The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [91]
He paused only briefly to favor her with a single lingering stare. Then he was moving again, size notwithstanding, passing her on the upward climb. He did not look back to see her cutting up her belt into pieces suitable for hand wrapping.
Above the others, Riddick caught a glimpse of what he had been hoping for. In lieu of the Promised Land, he would settle for the summit. With one powerful heave, he propelled himself to the top.
The view beyond was striking in its desolation. Distant volcanoes smoked on the horizon; rivers of congealed molten rock streaked a surface forever frozen in time; and, virtually at his feet, a rocky plateau sloped away into a great undulating valley of crazed volcanic glass. Rising from the center of the valley was a single stone steeple, a natural landmark that could not be missed even from atmosphere.
Below it, he knew, lay the hangar complex, and within that complex, the mercenary ship.
Sucking in each superheated breath as if it was his last, one of the convicts emerged on the crest beside him. As the man collapsed and lay fighting for air, Riddick turned to check behind him. The landscape was dominated by a towering volcano, but it wasn’t geology that drew the big man’s attention. It was the sliver of sunlight growing at its edge, a hidden solar assassin that was coming inexorably for them all. Reaching into a pocket, he drew out his black goggles and slipped them on. They might protect his vision, but they would do nothing to save his life.
Peering over, he scanned the cliff face on the backside of the mountain. Figures were evident, climbing toward him. He checked the sequin of sun once more. Not fast enough.
“Kyra!”
Looking up, she saw the familiar figure bent over the edge. “What?”
He had no time to go into details. Nor did he. The urgency was plain in his voice. “Get that ass moving! Now!”
It was enough. She knew he didn’t raise his voice unless it was absolutely, positively, unavoidable. Which meant only one thing. She didn’t need to look around to see the sun approaching behind her. She could feel it tickling her neck, feeling its way down her spine, considering how best to finish the puny sack of damp meat that was stuck to the rock wall like a paralyzed fly.
His words were all the jolt she needed. Finding a new gear, she threw everything she had into a last desperate acceleration, choosing speed over caution now. Anything to keep ascending, to keep moving upward. If she fell, she died. If the sun caught her out on the rock face, she died. The only way to survive was to make it to the top and to the other side. The shaded side.
Spidering to the top, the Guv reached the crest and, panting and wheezing, pulled himself up and over. As he rolled and sat up, the sky behind him exploded in whiteness sharp and hard as a diamond as Crematoria’s sun finally appeared.
Where she clung to the face of the cliff, sunlight smashed into Kyra with almost physical force, drawing a gasp that mixed fear and desperation. A nearby crevice offered the only hope, the only respite. The only shade. She threw herself into it. Nearby, the only other convict still on the sunward side of the mountain found another cleft and did likewise. Up above, Riddick, the Guv, and the other remaining survivor of the breakout had already ducked down into the still tolerable shade zone provided by the backside of the mountain. Rocky outcroppings provided additional cover. Cover that would last only until the sun rose above the mountaintop.
From below, a still strong but increasingly plaintive voice cried, “Riddick?”
“Yeah,” he responded, not moving from behind his chosen rock.
There was a brief pause, then, “‘Know what I said about not caring if I lived or died?”
“Yeah.” As always, there was no change in the big man’s tone, nothing to indicate what he might be thinking.
“‘Knew I was kiddin’, right?”
By now her voice had faded, not in intensity, but in maturity: a change in age forced by a change