The Chronicles of Riddick Part 7

"While I do prize brute force," the Lord Marshal was saying, "there are times when a more artful, subtle approach may be more valid. While every convert is willing, a convert lost here is lost to us the next time." His hand moved over the map; altering positions, viewpoint, locations.

"Go in with smaller forces first. Instead of a frontal a.s.sault and landing whose effects can only be judged by the number of our people who survive it, pick off these defensive positions first, one by one. If moves are made to defend them, so much the better. We can ramp up each attack in proportion to the increase in defense. Before long, they will be so busy trying to defend their multiple individual positions that their forces will be scattered. When they are dispersed, not when they are concentrated as they are now, will be the time to initiate your major attack. If they do not disperse, then we can take out their defensive positions one at a time.

"Remember," he said, turning to Scales, "whether one is mounting a defense or an attack, it is important to dictate the flow of battle, to keep control. Not only for strategic reasons, but to maintain morale among the converted. Every defense, every offense, has its blind spot. Finding and exploiting it is the key to victory, not the ma.s.s sacrifice of one's own forces." He gestured at the map one more time. "These Helions are no different. As with most, their blind spot . . ."

As the Lord Marshal declaimed on the merits of military subtlety, Vaako moved closer and closer. Was such a thing as complete surprise, after all, possible? Was he about to secure proof of what he had long wondered about? He was there, almost there, almost within an arm's length.

The visage that turned toward him was vaporous, but clearly defined. It was the facial equivalent of the third arm that not long ago had ripped the soul from a defiant politician in the middle of Helion's capitol building. It stared unblinkingly at the approaching Vaako, who halted sharply as the physical face caught up and merged with its astral predecessor.

". . . is right behind them," the Lord Marshal concluded without any change in tone.

To his credit, Vaako recovered quickly, betraying no sign of his purpose in approaching so stealthily. "We found a launch site and witnesses. There is no proof the sought-after subject was aboard, but the weight of evidence would seem to support such a conclusion. An intercept was attempted, but failed. However, orbital units were able to make a pick subsequent to the indicated craft's supralight jump. That is only sufficient for an initial destination, of course, but having escaped the intercept, those on board should be full of confidence. Since they do not know we have the capability of making a course pick, it seems unlikely they would go to the expense and trouble of dropping out of supralight to make a course correction. In lieu of confirmation, all is supposition, of course."

"If the subject has gone off world," the Lord Marshal replied, without in any way alluding to Vaako's unusually furtive entry, "then you should be off world, Vaako."

The commander stiffened slightly. It was not a reprimand, but neither was it praise for good work already done. "I've already ordered a strike team to follow as far as needed. It is well prepared and well led. I have the greatest confidence in its ability to-"

The Lord Marshal interrupted him. "My confidence lies in those closest to me." Was that a sly comment on his entrance? Vaako could not tell. "Wherever the Ridd.i.c.k has gone, it falls to you to lens him out and cleanse him. You. If I wished another officer to take charge of this matter, I would already have designated one."

Vaako was more confused than angry. There was no glory to the cause in following and tracking down one lone malcontent, whatever his perceived abilities. The real action was here, in the Helion system, doing battle with st.u.r.dy planetary defenses and hordes of the unconverted.

"Forgive me, but-isn't my place here? Partic.i.p.ating in the planning and execution of the remainder of the Helion campaign? My training, my experience, has led me to the command of dozens of s.h.i.+ps, thousand of converts. Surely it's not necessary for me to be present at the takedown of one man? Isn't this where I'm most-?"

The Lord Marshal spoke with disarming softness. "Are you questioning my judgment in this matter, Vaako?"

The expressions on the faces of the other senior officers in the room spoke volumes. Toal, for his part, actually moved a couple of steps away from Vaako. Scales favored his colleague with the kind of look one reserves for an acquaintance who has suddenly been diagnosed with a rare, incurable, and highly contagious disease.

"No, my Lord Marshal," Vaako responded hastily. "I would never think to question your judgment."

