by Frank Lauria
“So you can find us a shipping lane, right?” the little girl prattled on. “And then someone picks us up so we can go wherever we want? Maybe someplace . . . bright. With showers. Someplace like . . . well, sort of like where I came from, really.”
When he didn’t respond she went on. “You see, I was just running away when this whole thing started.”
Riddick knew what she was getting at. She was a child alone in a vast, predatory cosmos. And she needed a guide.
“Only one problem with that plan,” he said, goggled eyes still fixed on the board.
“What?”
Riddick plotted a course and a glittering swirl of stars swept across the windscreen. “Lotta questions, whoever we run into. Might even be a merc ship,” he explained, looking at her intently. “And I can’t have you . . . tellin’ them . . . that I’m a con on the outs. Now, can I?”
Something about his expression alarmed her. Imam, too, glanced up from his prayer, alerted by his strange tone.
“You see,” Riddick chuckled, “I was just running away when this whole thing started . . .”
He was the only one amused. Suddenly afraid, Audrey edged away from the board. “I wouldn’t do that, I swear. I won’t tell them nothin’ you don’t want me to.”
Audrey’s panic sparked Imam’s instincts. Heart racing, he stretched out his hand, fumbling about for his blade.
“Swear to shit I wouldn’t!” Audrey repeated, voice shrill. “I swear!”
In the corner of his eye Imam spotted a glint of steel and reached for it.
“Think our dyin’ ain’t quite done,” Riddick said thoughtfully.
The six words rattled like a snake in Imam’s brain. He unsheathed his blade and crouched on the prayer mat. Audrey, too, seemed coiled to fight as Riddick drew something from his belt.
It was metallic, with sharp edges. Johns’s holo-badge.
Carefully, he pinned the badge on his vest.
“Riddick’s dead,” he declared solemnly. “Call me Johns.”
Audrey gave Imam a small smile of relief. It would take her a while to understand Uncle Johns’s sense of humor. But they still had light-years to cross.
Imam exhaled slowly. He put aside his weapon and murmured a prayer for all the lost pilgrims—especially Riddick . . .
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Frank Lauria was born in Brooklyn, New York, and graduated from Manhattan College. He has traveled extensively and published sixteen novels, including five bestsellers and the novelizations of Dark City, End of Days, Mask of Zorro, and Alaska. He has written articles and reviews for various magazines and is a published poet and songwriter. Mr. Lauria currently resides in San Francisco where he teaches creative writing. A film project based on his Doctor Orient series is in development.