The Chronicles of Riddick Part 16

"If you fall here, now," he boomed, "you'll never rise. You'll be as the rest of the unconverted: nothing more than food for worms. But if you choose another way," and he glanced down at Kyra, "if you choose the Necromonger Necromonger way, you'll die in due time-only to rise again in the UnderVerse. Rise afresh to a new beginning, and a new life." way, you'll die in due time-only to rise again in the UnderVerse. Rise afresh to a new beginning, and a new life."

Controlling his breathing, Ridd.i.c.k stared at the Lord Marshal. "I've made my choice."

"This life is nothing. A spark in time. The UnderVerse is everything." Glancing down at the woman kneeling at his feet, he said commandingly, "Go to him. Save him."

As she approached, Ridd.i.c.k noticed that even her walk was different. Instead of the bold, confident stride he knew from memory, she came toward him with steps that were measured and hesitant. His augmented gaze roved over her, taking in the paled flesh, the downcast eyes, the freshly applied purification marks that scarred both sides of her neck. She had been altered, and not just physically. It was Kyra- and yet it wasn't.

Seeing the uncertainty in his expression, she struggled for an explanation. Even her voice was subdued, beaten down by hopelessness and circ.u.mstance. "It hurt at first. It hurt a lot. They want to be sure of you. But after a while, pain goes away just like they said it would." She mustered a wan, humorless smile. "I've had so much pain, Ridd.i.c.k. I didn't want any more. They promised to make it go away, and they did."

His expression didn't change an iota. "Did they? What else did they make go away, Kyra? I don't wanna know what you had to do. I don't need to know what you had to do. What I do need to know is, where you comin' down?" His eyes bored deep into her own. "That's all I wanna hear."

Her gaze rose, and he saw that she'd hardly heard what he'd said. She was in another place now, and it was one where he knew he would never go.

"Then there was-a moment," she was saying, as if trying to recount the details of a dream. "A moment where I think I saw it. Saw this new 'verse through His eyes." She glanced in the direction of the Lord Marshal, who stood stolid and approving, saying nothing, but watching, watching. She turned back to the man standing motionless before her. "It sounds beautiful, Ridd.i.c.k. A place to really start over in. A place without-pain."

He swallowed what he really wanted to say, said quietly instead, "Which side, Kyra?"

From across the floor that separated them, that was at once smaller than the throne room and larger than s.p.a.ce, the Lord Marshal paraphrased. "Which side, Ridd.i.c.k?"

Kyra looked up at him. "I thought you were dead. I thought. . ." With that, she shuffled away, leaving him to his fate. Leaving him to his decision. He shut his eyes, but it did not shut out the pain.

"Convert now, or fall forever," the Lord Marshal challenged the intruder, seizing on the other's obvious hesitation.

The play was almost over, and the Lord Marshal knew the ending as well as he did its heroes and the villains. If the breeder would only make the right choice, there would be none of the latter and he would be welcomed into the fold. It was what the Lord Marshal expected. It was the logical, right thing to do.

It was, however, not the Ridd.i.c.k thing to do.

Moving so fast his action was literally a blur, the big man drew the Irgun dagger, spun, and flung it so hard and fast at the Lord Marshal that it was impossible for any human to avoid.

The Lord Marshal, though, was no longer wholly human. Nor were his reactions.

Reaching up, an armored hand deflected the blade. Or did it? A collective gasp of disbelief filled the throne room as the defender of the Faith dropped to his knees.

On the balcony above, Vaako immediately grabbed one of the ancient, ceremonial poleaxes that formed a fence of blades behind him and started forward-only to be stopped by his companion.

"Wait, wait." Dame Vaako's attention was torn between her consort and what was happening on the floor below. "Too quick, it was too quick. A Half Dead doesn't die so easily. You don't take down a lord marshal with a knife throw."

Truly, the resources of the Half Dead are astounding to see. Turning slowly, as if from a punch that could not put him down, the Lord Marshal once again faced his a.s.sailant. Blood trickled down his cheek. He had deflected the blade just in time, and it had only grazed his face.

One hand dabbing at the cut, he contemplated the red stain quietly. "A long time since I've seen my own blood. Maybe too long. One can become too comfortable. Success breeds confidence. Too much success breeds overconfidence. I should thank you for reawakening that within me that made me what I am."

With one sweeping gesture he motioned everyone back; Elites, regular guards, onlookers-everyone. He would confront his own demons now. Both of him.

