The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [107]
He stiffened slightly as he saw the two figures coming toward him. No one had questioned or challenged him until now, but—one of the figures was a lensor. Keeping his eyes straight and striving to appear preoccupied, he kept on. Like everyone else he had encountered in the Basilica, the pair walked right past him.
Right past him, and then the lensor turned. And issued an alert.
“You, sir—a moment, if you please,” the soldier with it exclaimed. Not too loudly, for which Riddick was grateful.
Turning, he waited while they approached. “Something wrong, soldier?”
The younger man hesitated, glanced at the lensor, received information, and gathered courage. “Nothing really, sir. Might I speak with you a moment?”
How to play this? the big man thought rapidly. At the moment, the corridor was not crowded, but neither was it deserted. Taking another step forward, he lowered his voice.
“Sure. But I’m not really supposed to be off duty right now.” Turning to his right, he gestured toward a dark side alcove. “Over there, okay?”
The soldier nodded knowingly. Together, he and his lensor accompanied Riddick into the recess. Once inside, Riddick reached beneath his cloak and pulled out his identification. Two of them.
No one else confronted him as he emerged from the now silent alcove, resumed his march down the corridor, and disappeared around a corner.
The view of Helion’s capital as seen through the large, floor-mounted port continued to expand as the Basilica gained altitude. Very soon now, every ship would be in position. There was nothing left to do but issue the necessary commands. Obliged by the need to preserve the lives of as many potential converts as possible, he had already put this off too long.
“Final protocol,” the Lord Marshal told the officer responsible for following through. “It is time to deliver a lasting lesson and simultaneously put an end to this obstinacy on the part of a few reluctant locals. With one blow, we will crush any remaining will to resist.” He turned back to the port. “Execute on my order.” Interesting he mused, how certain words could have such significant double meanings. “Execute,” for example.
Wordlessly, the officer made the necessary preparations. Among them was the appearance at his station of a control whose appearance was as much ceremonial as functional: a small replica of the great conquest icon itself.
Far below, the surviving citizens of the capital crept from their hiding places to gaze skyward in wonder at the impressive gathering of invading ships. One such house had suffered comparatively little damage. Its patriarch was dead. Unable without his help to reach the evacuation vessel that had been designated for them, mother and daughter had returned home. As one of the warrior ships thrummed malevolently low overhead, Lajjun clutched Ziza even tighter to her breast.
One by one, their massive engines combining to generate a deep-throated mechanical drone that drowned out every other sound, warships were gathering around the conquest icon, almost as if they were on parade. But their assembling had nothing to do with pageantry, and everything to do with death.
Like a broken piece of machinery, the dead lensor was dumped at the Lord Marshal’s feet. Ordinarily, it would not have been brought directly to his attention. Especially not now, when an event of considerable significance was about to transpire. But someone had already reviewed the lensor’s recording pack and deemed the information contained therein of sufficient importance that it should be viewed immediately by the highest authority.
To preserve the privacy of the transmission, an umbilical was jacked into an appropriate port in the lensor’s back and the other end into a console. The use of a cord was testament to the sensitivity of the information about to be displayed: any over-the-air