by Frank Lauria
Calmly, Riddick flexed his body and popped his shoulders back into place.
He was free.
Ignoring the pain shrieking through his arms and chest, Riddick reached for the torch.
There was an air of expectancy in the cargo, as the oversized doors rumbled open. Fry, Paris, and Johns stepped into a darkened corridor lined with cargo containers. Leading the way, Fry’s light swept past the numbered access doors.
“Mine here.” Paris called out gleefully. He pressed a chubby pink palm against the ID pad and the access door rolled up. An interior light blinked on, revealing the contents.
As Johns moved closer, his vision swayed and his legs turned to water. He grabbed a metal rung to steady himself. Fry noticed the lawman’s sudden spasm and put an arm out.
“What’s the matter?”
Johns pushed away from the rung. “Little swamp flu from the Conga System.” He explained with an intrepid grin. “Never shook it with all this cryosleep.”
Fry saw he was sweating and shivering at the same time. Whatever he had, she hoped it wasn’t catching.
“It’s all here,” Paris cooed ecstatically.
Fry turned and saw why the plump man seemed so happy. The contents of his locker could have stocked a major museum. Tiffany chairs stacked ten high, bronze eagle lecterns, Oriental umbrellas, neo-Egyptian casings, pre-Chrislam chalices—all priceless treasures in the harsh frontiers of deep space.
“King Tut’s tomb,” Johns muttered, his face set in a greedy scowl.
Paris noticed. “Be surprised what these will fetch in the Taurus system.” He crowed. “Here, this Wooten here . . .”
Brushing past the chubby man, Johns lifted one end of the secretary as if weighing it.
“Easy, easy,” Paris said breathlessly. “Very rare.” He unlocked the top shelf. Cubbyholed inside the small desk were dusty bottles of sherry, vintage port, Cognac, Glenfiddich scotch, Bacardi 151 Rum, and overproof vodka.
Fry was incredulous. “This is it? Booze? That’s what you have to drink?”
Paris drew himself up. “Two-hundred-year-old single-malt scotch is to ‘booze’ as foie gras is to duck guts,” he informed her haughtily.
“A toast to whatever he said,” Johns announced, cracking open a bottle of Glenfiddich.
Paris glared at the burly lawman but he didn’t move to stop him. “I’ll need a reciept for that,” he said, with all the bravado he could muster. “For all of these.”
“Top of my list,” Fry assured him. She wondered if Paris was in denial or just totally deluded. Johns passed the bottle and Fry accepted. No sense wasting 200 years, she reflected as the scotch burned a soothing tunnel through her tension.
Imam and his pilgrims filed into the cargo area, finished with their prayers. Already a bit tipsy, Fry proffered the bottle. “I don’t suppose . . . ?”
The Muslim monk gave her a regretful smile. “Unfortunately, it is not permitted—especially while on hajj . . .”
“Why?” Johns snapped. “There is no water. You understand that, don’t you?”
Imam smiled patiently, as if instructing an errant child. “All deserts have water somewhere. It is only to be found. God will lead us there.”
For a moment, Fry almost believed him. “Okay, listen up,” she said slowly, “we need water, weapons, food, in that order. Go through your lockers and bring whatever supplies you find to Nav Bay. We’ll all meet there in exactly sixty tics.”
With the muted enthusiasm of children opening birthday presents, the survivors pillaged the cargo lockers, pulling out anything that might qualify as a weapon, or could be useful. Imam found a spare pair of spectacles in his own locker and immediately put them on.
Having accounted for all his weapons, Johns decided to check on his prisoner. But as he moved along the tilted corridor he sensed something was wrong. A clammy film of sweat coated his skin. He hurried his steps then stopped short.
Holding the wall for support, Johns stared at the deserted bulkhead, teetering between disbelief, and grudging admiration.
Impossibly, Riddick had escaped.
Johns hefted his long-barreled laser pistol. Sure, he fumed, heading for the bright slash of sunlight ahead. Like we need another way to die.