His astral self exploded forward, raging across the hall at the one who had dared to deny the offer of conversion, and who had drawn the Lord Marshal's blood. When his physical body caught up, the two combined to strike.

The blow went right through Ridd.i.c.k's defenses, slamming him backward into a pillar hard enough to dent it. As he slid to the deck, dazed, a new figure materialized high above. Unnoticed and un.o.bserved, but intensely interested in the proceedings, Aereon watched from her hiding place.

Unaffected by the impact, the Lord Marshal gathered himself for another a.s.sault. This would be as profound a lesson as the coming destruction of the capital below, he had decided. Let everyone see and understand what it meant to be the Lord Marshal, who could command forces not only of this world but of the other. Let them see, and remember.

Unsteadily, Ridd.i.c.k struggled back to his feet. Pulling another blade, he made a sudden and unexpectedly forceful lunge straight at his adversary.

Or rather, where his adversary had been. As his physical self stayed clear of the fighting, almost a contemptuous observer, the Lord Marshal's astral self blurred around Ridd.i.c.k, hammering on him from behind, below, above. Ridd.i.c.k fought back, as he'd always fought back, but every time he struck, his blade cleaved only empty air.

The beating went on until even the big man could no longer stand. Unable to absorb one more unblockable blow, he finally went down. Only then did the physical lord marshal move forward, astral hands exposed and extended, reaching for the man now p.r.o.ne on the ground. The ethereal claws reached down, digging into the thick body, until they found the soul they were hunting for and started to pull, to extract . . .

Howling in pain and outrage, Ridd.i.c.k somehow found the strength to kick free, jump back, and stand once more on his feet: battered, wounded, but still defiant. As he did so, his essence snapped back into place. This was one soul that would not be so easily extracted from its owner.

Muttering at his failure, the Lord Marshal saw that, lesson or no lesson, this was one foe he was going to have to full-kill first. Projecting, his astral self flew into one of the two giant statues that guarded the entrance to Necropolis and cracked off an oversized spike. Clutching now a weapon that was not only deadly but was rich with mythological import, the wraithlike shape again launched itself at Ridd.i.c.k.

Who dodged at the last possible instant. Striking the floor, the spike shattered in half, only for the broken end to be picked up by the Lord Marshal's physical self and thrust toward Ridd.i.c.k. Preoccupied with his adversary's constantly harrying astral counterpart, the big man found himself driven back all the way to the throne area. A blow to the head finally dropped him. He lay there, stunned.

It was time. Stepping over to an Elite guard, the Lord Marshal took possession of the man's staff. Returning to his fallen adversary, he slipped the staff beneath him and seemingly with little effort flipped him into a standing position. With a simple twist of both hands, and before Ridd.i.c.k could fall back to the floor, the Lord Marshal positioned the staff firmly against the big man's neck and began to apply pressure. Slowly but irresisitibly, so that this troublesome interloper would have time to feel death coming for him. Through his manner of dying, the breeder's pa.s.sing would serve as a reminder as well as a lesson.

Something was happening. A glow, lights, strengthening not within the p.r.o.ne figure's clothing but from within the body itself. The Lord Marshal hesitated, uncertain, staring. The singular internal lights began to flicker.

And then-they went out. Faded away, along with the rest of the big man's strength. Smiling viciously to himself, the Lord Marshal prepared to coil a length of cable around the breeder's neck. Both his physical and astral self were completely focused on the task at hand. On finis.h.i.+ng it.

"They'll write poetry about this moment. A paean to the present Lord Marshal."

His jaws parted and his mouth opened preparatory to letting out a cry of triumph. What emerged instead was a gasp, accompanied by a wide-eyed look of surprise and shock. His astral face spun around, seeking the source of the interruption. Of the surprise. Of the spike that had been plunged deeply into the back of his physical being.

A young woman stared back at him, her gaze no longer distant.

With waning strength, both the physical and astral Lord Marshal lashed out simultaneously. The blow sent Kyra flying across the room to smash into the protruding spikes of a decorative column. They bit- deeply. Her eyes widened as she slipped off the spikes and fell to the floor. They stayed that way, open and staring, even when she stopped moving. She did not move again.

On the balcony above, Dame Vaako had taken it all in. Waiting, waiting for just the right moment. Waiting to be sure.

"Now!" she yelled at her consort. "Kill the beast while it's wounded! Now Now."

Ceremonial poleax in hand, Vaako leaped from the bal.u.s.trade, landed on the floor below, and raced toward the throne.