"Then don't," the supreme leader advised him. His att.i.tude softened. "Take it on faith."

Stepping back smartly, Vaako bowed sharply. His partic.i.p.ation in the strategy session was over. He was fortunate, he realized as he retraced his way out of the chamber, that that was all that was over.

She was waiting for him in the quarters they shared. As befitted his rank, it was comparatively s.p.a.cious-private s.p.a.ce being a luxury even on a vessel as commodious as the Basilica. At the moment, she was applying makeup, a ritual unchanged among humankind since self-consciousness first appeared among the species. Befitting the culture to which they belonged, such artificial epidermal enhancements were more foreboding than cheerful or illuminating.

Casting off bits and pieces of his duty uniform, he paced furiously behind her. Though aware of the emotions surging through him, she did not pause in her work. Like sweat, the anger and uncertainty he was clearly experiencing would soon evaporate.

"It's a fool's run, suitable for a mid-level officer and a squad or two of Elite. Why the need to a.s.sign a Commander of the Faith to supervise? For that matter, why care about one man, one breeder? A good fighter, to be sure. Quick and fearless. But still only one. And a full alive, at that. No mysteries there, no hidden threats.

"Meanwhile, we have a war to plan, a faith to spread, a stubborn system to subdue, and here he's ordering me off to-" A new thought made him pause. He stared over at her. "Am I falling from favor? I have done all that has been asked of me, both personally and professionally. What could I have overlooked that would lead him to treat me this way?"

Dame Vaako continued to apply her maquillage. Cloaked in the calm tone of rea.s.surance, her actual words were disquieting. "He's always been unsettled, the current Lord Marshal. Unsteady. There are more whispers than you can imagine. Some say he's too artistic for the job. Others that his ambitions exceed his abilities. Megalomania, and worse. Of course, extremism in the service of the faith is no vice, but when it threatens to overwhelm good judgment . . ."

Judgment. Was her use of the word just a coincidence? How could she know of what had transpired in the strategy room? He did not pursue the question. Long since, he had learned to value and respect the innate cunning of his current partner, and to make use of it without examining her methods too closely.

"In such situations," she was saying, "one never knows what will happen. What the immediate future may bring. Wouldn't be surprised if someone promoted him soon-to Full Dead."

That was going too far. To voice such a thought, even in the privacy of their own supposedly screened and secure apartments . . .

"Take care what you say."

She turned to him. Her beauty was legendary, her sensuality overpowering, her intelligence tangible. He was reminded, yet again, why he had partnered with her. "Should I say it softly?"

Was she teasing him? He muttered a reply. "Sure, say it softly. So it sounds more more like a conspiracy." like a conspiracy."

She rolled her eyes. She was not teasing him, then. He felt a combination of embarra.s.sment and inadequacy. In all Necromonger society, only she, only this one woman, could make him feel like that.

"Why is it that if you so much as breathe breathe about the demise of him on the throne, everyone a.s.sumes a conspiracy? Why isn't it considered prudent planning? If he's as profoundly gifted as everyone insists, isn't it the sort of thing he would be expecting and preparing himself for?" about the demise of him on the throne, everyone a.s.sumes a conspiracy? Why isn't it considered prudent planning? If he's as profoundly gifted as everyone insists, isn't it the sort of thing he would be expecting and preparing himself for?"

"He is occupied with other concerns." Vaako's defense of his superior was unquestioning and admirable, even though no one else was present to hear it. "The business of eventual succession is a complicated one. By this time in a lord marshal's career someone has usually moved to the fore and positioned himself, whereupon any other pretenders accept the reality and retire any personal ambitions they might hold in that regard. That has not yet happened, nor has the Lord Marshal given any indication that he favors any one of several among those who are qualified. There's Toal, Scales, even the Purifier himself. It would be unusual, but not unprecedented, for a purifier to accede to the role of lord marshal."

