The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [62]
“So,” he inquired emotionlessly of the newcomer, “which would you be?”
“Me?” Riddick slipped his goggles back into place. “I’m just passin’ through.”
With that he stepped past the Guv and strode away, swallowed up by a hissing wall of steam, ignoring the intense eyes that followed him.
Later, food was provided, if you could call it that. That afternoon it came in the form of some large, boiled arthropod hailing from a family and species Riddick didn’t recognize. But if the knobby, spine-sporting exterior was a horror, the meat inside was pale white and perfectly edible. Settling himself outside an empty cell, he studied the ongoing activity within the vaulted cavern while cracking shells and sucking out the contents. Stringy, but nutritious, he decided.
As he was walking back inside the cell, a shape materialized behind him. Alert, lithe, and livid, the newcomer eyed him with quiet intensity.
“Should I go for the sweet spot? Left of the spine, fourth lumbar down; the abdominal aorta. What a gusher . . .”
Turning, Riddick removed his goggles to stare clear-eyed at his visitor. He said nothing. What could he say, to this woman?
“How do I get eyes like that?” she muttered at him.
He shrugged. “You gotta kill a few people.” The woman nodded knowingly. “Did that. Did a lot of that.” She moved closer. It’s unlikely anyone else would have noticed the small knife concealed in one hand. Riddick caught her before the hand could swing forward, swung her around, and slammed her into the bars of the cell. Not hard enough to break bones but roughly enough to make her drop the shiv. He continued talking as if nothing had happened.
“Then you gotta get sent to a slam.”
Her body might be pinned against the bars, but there was nothing restraining her mouth. “Where they tell you you’ll never see daylight again. Only there wasn’t any doctor here who could shine my eyes. Not for twenty cools, not for a quick bang off, not for nothing.” Her voice dropped slightly, but the words were as hard-edged as before. “Was there anything you said that was true?”
She wrenched upward, fighting to break free, trying to catch him in the wrong hold. It only made him boost her harder.
“Remember who you’re talking to, Jack.”
She seemed to spin within her own skin, whirling around and popping forward the miniature blade she kept concealed inside her mouth. Just like Riddick’s hold, it didn’t keep her from talking.
“‘Jack’ is dead. She was weak, just couldn’t cut it.” Lashing out with the concealed blade, she slashed his cheek before he could completely draw back. It did not make him let her go, but he did so anyway. He followed her as she vanished into the steam and sweat-soaked murk outside.
“I’m Kyra,” she called back to him, her voice still trembling with cold anger. “A new animal.”
The frigate represented the epitome of Necromonger science and adaptive technology. Swift, sleek, stunning in its size and overawing in its mass, it swept through deep space like a wasp searching for a world to paralyze and feed upon. Within its dark depths, her crew operated in shifts: some in cryosleep, others emerging from time to time to ensure all was operating optimally and that the vessel remained on course. As yet, few aboard knew that the urgency with which they had departed orbit around Helion Prime was inspired by the disappearance of a single man. They did not need to know, nor would it have affected the efficiency with which they went about their work if they had.
At present, the command team was out of cryosleep for several days. Time to exchange thoughts, eat real food, drink, and stretch underused muscles. Then they would return to the embrace of cryo travel while automatics and a skeleton crew watched over the vessel. But for now, they talked.
Vaako was engaged with his navigators. The process of trying to track another ship through deep space