Wallowing in agony, unable to pull the deeply set spike from his back with either physical or astral hand, the Lord Marshal saw his commander general rus.h.i.+ng toward him. Hope surged above the pain.

"Vaako . . . help me. . . ."

Halting, heart racing, Vaako stood above the older man, staring. Then he raised the ancient but still serviceable weapon. Its blade edge, beautifully and reverently maintained, glinted in the somber light of Necropolis.

The Lord Marshal's expression changed from one of expectation to one of complete disbelief.

"Vaako?"

Taking aim at the neck of the man lying p.r.o.ne before him, the commander general's fingers clenched convulsively on the staff of the weapon he held. At the same time, the Lord Marshal's astral body surged clear, away from any possible death blow. Separated, it could rejoin and rejuvenate its physical self even after a seemingly fatal strike. Then appropriate chastis.e.m.e.nt could be meted out to the traitor, after which . . .

Ridd.i.c.k was there, standing over the astral form. A minor inconvenience, that turbulent part of the Lord Marshal knew. No ordinary weapon could harm an astral body.

Only too late did it realize that the dagger that swept down in a sweeping arc was the one that had been pulled from the back of Irgun the Strange.

Instinctively, the Lord Marshal's physical self snapped away from Vaako's blow. The downward slicing blade sent sparks flying as it struck the floor, leaving a gouge behind it. The Lord Marshal's physical body then automatically rejoined his astral self, despite a cry from the latter.

And at that precise moment of physical and astral convergence, Ridd.i.c.k finished his swing, sinking the supernal blade clutched tightly in his fist up to its hilt in the Lord Marshal's conjoined skull. Mouth gaping, instantly now made Full Dead, the Lord Marshal fell forward to the floor. As he did so, the blade that had been sunk into his brain broke with an audible snap.

From above, realizing what had happened, realizing how in the blink of an eye it had all gone completely, utterly, terribly wrong, Dame Vaako screamed as if she had been stabbed herself.

"Nooooo!"

And further back, and higher up still, a certain inquisitive Elemental noted the unexpected outcome and did not quite chuckle to herself.

"Now what would be the odds of that . . . ," she murmured, though none were present to overhear.

On the scarred surface of the planet below, the citizens of Helion Prime stared up at their tormented sky. It was as if a strange calm had suddenly settled over the world. The vast, intimidating torus of energy that had appeared above their capital city had begun to evaporate, as if it held bound within it nothing more threatening than water vapor. The mouth of the conquest icon was closing, and the s.h.i.+ps that had a.s.sembled around it breaking formation, rising toward outer atmosphere, and dispersing.

Ziza looked up at her mother, who glanced down and smiled rea.s.suringly before looking skyward one more time. One last time, perhaps. As for the little girl she held tightly to her, Ziza was thinking of a man. Gone now, her father. Or just possibly, she was thinking of someone else.

Within the throne room of Necropolis, no one moved. Time itself seemed suspended. Never one to stand still for Time or anything else, Ridd.i.c.k pivoted away from the Full-Dead body of the Lord Marshal and stalked over to where Kyra lay fallen, eyes wide and open, staring at a place where, hopefully, there was no pain.

Exhausted, disgusted, empty, he ignored the hundreds of intent eyes that were fastened on him and following his every move. Nearby, Vaako, realizing what had happened, realizing what it meant, meant, let the ancient poleax he still held fall to the ground. In the silence, its metallic clattering was the only noise. let the ancient poleax he still held fall to the ground. In the silence, its metallic clattering was the only noise.

Moving to distance himself from Kyra's body, Ridd.i.c.k slumped into the first seat that presented itself, which happened to be the throne. Of Necropolis.

Gradually he became aware of more than eyes upon him. In seconds, his drawn expression changed from one of bitter anguish and resignation to utter astonishment at the sight before him.

Everyone in the Necropolis-every man and woman, young and old, experienced and new-was kneeling. Kneeling before the new Lord Marshal. Which was when it struck him. Something he had heard several times before. Something he had believed, had known, would only apply to others. Fate, it seemed, had one more surprise in store. One more great, cosmic joke.

"You keep what you kill . . . ," he murmured under his breath.

APPENDIX.

Historians' Note on Pre-Necroism Pre-Necroism Let it be noted that our grasp of pre-Necroism history is still incomplete, some of the early firsthand accounts of this epoch having been lost in the course of the conflicts of the Fourth Regime. Blessedly, other accounts remain in our possession. Yet ever since pyro-encoding became the accepted norm for doc.u.mentation, our ability to interpret such writings has been compromised. We are hard at work on these doc.u.ments. When deciphered, doubtless they will yield more information about the glorious and ever-expanding Necromonger Empire.