She was nodding slowly, as if intimately familiar with both procedure and candidates. "Yet none of them," she finally declared, "with the simple elegance of 'Lord Vaako.'" Rising fluidly, she moved toward him, her voice falling to a husky whisper. "You can keep what you kill."

Vaako swallowed. A trio of approaching enemy armed to the teeth he knew instantly how to deal with. This woman, diaphanously cloaked and sensuously madeup, represented an entirely more complex challenge.

"Stop," he muttered.

Her voice was soft in his ear, sugar in his mind. "It is the Necromonger way."

"STOP!" Having momentarily turned away, he spun around and grabbed her, his fingers sinking into her receptive flesh. He struggled to control himself. "His pa.s.sing will come in due time. And not a moment sooner."

"Why?" she wondered, her personality a blend of coquette and a.s.sa.s.sin.

Vaako straightened as if on parade. Which, in a sense, he was, even there in their private rooms. "Because I serve him him-we all serve him him. That is also the Necromonger way. It represents how we have managed to become what we are, how we have succeeded in growing and spreading our creed. It's called fidelity."

"It's called stupidity."

Always one to reduce the exalted and the complex to an oversimplification, he thought angrily. As linked as they were, there was a point beyond which he would not be pushed. He replied with the front of his hand across her face, hard.

It did not have the intended effect.

She smiled, an entirely carnivorous manifestation. It was fortunate that Vaako was intimately familiar with it. Another man might have been frightened. "Well-finally, some attention."

She did not so much move toward him as strike, attacking him with the kind of coiled, primal s.e.xual energy normally held in restraint beneath her n.o.ble poise. Knowing it was futile to do so, he made little effort to resist. Knowing also that he did not want to do so. Though as adherents of the Necromonger faith it would be counter to their beliefs to procreate-and their reproductive systems had been modified accordingly-the enjoyment of the act was not forbidden to them.

Then, just as abruptly and unpredictably, she was stroking his face, cooing at him like a lover on their wedding night. "You have such greatness in you, Vaako. So much potential. Everything you ever strove for, everything you ever wanted, is right there, yours for the taking. But it will not be given to you- you have to take it for yourself. I just wish you could see it like I do." She kissed him again, not biting this time, her lips hot and moist as they traced abstract patterns against his skin.

"You know what I want?"

Vaako was present physically, occasionally returning her kisses as she continued to caress him, but a part of his mind was not. That part of him was remembering. Calculating.

"He was meeting with the other commanders," he murmured wonderingly, staring off into a distance only he could see. "They were completely occupied with what they were discussing. Everyone's back was to me. I was very careful. I came up behind him in perfect silence-not a squeak of boots, not a rustle of clothing."

For all that they continued to speak aloud, they were not having a conversation. They were each of them lost in their own worlds now, their own private thoughts.

"I want to go down to Necropolis, right now," she whispered throatily.

"And he knew," Vaako muttered, recalling the incident with disbelief. "He knew I was there even though he never turned till the last instant. His astral self sensed I was behind him, and communicated my presence."

Her hands were moving now in counterpoint to her tongue. "And if no one's around, when no one is looking, I'll get down on my knees. . . ."

Vaako was shaking his head. "You can't surprise him. It's impossible. He knows everything. And if the living half of him doesn't, the dead half of him does."

". . . while you sit on the throne," she finished. In a frenzy of baccha.n.a.lian expectation, she clutched his arm and pulled him toward the door. He did not resist, his startled expression showing that he had hardly heard her-and didn't care. Whatever she wanted right now, it didn't matter. While his thoughts were confused, hers clearly were not. Might as well then, he reasoned, let her forge ahead.

On their way down to the center of Necropolis, they were greeted by soldiers and technicians, support personnel and life support staff alike. As they drew nearer and nearer to the traditional inner sanctuary of Necromonger belief, however, they encountered fewer and fewer citizens. This was a place for ceremony and contemplation, not for those with daily tasks to perform.

