The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [2]
They only had to wait for sunrise.
From the container they had been carrying, the two men extracted the body of a third and dumped him unceremoniously onto the pile, sending up a small cloud of dust. The body was not intact. It was marred by deep bruises and multiple lacerations. One glance was enough to tell that these wounds had not been incurred in a fall or some other accident. The unfortunate had been involved in a fight that, as clear as the sharp-edged horizon, he had lost. Among the few effects that still adorned his corpse was a visual ident that read “V. Pavlov.” Some wag back in the prison had ventured to say that the guard had died like a dog. No one had laughed.
The anxious pair who had been charged with conveying the former V. Pavlov to his final resting place looked around uneasily, plainly in a hurry to get away from where they were. There was no thought of digging a grave. It would be a wasted exercise. None would arrive to bear witness over it or view it. Anything they might erect over such an excavation would quickly go the way of the body itself. Crematoria would see to that.
“Should we, uh, say something? I mean, I knew Vladimir pretty well. He wasn’t a bad guy.” On Crematoria, this might be considered a high compliment: one that could be applied equally to guard or prisoner.
His companion was gazing nervously eastward. The dull maroon glow that had been seeping over the ragged, distant mountains was beginning to pale toward crimson. Very soon now it would fade to pink, then yellow, and then to white. When it turned white, anything organic would do well to be as far underground as possible.
“Sure. Recite a whole sermon, if you want.” He indicated the motionless body of their former colleague. “I’m sure Vlad won’t interrupt you. Take all the time you want. I’ll wait for you—inside.” A curt nod indicated the coming dawn.
His friend was already starting to backpedal, physically as well as spiritually. “Maybe I’ll say something later. I knew Vladimir. He wouldn’t want us to be late for breakfast.”
The other man had already started for the nearby access tunnel. “Shit, if it was you or me, he’d already have gotten the hell out of here.”
It was as appropriate a description of their situation as it was of their surroundings.
Down Below was business as usual—which is to say, messy, loud, crude, and unpleasant. Used to their surroundings, the three guards muscling the transfer box did not comment on it, did not bemoan their fate. They were being paid good money to endure a routine of daily crap, money that was piling up in distant credit accounts even as they toiled to move the box. They often let their thoughts drift toward such accounts. It helped them to get through each day. Sometimes such thoughts were all that helped them to get through each day.
No noise came from within the box. No trouble. That suited them just fine. Occasionally, one would bend slightly to peer at one of the air vents that riddled the container. Its contents did not look back. Just as well. There were rules. As a guard on Crematoria, you bent the rules at considerable risk to your comparatively elevated status. Bend them far enough and you might find yourself on the other side of the social divide. That would be more than uncomfortable: it would be fatal. So the guard kept his thoughts to himself and concentrated on the work at hand.
As they passed one of the kennels, something with eyes bright with murder moved closer to the bars of its cage and began to howl. Its neighbors joined in. No human throat was capable of producing such sounds, though human ears could hear them. One of the guards snapped a curse in the direction of the center cage. Shining eyes swiveled to focus on him. The guard met