Truly it is important work. The sixth Lord Marshal has ordained that, when our work here is done and the known 'verse is properly cleansed, a great monument will be erected at the shoals of the Threshold. This monument will be inscribed with all our known history. It will serve as a dire warning for any other race that may cross over from some as-yet undiscovered 'verse, to turn them back forever.

-Cevris, Historian Princ.i.p.al 212 A.D.C.

Austeres and the Outcasting of Covu Genetically at least, we can chart our beginnings to a modest group known as the Brotherhood of Austeres. Devout themselves, they believed that all other known religions were too iconic, their histories too soaked in blood, their teachings too dogmatic and without room for personal expression. The Austeres were monotheistic and isolationist. They sought distance from the other worlds of man that they found so corrupting. Though they numbered only in the thousands, the Austeres were strong in their belief that theirs would prove to be the one true faith.

Traveling long in s.h.i.+ps with conventional drives, they lost many of their numbers to the rigors of the journey. But ultimately, the Austeres made planetfall and colonized a world they named Asylum.

Quickly, dissension arose. Covu, an important scientist-philosopher, began teaching the then radical belief that there might be more than one G.o.d- indeed, that there might be as many G.o.ds as there were "universes."

One must remember that the Monoverse theory held great sway at the time. One G.o.d seemed ample for the job of overseeing one 'verse, large though it must have seemed.

Covu decried monotheism as an unnecessary vestige of Jesusism. He believed that it should be shed with other Christian trappings already left behind by the Austeres. For this stance, Covu was persecuted by the Austeres. When he declined to recant his positions, deemed heretical, the Austeres tortured Covu day and night, and the abuse was so relentless that Covu lost the ability to feel pain.

Soon the Austeres turned their ire on Covu's family, torturing and killing them. Covu would have died at the hands of the Austeres, too, had it not been for the few followers-Covulytes-who had been drawn to his teachings and who helped Covu to escape.

Outcast, Covu wandered s.p.a.ce with the corpses of his wife and children. How long he journeyed is unclear, but eventually Covu made a discovery of unimaginable import: a rift in known s.p.a.ce that const.i.tuted a crossover to another 'verse.

It was the Threshold itself!

The Covulytes were afraid to approach this strange and turbulent corner of uncharted s.p.a.ce. Only Covu pushed ahead, perhaps driven by the need to lay his family to rest in a place that would remain undisturbed by the Austeres.

Only minutes later, Covu returned-yet he seemed years older. Too, he seemed stronger, more resolute in his words and ways. Speaking to his astounded followers, Covu claimed his family was no longer dead, that they had risen and walked again in the 'verse on the far side of the Threshold, a glorious place he called "UnderVerse."

Imbued with an almost magical new strength, Covu took righteous retribution on the Austeres who had cast him out. He fought and killed their commanders, claiming their heads as he did so. Looking into their newly dead eyes, he was overheard to whisper, "You keep what you kill."

In victory, Covu a.s.sumed the new office of "lord marshal," the one rank that cannot be superceded. After forcing them to bow before him, Covu reorganized the last living Austeres into a more regimented- though still pre-military-society. So different was this society that it begged for a new name and a new place of wors.h.i.+p.

Covu termed this new ideological order "Necroism." As a powerful testament to it, Necropolis-our most hallowed hall-was erected on the tallest mountain of Asylum.

The First Regime: Covu the Transcended Covu had seen, firsthand, the beauty that is the UnderVerse.

So compelling was the sight that he taught that all life elsewhere was "a spontaneous outbreak," an "unguided mistake" that needed correction. The Natural State was death and what came afterward. Covu and all Necromongers were also part of this "grand error," but having seen the truth, they were duty bound to remain alive until the known 'verse was swept clean of all human life.

Some years later, Covu chose a successor. It was Oltovm the Builder, the officer who had laid the first and last stone of Necropolis. Oltovm set out with Covu to return to the Threshold. It was an arduous journey, months long. Some in their company wondered aloud if Covu had ever seen the Threshold at all, and they started to doubt his word.

But then it was found! Oltovm describes the Threshold as "Surrounded by great tidal forces of s.p.a.ce, treacherous to navigate near, yes, but exotically beautiful, hinting at the dark wonders that lurk beyond."

