The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [59]
Relaxing near a control console, Douruba glanced at his first assistant. “Remind him.”
In between popping and masticating some kind of light green nut, the other man proceeded to elucidate. “Look, you know how it works, Toombs. The Guild pays us a caretaker’s fee for each prisoner, each year. We pay mercs like yourself twenty percent of that total fee, based on a certain life expectancy and work output. Out of that, there are all manner of peripheral costs that have to be deducted and . . .”
An angry Toombs took a step toward the lethargic speaker. “I wired this in at eight-fifty. Nobody at that time said anything about ‘peripheral costs.’ I know as well or better ’n you how the system operates.” He gestured in the direction of the unseen sky. “Any other slam in the Arm would deal me that much right now, no shit.” One finger pointed in the direction of the prisoner, who had not descended very far from the control level.
Douruba was not impressed. “This isn’t any other slam, is it?”
Across the room, a guard tech glanced up from the console over which he had been laboring. “Don’t take this one, boss.”
The slam boss nodded at his subordinate, then smiled at his increasingly irate visitor. “How about that, Toombs? Anatoli here has a nose for trouble. What I’m reading from him is that this one”—he jerked a finger toward the silently dangling prisoner—“this ‘Riddick’ guy, is—”
“Big trouble,” the guard tech finished for him. Turning back to his console, he perused the latest readout. “He don’t come with a record, this one. He comes with an encyclopedia.”
Nodding appreciatively, Douruba restarted the winch. Like so much else in the prison complex, like the sled transport system, it was intentionally low-tech. Advanced electronics and similar devices did not survive long on Crematoria. Where a seal applicator might easily clog or overheat and fail, for example, a simple hammer would not. It was a design philosophy that not only saved money, it kept the prison going.
“Seven hundred K is good money,” Douruba reminded Toombs.
Outside the control station and once more dropping steadily again, Riddick glanced up and barked at his captor. “Better take it, Toombs.” The mercenary just glared down at him, watching his former prisoner winch farther and farther out of reach.
On multiple levels, guards and techs and prisoners watched the newcomer descend through the center of the volcanic throat. As depth increased, mobile lights supplied additional illumination within the impressive open space. Riddick took it all in silently, surveying his new surroundings, ignoring the emotional range of the stares that tracked his descent. At the moment, they were irrelevant to his needs.
Above, Toombs had turned away from the cylindrical cavern to once more confront Douruba. “I got a better idea. How’s about this?” He nodded at something behind the slam boss. “You open the safe hidden behind that console there, pull out the real books.” Jerking his head sideways, he indicated the guard tech. “Not the electronic crap you can manipulate with an eyeblink. The hard copy backup you maintain in case of total systems failure and memory wipe. Show me what you shitniks are gonna bank for a guy like Riddick: all killer, no filler. Then we’ll figure out my cut. Then I’ll be on my way.”
Douruba could not have been more shocked had Toombs suggested they go for a casual stroll out on the surface. At noon.
“Open my books? Let you roam through the hard copy? This is what you suggest?”
The mercenary had taken a step backward. The movement appeared casual. It was not. “Wasn’t a suggestion.”
It was enough to charge the atmosphere within the control room. Guards and mercenaries alike stiffened. Within holsters and attached to fastsnaps, sidearms were prepped for quick release. Slam boss and merc leader locked eyes.
Moving slowly and keeping his hands in clear view, Douruba walked to a nearby cabinet. Standing to one side as he