Despite the intense heat outside, Johns’ skin still felt cold and clammy. He shivered slightly as he stood on the half-buried hull. Nothing moved on the barren, wreckage-strewn landscape. His eyes swept the area again and saw something glinting on the ground, near the damaged ship. Johns slowly climbed down, pistol ready and senses alert. Riddick liked setting little traps.
Carefully, Johns picked up the shiny metal object. He recognized it immediately.
It was Riddick’s mouth bit.
Distracted by the curiosities they’d uncovered, the survivors took the news of Riddick’s escape without undue concern. Because they don’t know what he can do, Johns thought, feeling ill. He was cuffed behind his back, for chrissakes. Now he’s out there—waiting.
Nobody noticed Johns’ distress as the survivors took inventory. Amazingly, for people traveling to alien worlds, there was little food. But Fry had uncovered an ample supply of nutrient tablets. Zeke and Shazza had plenty of survival gear, including a pickax, digging tools, and hunting boomerangs. Johns had a pistol, baton, and shotgun with him, as well as a knife. Imam came up with a ceremonial sword that was more showy than sharp. Along with the liquor supply and delicacies such as caviar, olives, and smoked oysters, Paris had a number of antique weapons. The chubby art dealer struggled into Nav Bay with an armload of curious objects, and gingerly placed them on the floor.
“What the hell are these?” Johns muttered, nudging the brightly painted weapons with his toe. The curved blades looked like long steel fangs.
“Marata crow-bill war picks from Northern India,” Paris whispered proudly. “Very rare.”
Zeke moved closer and picked up a long, carved wood tube. “An’ this here?”
“Blowdart hunting stick from Papua New Guinea. Very, very rare,” Paris added, with a superior tone. “Since the tribe’s extinct.”
Zeke snorted and put the tube back, “Extinct cuz they couldn’t hunt shit with these things be my guess.” He winked at Audrey.
“Well, what’s the need for this war party hardware, anyway?” Paris shot back with annoyance. He glowered at Johns like a fat pekinese. “If your prisoner is gone, he’s gone. Why should he bother us?”
Johns locked on his eyes. “Maybe to take what we got,” he suggested, voice low and tight. “Maybe to work our nerves. Or maybe he’ll come back just to skull-fuck us in our sleep.”
The intensity in his tone convinced them. Paris’ face seemed to pucker up as if sucking a lemon, while the rest began rummaging through the weapons.
The Muslim pilgrims converted to their traditional desert robes, which were well suited for the terrain. Led by Imam, the group also planned to explore the region for water. Fry decided to go with them. However, at the moment, it was too hot to go anywhere. Especially without water. The twin suns blanking out the sky seared through the thin air like cutting torches.
Zeke and Shazza remained inside, working on the breather units. Using tubing and ball-floats, like a snorkeling device, Zeke modified one of the breathers so that it supplied oxygen on demand, rather than a constant flow.
“Here, luv,” Shazza beckoned to Audrey. “You give it a try.” She helped the little girl strap the unit over her nose and chin.
Audrey sucked on the mouthpiece. A few seconds later she nodded happily. It worked.
“You keep that one, luv,” Zeke told her. “I’ll make us another.”
Fry also kept herself busy during the long hot spell by preparing Owens’ body for burial. She wrapped his ravaged corpse, then with Zeke’s help put him in the compartment where the other dead crewmen were being stored. By the time Fry had finished it seemed slightly cooler. She went outside where Johns was standing atop the ship, scanning the area with a scope. Sure enough the red
sun was dipping low on the horizon. As Fry watched, the yellow sun seemed inclined to follow its mate.
Above her, Johns’ scope was trained on a strange blue glow on the horizon. Fixated, Johns watched it slowly spread. What the hell is that? he wondered. Earlier he had found sections of Riddick’s chains in that same direction.
Fry’s emotions were still sodden with guilt. She tried to justify her decision to sacrifice the passengers by reminding herself of the cruel lessons she’d learned as a child. The early death of her space trash parents. The harsh sacrifices she’d endured to get into—and through—the Company’s Interstellar Flight Academy. No one had ever cut her any slack. She had to scratch for every inch against treacherous classmates, corrupt officers, and a system designed to eliminate females from command level. And the only way she survived was by being the toughest bitch on the flight deck.
