The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [61]
Tracking downward from Riddick’s face and special goggles, the attention of the flavescent trio eventually came to rest on the big man’s boots. This was not surprising, since the footgear of the recently emerged three was shabby, torn, and in certain spots, actually melted from the intense heat of the ground on which they walked. Brandishing their homemade collecting pickaxes, they moved into position beneath him and took up expectant stances, making no attempt to disguise their intent. It was usually food that came from above, but this was the first time in a long, long while something as appealing and useful as Riddick’s boots promised to do the same. Pickaxes in hand, they waited for him to drop the last three meters. With a resigned, internal sigh, Riddick prepared to do so also.
Moments later, the latch above his wrists gave a soft click and disengaged.
As he fell, he flipped and twisted. Bunched muscles torqued open his bonds. It was a trick he could have done earlier, on the merc ship or while being transported to the prison. But while he could force open his restraints, he would have still have had to face three or four guns. Get all, get free. Get three, get dead. He wouldn’t call the shots until he could also call the odds.
But there were no guns aimed at him now, and he had no compunction about finally releasing his hands.
As he stuck his landing, he caught the first blow, parried it, dislocating the first attacker’s shoulder and driving the pickax-wielding arm so far backward that the aft end of the pick pierced the man’s spine. Almost immediately, he whirled to confront a second assailant.
The crystal scavengers were not slow. As Riddick was taking apart his second attacker, the third slipped behind him and started to swing his axe. Halting in mid-swing, he dropped the tool, both hands grabbing at his neck, around which a chain had just wrapped itself. As Riddick disposed of his hapless second assailant, he watched the chain being yanked back. Following it led him to a deceptively slender, lithe figure. The figure’s slimness did not surprise him. Its lines did.
As he removed his goggles, the woman disappeared into the stone rubble that littered the bottom of the cavern. He would have followed; perhaps to thank, certainly to question, but was distracted by a voice from above. A deep, male voice that boomed off the surrounding walls.
“There are inmates and there are convicts,” it declared with the conviction of the long converted.
Two tiers up, a formidable group of the latter were working their way downward. Leading them was an older individual whose face was as worn, battered, and tough as the surrounding volcanic rock.
“Who says so?” Riddick called upward.
“The Guv says so,” came the reply from the man. “I say so. A convict has a certain code. He learns the corners, he learns the pulse of the prison. A convict knows to show a certain respect when it is warranted. Respect to his fellows, respect to the system. The convict system, not the prison system. Our system.”
Arriving at the bottom, the Guv approached, halting a mutually respectful distance from the newcomer. His retinue formed up behind him, ugly and prepared, but also willing to give the new arrival a chance to define himself. Eyes studied Riddick. Expressions granted grudging respect.
“An inmate,” the Guv continued solemnly and meaningfully, “on the other hand, is someone who pulls the pin on his fellow man. Who does the guards’ work for them. Who brings shame to the whole game.” It did not seem possible, but his voice lowered even further. “And in this slam, inmates get someone right up in their mouth. Might be right in the middle of breakfast, might be in the middle of the night. But it’s damn fucking straight righteous inevitable.”
Advancing once again, he drew close