The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [81]
Head back, interior lights reflected from his goggles, Riddick regarded the control room high above. Hanging halfway down the cone’s throat, the chain attached to the service and supply winch jiggled and bounced with the occasional explosive reverberation.
Moments later, the lights in the control room died. Probably not the only thing to do so, he mused. Then a blast of actinic white light erupted that was bright enough to force him, even though protected by his goggles, to look away. Even so, he was able to catch a glimpse of a single figure as it dove through the overhead aperture and plunged downward. The explosion that followed close on his heels rocked the entire prison.
When Riddick looked back and the glare faded from his goggles, he saw that the leaping figure had managed to grab onto the lower end of the winch chain. Fortunately for him, the winch had not been damaged in the last explosion. Unfortunately for him, Riddick recognized him immediately. It was Toombs.
Backing up, the big man readied himself. Putting one foot against a wall and using it like a sprinter’s starting block, he pushed off hard, accelerating with every step. As a couple of other stupefied inmates looked on, he leaped to the railing and used it as a launching pad. The arc he described had been carefully judged. He had just enough room, built-up speed, and strength to cross the seemingly impossible gap and smack into the figure clinging desperately to the end of the chain. Somehow, Toombs absorbed the unexpected impact and managed to hold on. Arms straining to maintain his grip, he found himself penduluming back and forth with whoever had slammed into him. As soon as he was reasonably certain he wasn’t going to fall, he brought his head around to get a look at the crazed fool who had almost knocked him from his perch.
And found himself virtually nose to nose with Riddick.
No gun. No backup. No heavily armed crew. No cuffs. All of which added up, in the sudden fit of near panic that threatened to eclipse Toombs’s thoughts, to No Chance. For what seemed like an eternity, the two men hung there, swinging back and forth as the end of the chain slowly steadied. Just when the mercenary was convinced his former prisoner was going to start eating cereal out of his skull, Riddick spoke. His voice was unchanged, as if they were seated across from one another in a corner café. As if nothing had previously passed between them. As if what had passed had meant nothing then, and meant even less now.
“Shoulda taken the money.”
Toombs would have gaped at him, or possibly even replied, except Riddick had started up the chain like a lemur and was using the mercenary’s skull for a step-stone. The big man went up the links so fast Toombs didn’t have time to reply even if he had been able to think of something to say. As soon as it sank in that he wasn’t going to be kicked off, dismembered piecemeal, or have his medulla oblongata pulled out through his mouth, he started upward himself. His progress was notably slower than that of his predecessor.
The scene in the darkened control room resembled a party that had been crashed by Beelzebub and a few of his drinking buddies. The only light came from those few screens and readouts that hadn’t been blasted to bits or forcibly deactivated. It was dim enough for Riddick to ungoggle, which he did gratefully. His too-constant companion, it was always a relief to be able to move around once in a while without it clinging to his face like some inescapable, symbiotic alien.
He had no trouble separating the bodies of the mercenaries from those of the guards, because he could not. They were indistinguishable from one another —those bits and pieces that still remained complete enough