The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [56]
Gradually, one by one, the rest of the crew slowly emerged from the extended rest and biochange that were required to allow the fragile human form to endure the rigors of extended supralight travel. Disdaining the health of his own body, or maybe completely confident in its ability to handle anything that might come its way, Toombs ignored the appropriate, recommended rehydration regimen in favor of gargling with a bottle of tequila.
What was wrong with his copilot? There seemed to be an uncharacteristic trembling in her voice as she reported on their status. He did not press for an explanation, however, and as they continued to make their descent, it soon went away.
“I make almost seven hundred degrees on the hemisphere in daylight,” she was reporting as she scanned readouts, “and maybe three hundred below on the night side. Vacation heaven.”
Knowing from Crematoria’s reputation what to expect, Toombs stood next to Riddick and nodded slowly. “Lemme tell you: if I owned this place and hell, I’d rent this out and live in hell. At least in hell, the climate’s consistent.”
Something beeped within the forward console. Checking the readout, the copilot announced evenly, “We’ve got permission to land.” She eyed her colleague. “What’s with the caution? I don’t recognize the code.”
The pilot was busy disengaging specific instrumentation. “Means no automatics permitted. Security measure. Don’t ask me why. I wasn’t the nutcase who decided to put a slam here.” He flipped off another series of contacts, activated others. “Switching to manual control as per ground directives.” The ship responded with a slight jolt.
“Coming up on terminator,” the copilot announced briskly.
“Running behind sked. They won’t like that, down below.” The pilot adjusted his own attitude as well as the ship’s. “Let’s line this up fast, and get it over with.” He eyed the solar monitor. The readings there were much, much too high for his liking. As a pilot, he valued the information sent back by harakiri solar probes. He just didn’t want to become one himself.
It grew very quiet within the little ship. Riddick said nothing, missed nothing, his eyes taking in the readouts, the monitor screens, the pilots’ technical back-and-forth. Clocking everything. Filing it for later.
“Destination lock on,” the copilot announced tightly. “One, two . . . go.”
The pilot jammed controls forward. Usually, all he had to do was sit back, watch, and monitor touchdown. Not here. Not out in this deity-forsaken backwater piece of hell itself. For a change, his life and that of his passengers resided in his own hands instead of a bunch of unfeeling circuitry.
Coming in to almost any other world, it would have felt good.
Riddick felt himself slammed back into the rear of his prison as the ship dipped into atmosphere. His situation differed little from that of his captors, who were similarly pressed back into their chairs. A couple of the mercenaries howled with bravado, trying to cover the fact that they were struggling not to soil their shorts.
On the desolate landscape below, something was moving. It was active, but not alive. Among obsidian mountains and fields of cracked and cooled glass, safely distant from volcanoes whose lava flowed downslope in other directions, a pair of doors were opening. Fashioned of a special alloy of ceramic and titanium, they parted to reveal an underground hangar that marked the terminus of a specially fabricated runway. Within the area open to the atmosphere, nothing moved.
A towering pillar of natural stone marked the general location of the hangar. The pilot nosed for it, wishing he could use the automatics, knowing that if he did so those on the ground were likely to react unkindly, and perhaps lethally. The ship dropped steadily—not quite fast enough.
The sun came over the horizon.
Stunned atmosphere shocked the descending vessel. Unequipped with the special stabilizers used on regular Crematoria resupply ships, the mercenary