The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [37]
The ethereal arm threw the torn, convulsing thing onto the floor. Even before it struck, the empty husk of humanity that had been the defiant politician was collapsing. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Content with the effect his action had produced, the Lord Marshal struck a pose and turned to survey the traumatized crowd that surrounded him. “Anyone else believe that our philosophy is alien to reality? Or that what you have just witnessed did not occur?” The silence that greeted his challenge was deafening. “Who will now bow and beg to, someday, cross the Threshold as one of the Select?”
Man by man, woman by woman, row by row, the leaders of Helion Prime dropped to their knees. They could not be defeated by words, but the brutal action of the Lord Marshal had served to subdue them completely. One could not deny the evidence of one’s own senses. Who knew what other marvels these people could command? All of them wanted to know, to learn for themselves—but not by means of a personal demonstration. It was a mass capitulation that seemed final and complete.
Except for one figure that remained standing by the main entrance.
Vaako rolled his eyes. There was always one. One too obstinate or ignorant to conform. It appeared that the lesson was not quite over. As the nearest senior officer to the mulishly defiant one, he took it upon himself to cross the floor and confront him, halting with his face barely an arm’s length from the man’s own.
“Well?”
Leaning casually against the massive doorjamb, Riddick replied nonchalantly, “I’m not really with them.”
Vaako frowned, unsure he had heard properly. No matter. “This is your chance. Your one chance to accept the Lord Marshal’s offer. Consider yourself privileged. The Lord Marshal is being generous. Most times, such blatant displays of defiance are simply disposed of.”
Riddick did not move. “I sign with no man.”
Conscious of his larger audience, Vaako chose to exercise tolerance. For the sake of the defeated, it was useful to show that the reluctant could be persuaded as effectively with words as with weapons. One could blame this fool standing before him for his obduracy, but not for his ignorance.
“He’s not a man,” the commander explained patiently, as one would to a child. “He is the holy Half Dead who has seen the UnderVerse. He is much more than a man.” He gestured toward the central dais, where the dead husk of the impertinent politician still lay. “Did you not see with your own eyes the palpable demonstration of his abilities?”
Riddick eased away from the wall, just enough for Vaako to twitch in response. But the big man made no move toward the commander. “Tell you what. I’m not much into the bow-and-beg thing. Just doesn’t do anything for me.” He jerked his chin toward a massive figure that was rapidly approaching, recognizing the shape if not the face. “But I will take a piece of him.”
A smile of expectation split the face of Irgun the Strange as he lengthened his stride. No one had asked him to silence this arrogant blasphemer. No one had given a formal order. But, sensitive as he was to the moods of his commanding officers, he knew that if he took the initiative to do so, no one would interfere to stop him. Raising not one but two ceremonial war axes, he knew that at this point, no one could stop him. His sole regret was that he was zeroing in on only one opponent. It would be over much too quickly, and he needed the exercise. Perhaps, he thought hopefully as he advanced, he could make it last long enough to be entertaining.