The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [71]
The leader of the trio shrugged indifferently. “You know the rule. They aren’t dead if they’re still on the books.”
The big guard nodded, then seemed to lapse into introspection. What he was actually doing was slipping the illegal blade from its sewn-in scabbard in the back of his pants. Once the point cleared his ass, he charged.
Even before he started forward, Riddick had picked the cup up again—and slammed it down. Hard and sideways, at a carefully precalculated angle. The rock it scraped was ragged and broken. It imparted a similar edge to the rim of the cup. A serrated edge, though not one that would win any prizes at a tool-sharpening competition.
It didn’t have to. The result was not neat, but it was effective. As the big guard reached him, Riddick blocked the slicing knife strike. Instead of retreating, he lunged ahead, right into his attacker. His right hand jammed the jagged rim of the cup forward, driving it in and down with tremendous velocity. The metal was thin but well-forged and composed of a particularly tough alloy, designed to take a good deal of rough treatment and last. Despite the force behind it, it did not snap and break.
The muscles of the guard’s belly were composed of less sturdy stuff. The ragged cup rim ripped through them, making a very impressive hole. When Riddick drew his arm back, the hole filled with blood and bits of some slick, colorful internal organs. Stunned, the guard grabbed at himself. Riddick threw him back into his comrades.
Dodging around the flaccid body, they leveled maulsticks and other devices designed to subdue unruly prisoners. As they did so, Riddick removed a food-tin key from a pocket, showed it to them, and set it down on a prominent rock. Just soooo.
The two survivors hesitated, exchanged a glance. Then they started backing up. It wasn’t easy for them to lug their surviving wounded colleague from the cell. But they managed.
It was less debilitating than the alternative.
Slowly climbing to her feet, Kyra sauntered over to the guard Riddick had killed, bent, and with an effort, yanked the bloody cup from his body.
“Death by teacup. Damn, why didn’t I think of that?”
Ignoring the fact that she was now in possession of the lethal cup, Riddick turned and looked back the way he’d come. “Wouldn’t have worked for you. Insufficient mass behind it. Wrong kinetics.”
“Another time, other circumstances,” she replied sharply, “that might be taken as a compliment.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, searching for any indication that the guards might have already managed to summon reinforcements. “Not that I mind playing Who’s the Better Killer, but it might be a good idea if we move along to the next thing.”
“Oh, you don’t get off that easy. Not when you started it. ’Sides,” she whispered into his ear as she darted past him, “it’s my favorite game.”
She started to whirl away from him, but he was too fast. A viselike hand whipped out to catch her and spin her around. He was tired of games. Tired of riddles.
“Did I hear right about you? That you came lookin’ for me?”
Her expression was half smile, half snarl. “If that’s what you heard,” she shot back rebelliously, “then you missed the good part. I hooked up with some mercs out of Lupus Five. Said they’d take me on, teach me the trade, give me a fair cut.” Turning briefly away from him, she spat at the ground. “But first job out, they flipped me to a pack of ’Golls. They slaved me out, Riddick.” She stared at him, seeing her own face reflected in his goggles.
“You know what that can do to you? When you’re that age? When you’re twelve years old?”
She was selling the sympathy thing, and Riddick wasn’t buying. He never did. Life was a bitch, you looked out for yourself or you didn’t, and the galaxy was a cold, cold place. Not all the steam that was