To ensure privacy, she detoured to the sweeping balcony that overlooked the central sanctum. Unexpectedly, the floor below was occupied. Only three people there, conversing in low voices. When she saw who they were, her initial intent in coming was quickly forgotten. Her abrupt change of att.i.tude did not appear to make any difference to Vaako, especially after he also recognized the reason for it.

On the main floor, the Lord Marshal and the Purifier were interrogating a third figure. A stranger in more than one sense of the word. Or was it more of an interview than an interrogation? At a distance, it was difficult to tell. Certainly the visitor was not visibly restrained. Wis.h.i.+ng for better powers of hearing, she strained to catch a phrase, a word. Next to her, Vaako crouched low against the bal.u.s.trade, staring and listening.

"An Elemental," she murmured. "Here. But why?"

Vaako essayed a guess. "Helion Prime is something of a junction system. Those who prepared the way for us reported the presence of many visitors, some who came from a considerable distance. They as well as locals were taken captive." He nodded toward the distant Elemental. "She might be one of them."

Or not, Dame Vaako reflected as she observed. There was something between the Elemental and the Lord Marshal that was difficult to discern at a distance. Tension, certainly. That was to be expected. But she thought she could detect indications of something else, something more. A familiarity, perhaps. Or something even deeper. Possibly-a history?

"How unexpected," the Lord Marshal was saying out of earshot of the two observers. So focused was he on the female standing before him that even his half-dead self did not notice the pair crouched behind the bal.u.s.trade. Though they did not know it, they were just far enough away to be outside the range of his casual detection. "That on this particular planet, of all the inhabited planets in the known galaxy, we turn up an Elemental on the very same day we find, of all things, a male Furyan." He leaned toward the subject of his mock surprise.

"Just why is that? And why, of all Elementals, would it be you?"

Outwardly unperturbed, Aereon stood before him, making no move to flee. For that matter Vaako wondered, being as he was somewhat familiar with the singular abilities of the Elementals, how had she been brought aboard in the first place? Or had she been brought? Was it possible she had come of her own free will? If so, to what purpose? A complicated and confusing day was only becoming more so.

"Helion Prime is a crossroads world, a center for trade and exchange. Given the speed with which your kind has been moving through this part of the galaxy lately, the odds are not so against it."

The Lord Marshal was less than convinced by this argument. "Try again. And this time, make me believe you."

If Aereon was intimidated, she did not show it. "It's no secret that Elementals are interested in the balance of things. When that balance is disturbed, we have been known to travel far to observe cause and effect."

"As you've been known to know more than you usually tell," the Lord Marshal riposted. "You'll have to do better than that. I'm not one to be manipulated by clever evasions and reluctant half-truths."

Dame Vaako's sinuous mind was working overtime. "Doesn't regard her as a captive, though. A guest reluctant to speak forthrightly, maybe. No weapons in view. That suggests neither is afraid of the other." She shook her head, hating that she could not understand. Then she smiled over at Vaako.

"You be a good soldier and go after the Ridd.i.c.k. The Marshal hasn't given you much of a choice, anyway. Do your job and terminate the breeder, or bring him back. Meanwhile, I'll find out why the Lord Marshal is so threatened by him. And what the Elementals have to do with all this. There are wheels within wheels here, my dear commander, and I need time to translate the squeaking."

Leaning toward him, she thrust her tongue toward the back of his mouth while her perfect teeth simultaneously nibbled teasingly at his lips. Her hot exhalation surged down his throat.

In the face of an argument like that, he could do naught but comply.

IX.

It was a stark and blasted world, wobbling uncomfortably on its axis. Too close to its sun, one hemisphere was presently roasting in the heat of Hades while the other shuddered in the death grip of mortal cold. In between lay the terminator, a band of tolerable twilight that was wider and moved more slowly than on most human-inhabited worlds.

Approaching from the night side, a small s.h.i.+p descended through an atmosphere incapable of holding moisture and therefore devoid of comforting clouds. No markings identified it, the insignia of no system flared proudly from its flanks. The same might be said of its crew.