Struggling to suppress her emotions, Fry joined the pilgrims, who were circled in a shady spot near the entrance to the ship. “Imam, we should leave soon,” she advised, pointing to the sky. “Before nightfall, but while the air is cool.”
The religious leader peered up through his spectacles and nodded.
Zeke’s head popped through the torn metal hull. “What? You’re goin’ off, too, then? Bloody dangerous with that psycho about.”
The hunter gave Fry a reassuring smile, but he was worried. Dishy blond fox like Fry attracts trouble anywhere in space, Zeke noted. Not that he wouldn’t fancy a bit of trouble.
Fry did not return his smile. “We’ve got to find water,” she reminded him brusquely. She gestured at the compartment where the bodies were stored. “Just do me a favor, huh? Get my crewies buried? They were good guys who died bad.”
Shazza floated up behind Zeke, her exotic features solemn. “O’course we will . . .”
“Imam!” the pilgrim called Azem shouted, “Imam . . . Look!”
Azem was pointing at something behind the ship. Fry rushed to his side, trailed by the others. As her eyes followed the direction of his outstretched arm, her face sagged.
One hundred degrees from where the other suns were setting, a blue star was flaring into view.
The dazed survivors gaped at the sun shimmering on the horizon like a brilliant blue sapphire.
“My bloody oath . . .” Shazza muttered.
Audrey stood wide-eyed, her breather forgotten. “Three suns?”
Zeke glanced at Fry. “So much for your nightfall.”
“So much for my cocktail hour,” Paris said.
Imam remained optimistic. “We take this as a good sign,” he declared. “A path—a direction from Allah.” He noticed Zeke’s incredulous squint and smiled. “Blue sun, blue water.”
Zeke shook his head. “Ever wonder why I’m an atheist?”
Johns swung down from the top of the ship and dropped beside them. “I take it as a bad sign. That’s Riddick’s direction.”
Fry folded her arms. “I thought you found his restraints over there, toward sunset.”
Johns snorted as if it were obvious. “Which means he went toward sunrise.” Reluctantly he unstrapped his pistol and handed it to Zeke. “One shot if you spot him.”
“Aw crickey, you, too? Everybody asks us that.”
Paris wasn’t amused. “And if Mr. Riddick happens to spot us?”
“There will be no shots,” Johns assured.
Zeke’s smile faded and he scanned the sunrise horizon, as if the hard blue glare would reveal where Riddick lay in wait.
The Muslim pilgrims chanted from the Koran as they marched toward the rising sapphire star. Johns trailed close behind, providing shotgun escort. Fry brought up the rear, balancing one of Paris’ war picks on her shoulder like a scythe.
Fry was already hot and thirsty, and they were just a half-hour from the ship. She wondered if she’d make it back. There was a good chance she’d die out here on this surreal wasteland, under the pitiless gaze of three alien suns. The Muslims didn’t seem to care. And at this point neither did she, Fry realized dully. She only wished she had their faith to ease her bleak despair.
“Quiet.” Johns whispered abruptly. “Quiet!”
The Muslims fell silent. All of them stopped and looked at Johns.
Johns stood still, head cocked as if listening to something.
Suddenly he whirled, shotgun raised. At that moment a string of small rocks rattled slowly down the hillside. Fry glanced at the pilgrims. They all shared the same thought. Was Riddick stalking them?
Without a word Johns drifted up the hill to investigate.
Battered nearly senseless by the glaring heat, Fry approached Imam.
“Do you have a cloth I can use to wrap my head?”
The man proffered a traditionally patterned scarf, and helped her drape it correctly, shading her eyes. “Now you are a proper Muslim woman,” he said with a reassuring smile.
The headcloth provided instant shelter from the relentless sunlight. Fry took a deep breath through her air tube. For the first time she could look around without squinting. “So quiet,” she said, almost to herself. “You get used to the sounds of the ship, then . . .”
Imam blinked at her. “You know who Mohammed was?”
Fry shrugged. “Some prophet guy?”
“Some prophet guy . . .” Imam repeated, as if she had said something profound. “And a city man. But he had to travel to the desert—where there was quiet—to hear the word of Allah.”