Days were spent waiting for the tidal forces to ease, and then finally the Threshold opened! Covu ordered all Necromongers except Oltovm to turn their backs as approach was made, and that forever established how a Necromonger vessel nears the open Threshold: aftward first. Indeed, no living Necromonger except a Lord Marshal may cast his eyes upon the UnderVerse.

On the Threshold the two men stood-the once and future lord marshals-both now gazing into the beautiful strangeness of UnderVerse. What words pa.s.sed between them was never recorded. But while Oltovm held his place, Covu strode on into the UnderVerse and was never seen again.

The Second Regime: Oltovm the Builder Intent on never losing his way to this remarkable place, Oltovm erected hidden navigational markers that would lead him back. Never again would anyone doubt its existence! Once the way was charted, Oltovm initiated the construction of a portal around the Threshold-forces that could resist the vortices of s.p.a.ce and force open the Threshold on demand.

A trusted officer was tasked with guarding the Threshold against marauding races. His name was never recorded, so he is simply referred to herein as the Guardian of the UnderVerse. Said to be nearly three meters tall, the Guardian and his legion of faithful will repel any non-Necromonger who may make unauthorized approach to this most holy of places. During those times when the Threshold is opened to admit a Lord Marshal on pilgrimage, the Guardian and his warriors must turn their backs so as not to gaze upon the UnderVerse.

Early in the Second Regime there arose a controversy. How can procreation be tolerated in a faith devoted to non-life? The solution was to ban all breeding (though of course not the s.e.x act itself). This prohibition led to the inevitable conclusion that the Faith would die out in one generation's time unless new converts could be found.

The Faith was still great, but distances of s.p.a.ce were greater. More s.h.i.+ps with improved drives were needed. Now, Oltovm was no longer a young man, and the construction of the Threshold portal had occupied many of his years. Still, he became devoted to the idea of gifting Necromongers with the greatest armada ever seen.

The manpower needs were tremendous. The task of meeting that need fell to a fiery young commander full of the Faith, named Baylock. An ardent student of the teachings of Covu, Baylock was admired even if some of his actions drew criticism. Among other things, he used unconventional means to subjugate all the races of Boroneau V. Strong backs and new resources were needed to build the armada, and Baylock delivered them at whip's end.

Oltovm never saw First Ascension, the day the new Necromonger armada rose from Asylum. Instead, he chose his successor and then chose ritualistic suicide at the edge of the Threshold. Oltovm had told others it was "due time" for his death, and it is he who is now credited with this important distinction of Necroism. Even while we covet death, there is a right and proper moment for any death. Unless a Necromonger dies in "due time," he will be prohibited from entering the UnderVerse.

The Third Regime: Naphemil the Navigator Naphemil had risen fast in the military ranks, a young cartographer who helped lay the foundations for what we now call, simply, the Campaign: the plan to rid the known 'verse of all human life. Oltovm chose wisely when he named Naphemil as the leader of this epoch of Necroism.

Rather than leave Necropolis behind on Asylum, Naphemil ordered the structure unearthed and entombed in a far larger s.h.i.+p, the Basilica. The first Necromonger church would travel with the armada through s.p.a.ce, into which it ventured on Ascension Day.

In the short years of the Third Regime, Necromonger society did well at spreading the word of Covu, gathering converts by the thousands. The swell of new blood brought refinements in the conversion process. It was no longer enough to bow before the Lord Marshal and take an oath of fidelity. True purification was necessary.

The pain-deadening act we know today is a faint echo of Covu's experience at the hands of the Austeres. Just as he was tortured to the point of non-feeling, new converts are put through a process that demonstrates how one kind of pain can deaden others; how pain can actually bring spiritual bliss. The office of "Purifier Princ.i.p.al" was created to oversee new conversions.

Despite these gains, the Necromonger faith began bleeding off numbers, as infighting among officers and natural attrition outpaced conversions. After the enormous expenditure of resource that marked the Second Regime, it seemed the faith was floundering.

Some Necromongers began to see Naphemil as more planner than leader, more strategist than warrior. He was, as Oltovm concluded, a good choice for the ascension period of Necromonger history-but that period was now challenged by new realities.

Naphemil was killed in a dispute with then-commander Baylock, and this unapologetic murder marked the first time that a lord marshal had been dethroned by violence. Debate raged as to whether Baylock was ent.i.tled to the post of lord marshal. Ultimately, the teachings of Covu prevailed, as Baylock defended his act with Covu's own words: "You keep what you kill." Baylock ascended to the throne of Necropolis, and all Necromongers knelt before him. The society now knew two kinds of succession: appointment and murder.