The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [82]
Striding swiftly toward the door that led to the transport tunnel, he tried the lever. The outer doors groaned a protest, but parted. The inner barrier, however, remained stubbornly shut. On closer inspection, he was unable to tell if they had been incurably damaged by the explosion, or had been deliberately sabotaged. The distinction was irrelevant, he knew.
A tunnel monitor lay nearby, flickering feebly with lingering electronic life. Digging it out of the rubble, he brushed off the screen and studied the image. Though maddeningly inconsistent, it provided enough information to show that no one was going anywhere soon via the prison’s internal transportation system. For one thing, the heavy travel sled had been blown clean off its tracks. As for the latter, they were in none too good a condition themselves. A quick glance was enough to tell him that fixing the system would require engineering staff, a full repair crew, heavy equipment, and worst of all, time. There was no sign of human life in the tunnel, either.
When no further detonations followed his ascent and he didn’t come plunging back down through the access aperture with significant parts of his body missing, the convicts who had been waiting and watching below began to make their way upward in his wake. Kyra was the first one up, followed by the Guv and others. Toombs took the more direct route, tentatively hauling himself up the same service chain Riddick had utilized.
Most of them had found themselves in the control room at one time or another, usually to receive a declaration of punishment or reduction in privileges from the slam boss. Now the place was unrecognizable. Someone with more presence of mind than his dazed compatriots managed to reactivate the lights. Funny, that, the Guv mused. Usually, the problem on Crematoria was too much light.
A convict who’d accosted a prominent citizen on Veriel III and had suffered the misfortune of having to kill him when his prey had protested at the imposition gestured at the carnage as he came over.
“Mercenaries. Some guards here, too, but it can’t be all of them. At least, I don’t think so.” He made a face. “I ain’t about to count the total body parts and divide by the number of guards.”
“Take a couple of the boys and pay the guard dorm a visit. Check their individual slots.” The Guv nodded past the man. “Back in the living quarters. And be careful or you’re liable to get yourselves shot on sight.” He spat at the bloodstained floor. “Prison regs died along with everyone else in here.”
A voice interrupted their exchange. “Guards ain’t there.”
Both convicts turned. The big man was holding a fleximage, a portion of which had been enlarged. It showed a dark outline, ominous and massive. While Riddick explained, the Guv and other convicts crowded around for a better look.
“Looks like the boss and the guards figured out Necromongers are coming.”
“Necromongers?” someone asked.
Riddick glanced in the convict’s direction. “The ones who’ve been taking out and shutting down worlds. Helion Prime was the most recent.” When the questioner didn’t react, the big man explained in terms a convict could understand. “Think thousands of mercs all dedicated to bringing you back dead or alive. Then forget the ‘or alive.’” This time the man nodded comprehendingly.
“Looks like the back-up plan was to clean the bank, ghost the mercs, and break wide through the tube. Anybody comes here checking up afterwards would reasonably assume the mercs were responsible.” He held up a shortshell launcher. Smoke still wafted from its barrel. “But one merc got off a shot with this party-crasher here and took out the sled.” He smiled thinly. “Wish I coulda seen the looks on their faces when the guards found their getaway baby buggy all busted to hell.
“So they