The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [3]
His tone spiced with agitation, the man in the lead looked back at the box. “Oughta know better by now. You act like an animal, gonna slot you up like one. Rules. Shoulda worked it different.”
While carrying out his duty, the speaker’s nearest companion was also experiencing a moment of unusual thoughtfulness. “Poor fuckin’ Pavlov. Never had a chance, one-on-one like that.”
The first speaker was less than sympathetic. “He shoulda watched himself. Always relyin’ on his size, underestimatin’ the opposition. Never, never do that. Size don’t mean nothin’ if you ain’t got the moves.” Glancing back, he directed his words to the inhabitant of the box. “You know all about that, don’t you, Big Foe? You get what you give ’round here. But when you get it—aw, that’s the thing. When.” It was not a direct threat, but the ugly implication in his voice could not be ignored. However the inhabitant of the box felt about it, the observation was greeted only with more silence.
Still muttering to himself, the other guard in front continued to remember his overconfident dead colleague. “This one’s always been trouble. I knew it from the first. I smelled it.”
Behind him, another guard thought to comment, to make a joke. In the end, he kept his thoughts to himself. Pavlov had always gone looking for trouble. Finally, he’d found it. While helping to move the transfer box, the guard was careful to keep his distance from it.
They reached their destination: an empty kennel. Around them, the howling of the unseen things with the shining eyes intensified. Intent on their work, the guards ignored the inhuman baying. Moving the box was one thing. Safely transferring its single occupant from box to kennel was something else.
Setting the box down in front of the open kennel slot, three of the men positioned themselves at intervals around the container while their remaining two companions warily moved to open it. Safeties were slid simultaneously off box and weapons. Operating together, the pair at the front of the box worked the seals until the doors clicked open. Almost immediately, they stepped back. Fast.
The occupants of the kennels howled louder. Fingers tensed on triggers. Eyes focused with unblinking intensity on the minimally acceptable space between open kennel and open box.
Nothing happened.
Maulsticks came out and were jammed through the box’s air vents. Muttered invective filled the air. Delaying the inevitable meant that less insufferable duties were also being delayed. Already in a bad mood, the recalcitrance of the box’s occupant was making the guards’ mood worse.
It was not improved when the box’s inhabitant managed to grab the end of one maulstick, turn it around, and jab its owner in the hand. The guard howled at the pain, a feeble parody of the hellish growling that filled the chamber, and grabbed his injured hand. Blood appeared that was not the prisoner’s.
Disgusted, the man in charge of the delivery quintet moved forward. So did a companion. Maulstick still slung at his belt, grim faced, the latter was raising the muzzle of his riot gun.
He did not need to use it. Which was just as well, since he didn’t have time to bring it to bear on its presumed target. That individual streaked from the interior of the box into the waiting kennel, a blur that would have been difficult even for the most alert marksman to draw a bead on.
Monitored by automatics, the kennel door slammed shut. Lockseals slipped into place. They were old and well used, but they functioned efficiently enough. Transfer completed, the guards let out sighs of relief. The delivery had gone off more or less as planned. The idiot who’d been jabbed by his own maulstick had only gotten what he’d deserved for his carelessness. A hand that would sting for a few days was a cheap enough lesson.
Relaxed now, ignoring both the safely secured prisoner and the howling of her inhuman