The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [6]
Urzo blood dripped softly into a collection pail. Neither the pail nor the smartly butchered condition of the massive corpse suggested that the bloody work had been carried out with scientific research in mind. Additional artifacts scattered around the cave hinted that someone hereabouts had exerted knowledgeable efforts with the aim of personal survival.
A slight movement made him turn sharply and raise the rifle, but this time he didn’t shoot. As he shifted the light, its beam touched on a second strung-up figure. He recognized it immediately: Codd. John’s sphincter tightened. It was Codd’s face he had glimpsed through the ice, Codd’s face that had caused him to fire. He knew this because the hole in his partner was about the right size to have been made by one of his own explosive shells, notwithstanding that its shattering effect had been somewhat muted by the ice barrier.
He had fired an instant too soon.
But while he might be blamable for Codd’s death, he was not responsible for the mercenary’s position— bound and secured with his own cuffs. And Codd was not quite dead. Not yet. Not that a wound such as he had suffered due to the too-quick trigger finger of his own partner was in any way repairable.
Johns leaned forward. As he was wondering what to say, or if he should say anything—Codd’s lips moved slightly. Johns slipped closer. Should he try to apologize? In his and Codd’s business, there was little time or inclination for apologies. Hell, everybody made mistakes. Though the dying mercenary’s voice was little more than a whisper, Johns thought he could just make out what the other man was saying.
“Behind you . . .”
Behind . . . Johns whipped around. In perfect condition and as fast as he was, the blur that slashed at his head still grazed him. Ice, wind, and bad light conspired to impair his vision, leading him to fire blindly, repeatedly. Already unbalanced on the slight slope inside the cave, the powerful recoil sent his twisting form stumbling backward. Landing on his butt, he continued to fire in the general direction of whatever had taken the big swipe at him. Obedient to Newton, each shot sent him sliding a little farther backward.
Toward the precipice that fronted the cave.
He nearly went over. Nearly. Reflexes born of necessity saw him throw out one arm. It slid off the rock it clutched, but his strong fingers locked into a crack just wide enough to offer a grip. His other hand clung to the rifle. Carefully, very carefully, he eased off the weapon’s trigger. Given the downslope on which he now found himself, one more shot would break his grip on the rock and send him over the edge.
It was all right. He was okay. All he had to do was work his way upward, using his knees and his hand, until he was safely back up on the more level portion of the ice. It was then that a pair of feet stepped into his view. They were white, thick with fur, and not human. Automatically his eyes followed them upward. What he saw surprised him, insofar as he was still capable of being surprised.
The feet no longer belonged to their original owner. He remembered the condition of the quartered, dripping alien corpse he had seen in the cave. Its feet had been removed. At the time, he had been left to wonder at the reason. Now it was self-evident.
They had been turned into boots for a thick hulk of a man whose hair, while not white, had grown out to the point where it was now a suitable match for that of any urzo. Johns could sense, if not see, the musculature rippling beneath the apparition’s cobbled-together cold-weather attire. The man’s eyes were hidden behind reflective goggles that were at once minimal in size and of clearly advanced design. Johns didn’t recognize the style. They did not look like any of the extensive variety of snow goggles with which he was familiar. It was even possible they were intended to serve some purpose other than protecting the wearer from snow blindness.
Ambling unconcernedly forward, as if Johns no longer held the powerful rifle, the man crouched down to stare at the mercenary.