The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [46]
One who seemed to know what he was doing wore the concealing robes of a Meccan cleric. The figure paused longer than others to plot the big man’s path. As it was doing so, a small Necromonger transport appeared. Lensors hung from its flanks, sweeping the surface, scanning, scanning. Both cleric and Riddick rushed for cover.
Concealing himself, Riddick found that his move had not gone unobserved. Eyes were staring at him, eyes that were all at once wide and pleading and confused. The little girl standing out in the open and crying softly was about the right age, the right height. His gaze narrowed slightly. It couldn’t be Ziza. Not here. Not alone. But the girl was about the right age, the right proportions. He fought to put it out of his mind. Doubtless there were a lot of children wandering the streets of the capital this night, homeless and alone. It wasn’t any of his business.
But it looked just like her.
The thrumming sound of the transport’s engines was fading into the distance. Making a decision, he emerged from his hiding place and approached the girl. Her back was to him, and he had to turn her around to see.
It wasn’t her. Actually, on close inspection, the poor child didn’t look anything like Ziza. His eyes had been playing tricks on him. Except, his eyes never played tricks on him. Never. As he held her, the girl started to cry harder than ever.
The transport reappeared far more quickly than it had gone. Whether the scanning lensors had picked up on the girl’s crying or on his presence he didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Only two things mattered now: him moving fast, and the fear on the little girl’s face.
A blur of motion, he dumped her in the safety of a ruined doorway and ran on. Hopefully, her parents would find her, or a relative, or a friend—if any of them were still alive. Those piloting the transport had definitely homed in on him now. The vessel was descending in his direction, troops gathering within in preparation for dropping down on their single running, swerving target.
Perhaps those aboard were so focused on their quarry that they neglected to follow proper defensive procedures. Perhaps they simply overlooked the threat. Whatever the reason, Riddick’s eyes registered the three bright streaks of light that pierced the night at the same time as did those aboard the transport. The important difference was that the streaks were aimed at the ship and not at him.
On impact, they blew the rear section of the transport to bits. Bodies flying, flames and secondary explosions turning night into day, the crippled ship retained a dangerous amount of rapidly falling forward momentum—in Riddick’s direction. He barely had time to dive for cover as the fatally wounded vessel passed directly over him. Slamming into the base of a standing structure, it finally ground to a fiery, burning stop. Within the flaming, crackling wreckage, nothing moved.
As Riddick rose from his hole, the sound of cycling armament made him turn. Four black-garbed figures stepped out of the shadows. All were carrying weapons, one of which was a still smoking missile launcher. Leading them was the figure garbed as a Meccan cleric who, along with Riddick, had also taken cover at the initial approach of the Necromonger troop transport.
All of the weapons, including the missile launcher, were now pointed in Riddick’s direction.
Pausing, the cleric took a moment to study the ruins of the Necromonger craft. His attitude was not sympathetic. Then he came toward Riddick, pushing back his cowl as he did so. Their eyes met. Their was nothing of the spiritual in either gaze.
It was Toombs.
Behind him, one of his new associates was intent on his instruments’ readouts. “’Nother one circling. Not focused yet, but closing. We should move. We should move now.” Looking up from the device, the mercenary glanced at the night sky.
All five of them looked uneasy. They were well armed and well equipped but not as experienced as their predecessors. Nevertheless,