The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [58]
“Where’s Dahlven?”
Her companions joined her in searching for the missing merc. It took about twenty seconds to ascertain that he was nowhere on the sled. Toombs stared hard at Riddick. With those damn goggles he wore it was impossible to tell where the big man’s attention was focused. But he did shrug a response, as if to say, beats me.
Toombs hesitated, then burst out in a screaming cackle. “Four way! Four-way split!” Hell, he’d never much liked Dahlven anyway. Dumb ass had a real dangerous tendency to react before he thought. Though the mercenary leader didn’t know the details, he had a strong feeling that was just what might have happened. As the sled began to decelerate, he turned and sat back down in his seat.
It docked hard, the exceedingly low-tech absorptive bumper at the end of the line sucking up the last of their forward momentum. Toombs leaped up onto the platform and headed for the containment door that led, if memory served, to the prison control center. Douruba, the slam boss, was there to greet him. Beyond gruff, he snapped disappointedly at his visitor as the other mercenaries unloaded their cargo.
“This is all you bring me? After coming all the way out here? Just one?” Practiced, experienced eyes studied the prisoner, sizing him up.
Toombs was not put off. He’d anticipated the reaction. “One expensive piece of highly-priced ass. Got room, don’tcha?”
In the distance beyond the control room doors, something unearthly howled as if in expectation. Douruba shrugged. “Oh, we always got room for more. Nobody likes to admit that we’re here, and nobody wants to do without us. Always a place for a setup like Crematoria.” Turning, he led the way into the control center. Toombs and his comrades followed, cargo in tow.
“How’s business?” the head mercenary inquired conversationally.
“Pretty good,” Douruba replied. “Just enough residents to keep things running smoothly, not too many to impact adversely on the bottom line. A good balance.” He looked over at the merc. “Your one boy won’t upset things.”
Toombs grinned. “Wait till you see the line on him. You might think different.”
The slam boss pushed out his lower lip. “Can’t cost that much.”
Unpleasant as ever, the mercenary’s grin grew more crooked. “Wait till you see.”
Runaway Nature had provided the basis for the prison in the form of a gaping volcanic throat whose subterranean source of lava had long since shifted elsewhere. Multiple levels had been sliced into its circular sides. From there, tunnels and accessways, storerooms and cells, punched deep into the solid rock, forming hollow spokes that extended outward from the central cavity. One side of the old volcano had been devastated by a small, rogue lava flow that had broken through and poured into the depths below. Now hardened as solid as the untouched rock around it, it entombed more prisoners than the supervisors had been able to count. But that had been a long time ago.
Prison control was located at the top of the circular hollow. At the bottom, several guards noticed the ceiling aperture grinding open. One never knew what might be coming down. Since it was too early for a shift change, the lift might be sending down supplies, tools, extra rations—or something new. Numerous eyes regarded the expanding opening with interest. On Crematoria, anything new was worth studying.
A single figure rode the service hoist. Unusually, it was suspended from its wrists instead of riding down on a platform. A bit out of the ordinary, but not unprecedented. Either the newcomer was being punished for something, or else he was being handled with extra care. If the latter, the guards would be taking special interest in him.
The figure was only part way down, however, when its progress came to a jerking, unexpected halt.
In the control room above, Toombs had just moved to halt the winch that had been lowering Riddick. The mercenary did not look happy. Behind him, his crew looked confused.
“What in the