The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [73]
By technicians and designers who had never actually set foot on Crematoria, the prison staff knew. None of them had any desire to test the validity of that particular mechanical thesis.
This morning, like every other morning, everything worked as intended, however. Simple in design but sound in practice, the screw and lift system elevated the control room until it was well above the surface. Equally rudimentary, the huge vents on the lower, uninhabited sides of the control room louvered open. Multiple fan-powered exchangers whirred to life and began the vital process of swapping the old, sulfur-impregnated air inside the prison with recently chilled, fresh air from outside.
Along with meals, it was one of the few eagerly anticipated moments of the day. Prisoners back in their cells moved to doors and bars to suck in as much of the fresh outside air as possible. Concealed oxygen generators supplemented the nitrogen and argon that dominated the planet’s atmosphere. That was the reason for the hellhound-policed cull. With the control center elevated, it was theoretically possible for a wily prisoner to slip beneath it and gain access to the outside. Why any fool would want to do so, no one could imagine. But rules were rules. Even futile escapes would mess with the count, and despite what Toombs might think, Douruba prided himself on his bookkeeping.
Mixing with the rising steam and hot air from below, the cool, descending wind greeted Riddick as he made his way back up to the prison’s middle tiers. He stopped outside a cell that had opened early. To no surprise, it belonged to the Guv, who was not above defying prison regulations if only to show that he could. But though he might look longingly at the gap between the underside of the control room and the rock rim that marked the beginnings of the actual surface, the other man made no move to ascend in its direction. He knew all too well that what awaited outside was not freedom but only a different kind of hell. He did not look in the newcomer’s direction as Riddick approached, but he knew the newcomer was there.
Riddick followed the older convict’s gaze. “So they do go topside—to swap out air.” He was nodding to himself, thinking hard. “‘Lot simpler and cheaper than installing full-term recyclers.”
“That ain’t the only reason,” the Guv told him dourly. “See, they wanna make room for more.” His expression twisted. “This place has a reputation to maintain. The one slam nobody escapes from. Not even the dead.”
Up on the surface, being careful where they stepped, a group of guards bore the bodies of the two inmates who had been unlucky enough to be caught outside their cells during the last cull. The unfortunate pair would soon have company, though. Their bodies were unceremoniously dumped on the pile of dust and lingering bones reserved for those not holding a ticket off Crematoria. Unlike with their previous burden, a fellow guard, this time no one suggested taking the time to sprinkle words over the remains.
The terminator passed quickly. Inside the control room, relevant instrumentation signified that a full air exchange had been accomplished. Without waiting to double-check the validity of the claim, technicians swiftly adjusted controls and issued orders. A computer could have done it faster, and easier. But software was prone to glitches, computers to breakdowns. Crematoria was one place where the reliability of hand-operated, old-fashioned mechanics was more than prized: it was deemed essential to continued survival. So levers were pulled and buttons pushed, while advanced voice-operated instrumentation was reserved for preparing food, providing entertainment, and prison operations less critical to the business of surviving another day.
Vents began to close and seal as it grew lighter out on the surface. Exchangers shut down and locked in position. As