The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [110]
“If you fall here, now,” he boomed, “you’ll never rise. You’ll be as the rest of the unconverted: nothing more than food for worms. But if you choose another way,” and he glanced down at Kyra, “if you choose the Necromonger way, you’ll die in due time—only to rise again in the UnderVerse. Rise afresh to a new beginning, and a new life.”
Controlling his breathing, Riddick stared at the Lord Marshal. “I’ve made my choice.”
“This life is nothing. A spark in time. The UnderVerse is everything.” Glancing down at the woman kneeling at his feet, he said commandingly, “Go to him. Save him.”
As she approached, Riddick noticed that even her walk was different. Instead of the bold, confident stride he knew from memory, she came toward him with steps that were measured and hesitant. His augmented gaze roved over her, taking in the paled flesh, the downcast eyes, the freshly applied purification marks that scarred both sides of her neck. She had been altered, and not just physically. It was Kyra— and yet it wasn’t.
Seeing the uncertainty in his expression, she struggled for an explanation. Even her voice was subdued, beaten down by hopelessness and circumstance. “It hurt at first. It hurt a lot. They want to be sure of you. But after a while, pain goes away just like they said it would.” She mustered a wan, humorless smile. “I’ve had so much pain, Riddick. I didn’t want any more. They promised to make it go away, and they did.”
His expression didn’t change an iota. “Did they? What else did they make go away, Kyra? I don’t wanna know what you had to do. I don’t need to know what you had to do. What I do need to know is, where you comin’ down?” His eyes bored deep into her own. “That’s all I wanna hear.”
Her gaze rose, and he saw that she’d hardly heard what he’d said. She was in another place now, and it was one where he knew he would never go.
“Then there was—a moment,” she was saying, as if trying to recount the details of a dream. “A moment where I think I saw it. Saw this new ’verse through His eyes.” She glanced in the direction of the Lord Marshal, who stood stolid and approving, saying nothing, but watching, watching. She turned back to the man standing motionless before her. “It sounds beautiful, Riddick. A place to really start over in. A place without—pain.”
He swallowed what he really wanted to say, said quietly instead, “Which side, Kyra?”
From across the floor that separated them, that was at once smaller than the throne room and larger than space, the Lord Marshal paraphrased. “Which side, Riddick?”
Kyra looked up at him. “I thought you were dead. I thought. . .” With that, she shuffled away, leaving him to his fate. Leaving him to his decision. He shut his eyes, but it did not shut out the pain.
“Convert now, or fall forever,” the Lord Marshal challenged the intruder, seizing on the other’s obvious hesitation.
The play was almost over, and the Lord Marshal knew the ending as well as he did its heroes and the villains. If the breeder would only make the right choice, there would be none of the latter and he would be welcomed into the fold. It was what the Lord Marshal expected. It was the logical, right thing to do.
It was, however, not the Riddick thing to do.
Moving so fast his action was literally a blur, the big man drew the Irgun dagger, spun, and flung it so hard and fast at the Lord Marshal that it was impossible for any human to avoid.
The Lord Marshal, though, was no longer wholly human. Nor were his reactions.
Reaching up, an armored hand deflected the blade. Or did it? A collective gasp of disbelief filled the throne room as the defender of the Faith dropped to his knees.
On the balcony above, Vaako immediately grabbed one of the ancient, ceremonial poleaxes that formed a fence of blades behind him and started forward—only to be stopped by his companion.
“Wait, wait.” Dame Vaako’s attention was torn between her consort and what was happening on the floor below. “Too quick, it was too quick.