The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [64]
A navigator was pressing him for a decision. Reluctantly, he abandoned the mystifying line of thought to return to the business at hand. This was what was important, he reminded himself. The work. The task that had been set before him. Not the philosophic ramblings of a solitary theologist. He respected the Purifier for his learning and for his devotion, but that did not mean Vaako had to admire him slavishly, nor pay close attention to everything he said.
There was no shower, no UV room where dirt could be removed and potentially infectious organisms destroyed. What the bottom level of the slam did have, however, were several streams of geothermally heated water. While they smelled of sulfur, the odor would soon wear off, and the minerals dissolved in the liquid actually made for a healthier soak than an equivalent amount of purified dihydrogen monoxide. The problem was not an insufficiency of hot water but an oversupply. Prisoners desiring to take a bath had to time their immersions carefully, as the temperature of the flows frequently jumped according to unpredictable variations in subsurface magmatic levels. Hop in too soon, and the flow might stop entirely. Linger too long, and you could find yourself parboiled redder than the last dinner delivery of unidentifiable alien arthropod. Or you might not emerge at all, until the guards came to fish out your boiled, blistered corpse.
Right now Riddick found the temperature just about right. Soaking away layers of grime and sweat was about the only real pleasure available to prisoners on Crematoria, and he relished the opportunity. There was no soap, but the mineral content of the water rendered unnecessary the need for artificial epidermal abrasives. The water stung the small gash on his cheek: a departing kiss from the woman who now called herself Kyra. The thought, or something else, made him turn and peer out from beneath the sweltering flow.
She was there, watching him from across the way. Watching and sharpening something reflective, edged, and pointed. Her expression was unreadable, her thoughts concealed. He kept an eye on her as he started to dry himself. A different voice greeted him, coming closer.
“Still passing through, I see.”
Though outwardly studiously neutral, there was a twinkle in the Guv’s eye. The possibility that at any moment it might turn to uncontrollable rage did not escape Riddick. He listened politely without letting down his guard.
Unexpectedly, the older man held up one hand. The fingers looked as if they had been run over by a transport sled. Several times. But they were all there, which spoke volumes about the man’s ability to take care of himself even in the worst surroundings imaginable. A gold band glinted on one finger. It was nearly as scarred and beat-up as the flesh it encircled.
“I remember how gorgeous she was—well, gorgeous in the right light. But for the goddamn death of me, I cannot remember her name anymore.”
Compressed in the quiet observation was an entire personal history: one the Guv chose not to expound upon. Instead, he motioned to another nearby convict. The second man was squatting around a particularly hot spot in the cavern floor. Suspended above the hot spot was a crude but serviceable setup for brewing liquids. In this case, Riddick suspected, the local variety of slam tea. Ingredients varied from prison to prison, but it was always something conjured out of fragments of edible material that was not part of the regular slam diet. In its own quiet, scalding way, seeping slam tea was a means of one-upping the guards, who were never granted access to it. If one was intrigued enough to come nosing around, the teapot was always empty—even if it had to be “accidentally” knocked over and its laboriously prepared contents dumped on the