceptive. “Riddick?” she whispered, clearly in awe. Emerging from such a young throat, and such an innocent one, somehow made it sound less intimidating. She was not afraid. Her wide eyes suggested wonder, not fear.

  The emotions of the woman who stepped up behind her, still wet from the shower, were considerably more confused. “Riddick,” she said, echoing the girl. Her tone was neither so innocent nor so indifferent. Her head was cocooned in a setting wrap. When she removed it, her hair would be set in the style she had chosen prior to entering the shower. Riddick guessed her to be somewhere in her mid-thirties, the girl five or maybe a little older.

  He had never met either of them, but they clearly knew him well enough to recognize him, even in the shadowy light. If they knew him by sight, it followed that they also knew his reputation. It did not appear to bother the girl. But the look in the woman’s eyes . . .

  Making a decision for reasons only he could fathom, Riddick drew the knife away from Imam’s throat. Advancing, he examined the woman. She did not back away, but neither did she feel comfortable under the stare. It hinted at all sorts of experiences, all manner of knowledge. It made her feel undressed without knowing why.

  Having turned his back on the delegate without so much as a care, Riddick now glanced at him. “A wife.”

  Imam nodded. “Lajjun. We were married not long after . . .” His voice trailed away. He didn’t need to explain to Riddick. Riddick had been there for all the “after.”

  Riddick looked at the woman, down to the girl, then at the woman again. “You know,” he said finally, “it’s been a long time since ‘beautiful’ entered my brain. I’d pretty much forgotten what it meant, what it could apply to. It’s been even longer since I was able to apply it human beings. How long has it been, Imam?”

  “Five. Five years.”

  It became very quiet in the room. Imam thought he could hear his own heart beating. To her credit, Lajjun held her poise. She would not back down for anyone, he knew. It was one of the reasons he had fallen in love with her, one of the reasons he had married her. But he would not have thought any the less of her if she had backed away, or fled upstairs, or started screaming. There was an exception to every rule, and right now that exception was standing in the room directly in front of her.

  She moved to shepherd the girl out of the antechamber. As she did, Riddick took a step forward. Imam tensed, but their visitor only gestured inoffensively at the child. “And a daughter. Named?”

  Imam licked his lips. Now more than ever, it was important to do and say the right thing. Other lives than his were at stake. He had traveled with this man, had suffered tragedy beside him, but he did not know him. He doubted anyone did.

  A wise man once observed that in attempting to determine whether a bomb was a dud or not, it was best not to try and find out by hammering on the detonator.

  “If you have issue with me,” he finally responded, “let it be with me alone. You have no quarrel with anyone else in this house.”

  “Named?” Riddick repeated softly, his tone unchanged.

  Stubbornness would gain nothing here, Imam knew. His visitor was a master of patience. “Ziza. Her name is Ziza.”

  At the sound of her name the girl cocked her head slightly and met the big man’s gaze without flinching, armored with the bravery of innocence. “Did you really kill the monsters? The ones that were gonna hurt my father? On the dark planet, where the sun went away and the nightmares came to life?”

  Instead of replying, Riddick shot a look at the man he had come to see. Without saying a word, his expression clearly conveyed his query: She knows about that?

  Imam shrugged slightly. “Such are our bedtime stories. You know children. They want to know everything, especially about their parents. Ziza is very mature for her age.”

  Like magic, the blade in Riddick’s hand vanished from sight. Imam did not quite breathe a sigh of relief. He knew the knife could reappear just as quickly.

  It was as if a signal had been given to Lajjun to leave and take the girl with her. She complied, despite Ziza’s desire to remain. The child was fascinated by their visitor. She was not the first to be so.

  “Who did you tell?” Riddick asked resignedly. “Who do I now gotta put on a slab just to get this rancid payday offa my head? You should’ve kept your mouth shut, Imam.”

  “Events conspire.” His host had relaxed a little since his wife and child had been allowed to leave the room. “You wouldn’t find them. Even if you looked.”

  The big man almost, but not quite, grinned. “Why would I look? When you can bring them right to me?”

  “It is not so easy as you think.”

  The shadow of a smile vanished immediately. “Don’t talk to me about what isn’t easy. My whole life has been about surviving what isn’t easy.” He gestured slightly with his right hand. It remained empty. “If communications still function on this overlit ball of dirt, it’s time to use them.”

  IV

  They waited together on the small veranda of the upper floor: two men who had been through a difficult time together, surviving when all around them had perished. It was all they had in common, but it was enough for the moment, Imam knew. How long the bond would hold he did not know. Long enough, he hoped. Long enough to give him time to at least explain himself.

  For now, though, they passed the time in contemplation of the night sky. The glow of the great beacons made it impossible to see mo
re than a star or two. Still, by focusing on a chosen corner of sky, it was possible to observe a small section of the universe in all its nocturnal splendor. Growing up, and for most of his life, Imam had regarded it with a mixture of wonder and anticipation. Now it had become home to something dreadful. Perhaps the end of everything he had known. Much depended, perhaps, on the man standing nearby. Knowing what he did of his guest, it seemed a terrible risk to settle so much hope on so unpredictable an individual.

  A comet was crossing the sky, high in the east. Some things, at least, would not be affected by what was rumored to be out there. The thought helped to calm him.

  “Nero died, the Roman empire lapsed into civil war, a new Caesar came to power, and Old Earth was forever changed. All under the watchful eye of a comet. Throughout human history, comets have been considered auguries of violent change.” He gazed out over the rooftops of the old residential quarter.

  “Just one more omen in a season of omens—all of them bad.” Turning away from the nocturnal vista, he regarded his visitor. “Do you know what’s been happening in the civilized galaxy?”

  Riddick’s expression twisted slightly. “Sorry. I’ve kinda been out of touch. When trying to stay alive and find enough to eat becomes a full-time occupation, you tend to give the news a pass.”

  Imam nodded, not needing to know the details. “Coalsack is gone. Dead and silent. The Aquilian system, gone quiet too. Helion Prime shares its bounty with several less naturally endowed worlds nearby. If we fall, they fall. And after that . . .”

  He stopped talking. Riddick was at a table, playing with a knife. As Imam looked on, his guest passed the blade through a pair of decorative metal candle-sticks, severing them cleanly. His expression said unambiguously, “Nice edge.”

  Imam risked the sound of impatience. “Have you heard anything I’ve said? Or are you always focused on—business.”

  Riddick put the knife up. “Yeah, I heard you. Said it’s all circlin’ the drain. Whole galaxy. Civilization local, nearby, distant.”