“You were on a pilgrimage to New Mecca?” Fry asked, trying to be friendly.
The Muslim nodded solemnly. “Once in a lifetime should there be a great hajj—a great pilgrimage. To know Allah better, yes, but to know yourself, as well.”
Fry glanced up at Johns, who was doggedly scouring the hillside for tracks. “That’s one trip I probably shouldn’t take.”
Imam smiled and adjusted the scarf securely around her neck. “We are all on the same hajj now.”
Above them, Johns swept the area section by section, the way he had been taught at the Company school. No Riddick. But he did spot something else. He took the scope from his belt and lifted it to his eye. Adjusting the lens, the stark shapes outlined against a distant rise came into focus. Like pale green fingers scratching at the desolate rock.
Fry waited for Johns to report, but the lawman remained motionless, intent on something he saw out there. Finally she called up.
“What is it?”
Johns stared through the scope. “Looks like . . . trees . . .”
The news pumped fresh energy into their scouting party. Johns took the lead and the pilgrims chanted with renewed enthusiasm as they trekked across the blistering desert.
“Allahu Akbar . . .” they sang as they approached the rise. “. . . Allahu Akbar . . . God is great . . .”
Their voices trailed off as the trees loomed into view.
The pilgrims broke into an excited trot, anticipating an oasis. But Fry held back. She took a harder look at the trees. The branches weren’t moving in the wind.
Fry glanced aside. Johns and Imam had noticed the same thing.
Up ahead the pilgrims had scrambled over the rise and were now standing silently. When Fry, Johns, and Imam caught up, they saw why.
The “trees” were actually the dorsal bones of a gigantic skeleton, tinted green by lichen. Beyond lay an immense field of bleached animal bones. As Fry stared down at the vast graveyard, she heard a tortured moan, then another. The sounds rose in the wind like tormented pleas from the bowels of hell.
Despite the heat, the sweat froze on her skin, and she began to shiver.
Paris had assumed the job of lookout atop the damaged ship.
As usual, the plump art dealer had seen to his personal comfort. A veteran space voyager, Paris knew well the disparity of climate and temperature one encountered on various planets. He dealt with the scorching heat by erecting a “misting umbrella,” which he had devised for just such an eventuality. Normally the umbrella took water, but in this case sherry pr
oved an excellent alternative. Paris filled the reservoir with liquor, dialed a solar-powered regulator, and the umbrella spars shot cooling bursts of alcohol vapor over his reclining form.
Paris basked in his electronic oasis like a smug seal surveying his harem. He turned slightly when Zeke emerged below.
“Comfy up there?” Zeke inquired gruffly. He hauled a pickax and coiled cable from the torn hull and loaded it onto a crude sled he’d made of scrap metal.
“Amazing how you can do without the essentials of life,” Paris gloated. “So long as you have the luxuries.”
Scowling, Zeke tossed a roll of tarp onto the sled. He had little use for men like Paris. And he wasn’t fooled by the dealer’s soft exterior. Deadly treacherous, like a fat white spider, Zeke thought. He’d met the type before. If they ran out of food Paris would be first to turn cannibal—if he wasn’t already.
Zeke secured the load and glared up at Paris. “Just make sure you keep your bloody fuckin’ eyes open,” he growled, voice edged with menace. “Don’t want that ratbag killer sneakin’ up on me bloody fuckin’ arse.”
Paris responded with an airy wave. But as Zeke began dragging his sled toward the pinnacle hills, the portly dealer lay a war pick across his lap and made sure the razor boomerang was within reach. Then he eased back and poured himself a glass of sherry.
The moment the glass touched his lips, a cool steel blade slid across his throat. Paris went rigid, heart swelling like a taut balloon. Frantically, his fingers felt for the hunting boomerang.
“He’d probably get you right here, right under the jaw,” a soft voice speculated. “And you’d never hear him coming. That’s how good Riddick is.”
Paris managed a deep sigh of relief when he recognized the voice. It was little orphan Audrey. But the child had changed her appearance. She had cut her hair short in the style of her new hero, Riddick, and found a pair of sun goggles almost like his.