The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [74]
“One way to clean house . . .”
He eyed the largest of the temperature gauges. The control room had only been docked for minutes when the readout broke two hundred and kept rising. It would level out somewhere around four hundred F, he knew. Anything more than that, and atmosphere would boil off into space. Satisfied he had acquired another fragment of potentially useful knowledge, he and his team members turned to leave.
A sound made them halt. It started as a low vibration in the soles of their boots, rising steadily until they could hear it clearly even within the sealed confines of the control room. Continuing to increase in intensity, it made the pilot think of a runaway drive on a long-range starship. The mercenaries stood as if frozen. Though there was no reason to think anything dangerous was passing above them, they eyed the ceiling instinctively. A sound as of a million hoofed animals stampeding in panic directly over their heads caused the pilot to flinch.
Toombs and the copilot thought to recheck the temperature readout. The number was an even three hundred F and still rising.
Raising her voice in order to make herself heard, the dazed copilot bawled aloud, “Jesus—what is that?”
No one answered her. Maybe, despite her effort, no one heard. Or maybe, despite their familiarity with the incredible winds driven by the pressure differential between the hot side and dark side, none of the guard techs wanted to take the time to look up from their instruments. Not until it had passed.
Though not nearly as frightening since it was diminished by distance and rock, the topside roaring could be heard down on the tiers as well. With the refresh completed, inmates knew they could safely emerge from their cells and hiding places. For a little while, at least, the atmosphere within the prison would be a tolerable mix of fresh air and human stench. Then the rising steam and sputtering sulfur vents would slowly corrupt it again, leaving it stinking and barely breathable until the next refresh— fifty-two hours hence.
Tracking Riddick, Kyra had followed his progress upward. Now as she approached she saw that he and the Guv were deep in discussion, with several other convicts paying close attention to what was being said. As was appropriate, she did not try to inject herself into the conversation; she merely halted off to one side, listened (which was permitted unless otherwise declared), and waited.
Taking note of her arrival, Riddick turned slightly. “When it happens, it’ll happen fast. You can either stay here for the rest of your unnatural life, or be on my leg when I cut fence.”
At his words, Kyra’s expression turned hopeful— until she realized he had been speaking to the Guv. Or had he? Unsure whether to reflect optimism or despair, her expression went blank. Riddick did nothing to ease her concern.
One of the convicts grunted a common mantra. “Nobody outs from this place. Not alive. Never has happened, never will happen. Ain’t no place to out, to.”
Riddick let his gaze drift ceilingward. Toward the distant control room. “I ain’t nobody.” With that, he wandered off, tracked by a dozen intent, curious eyes. The Guv’s were among them. His expression, Kyra decided, was full of uncertainty—and longing. It disgusted her. They didn’t know Riddick, his lies, his phony promises, his falsely comforting words. They hadn’t been abandoned by him.
“Go ahead,” she snapped bitterly. “Listen to him. Eat it up. Fall for it. You won’t be the first.” Turning sharply, she stalked away.
XII
At first glance there appeared to be nothing at the nexus