The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [42]
So he remained conscious and cogitating, trying to mute and protect his thoughts while simultaneously striving, searching for a way to fight back. Restrained in both body and mind, he found himself wilting under the relentless assault from multiple minds. Sensing growing weakness, they probed harder. They were not worried about damaging the subject. The body was resilient. Besides, they were much experienced at their work. A dead subject was a useless subject. So while they pushed, they also moderated their intrusion. The process of dragging information out of an unwilling subject was always an adventure.
“Thinking of escape now.”
“Always an opening.” Riddick tried, but was unable to keep from hearing his own thoughts repeated aloud for any who might be listening. And he had no doubt that many were. “Wait for the chance and attack it. It’ll come, it’ll come. . . .”
“Having many ideas now,” the collective Quasi-Dead voice intoned solemnly. “All swirling, chaotic. A conscious attempt to confuse. As admirable as it is ineffective. An interesting specimen. An interesting mind. But still a mind; human, organic, unable to hide . . .”
The Lord Marshal had expected resistance. Subjects always resisted, at first. Some lasted only a few seconds before succumbing to the inevitability of the Quasi-Dead’s probing. Others managed to fight for minutes. A few, a very few, went insane before the desired information could be extracted. He had ample confidence that this man would not go that way. Not until the Lord Marshal had learned what he wanted to know, anyway. He hoped the subject would survive intact, both mentally and physically. If not dangerous, he could be useful, as every good fighter was. Provided just enough of his mind was preserved.
“Regress,” he ordered via a special pickup. One did not converse with the Quasi-Dead as one did to visitors across a table, with drink and food at hand and music playing in the background. But communication was possible.
There was a brief pause as the unique minds repositioned themselves mentally. Then, “New mindscape. Just hours old. Relevant image indistinct. Particularly strong retention factor. Wondering about some ‘visitation’—who she is. Where she is from. Her purpose in appearing before him. Wondering what her appearance means for— Wait. Subject attempting to dissemble. Overcoming. Wondering what she means by—Furyans?”
The Lord Marshal twitched slightly. The scene being played out within the grotto of the Quasi-Dead now had his full attention. “Again,” he ordered. “Regress again. Further. Distant past. Not hours, but years. All the way. Anything related. Seek significance. Seek clarification. Seek link.”
The Vaakos were monitoring not only the interrogation within the grotto, but the questioning from without. Now Dame Vaako turned to the man next to her.
“Curious. The unusual intensity. Have you ever seen him this way? The Lord Marshal?” Her attention was shifting back and forth between the session taking place below and the two men responsible for its direction.
Vaako had been wholly absorbed in studying Riddick’s attempts to fight off the inexorable intrusion of the Quasi-Dead. He glanced over at her irritably. “What’s that? What ‘way’ is that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she responded casually. “Concerned. Worried.”
Vaako shifted his attention to where the Lord Marshal and the Purifier stood talking together. “I don’t see it,” he replied finally.
She lifted one shoulder slightly. “I must be mistaken.”
On the floor below, Riddick fought the regression as hard as he had battled the initial intrusion. It was a door in his mind he did not want to unlock. Not only for the relentless, probing