Automatically, cryotubes retracted from selected arms and legs. While the rest of the mercenaries slept, the copilot detached herself from remaining monitoring links and life-support conduits. Rising from her place of repose, she stretched until the air in her joints popped. Forcing herself through the prescribed regimen of wake-up exercises, she then proceeded to check on her colleagues. They would be reviving soon. A quick run-through of systems showed that everything aboard the compact little craft was functioning normally. Pleased, she was about to signal their presence to the ground prior to initiating preliminary procedures for touchdown when she remembered there was one other on board whose status she ought to check on.

As was proper, their cargo was still out. Of course he was. It was absurd to think he might have emerged from cryosleep on his own. An interesting specimen, even if he did represent nothing more than a quick and satisfying cash-out. His origin was a mystery to her. Toombs might be their leader, but he hadn't provided much in the way of information about their captive. Just that he was one more in a long list of the recovered. Toombs was nothing if not boastful.

Not that it mattered to her. All that mattered was payday. Which, a.s.suming no trouble with the authorities on the ground, ought to be forthcoming very soon.

Still, she could not entirely repress her natural curiosity. There had been that intriguing but brief verbal interplay between the prisoner and Toombs, for example. And those goggles the man wore: she'd never seen a pair quite like them. Much more than simple sunshades, of a design that was new to her and a composition that suggested a need to do more than merely dampen sunlight, they intrigued her almost as much as the comatose man who was wearing them.

Edging closer, she reached out a wary hand. There was no movement, no response to the approach of her fingers. Were the inside of the lenses as distinctive as their exterior? She lifted the goggles.

And nearly fell backward and down. A pair of eyes was staring straight back at her; a pair of eyes that glinted with a hint of the kind of devious surgical modification that in polite society was more often whispered than spoken about. So calm and controlled moments earlier, her breath now came in sudden, short gasps.

Ridd.i.c.k turned his head ever so slightly to one side. "Do you know that you grind your teeth when you're in cryosleep? Makes one wonder what you're dreaming about. s.e.xy."

Though it was right behind her, she fled to the safety of the copilot's seat and the unchallenging familiarity of the console's instruments.

Gradually, one by one, the rest of the crew slowly emerged from the extended rest and biochange that were required to allow the fragile human form to endure the rigors of extended supralight travel. Disdaining the health of his own body, or maybe completely confident in its ability to handle anything that might come its way, Toombs ignored the appropriate, recommended rehydration regimen in favor of gargling with a bottle of tequila.

What was wrong with his copilot? There seemed to be an uncharacteristic trembling in her voice as she reported on their status. He did not press for an explanation, however, and as they continued to make their descent, it soon went away.

"I make almost seven hundred degrees on the hemisphere in daylight," she was reporting as she scanned readouts, "and maybe three hundred below on the night side. Vacation heaven."

Knowing from Crematoria's reputation what to expect, Toombs stood next to Ridd.i.c.k and nodded slowly. "Lemme tell you: if I owned this place and h.e.l.l, I'd rent this out and live in h.e.l.l. At least in h.e.l.l, the climate's consistent."

Something beeped within the forward console. Checking the readout, the copilot announced evenly, "We've got permission to land." She eyed her colleague. "What's with the caution? I don't recognize the code."

The pilot was busy disengaging specific instrumentation. "Means no automatics permitted. Security measure. Don't ask me why. I wasn't the nutcase who decided to put a slam here." He flipped off another series of contacts, activated others. "Switching to manual control as per ground directives." The s.h.i.+p responded with a slight jolt.

"Coming up on terminator," the copilot announced briskly.

"Running behind sked. They won't like that, down below." The pilot adjusted his own att.i.tude as well as the s.h.i.+p's. "Let's line this up fast, and get it over with." He eyed the solar monitor. The readings there were much, much too high for his liking. As a pilot, he valued the information sent back by harakiri solar probes. He just didn't want to become one himself.

It grew very quiet within the little s.h.i.+p. Ridd.i.c.k said nothing, missed nothing, his eyes taking in the readouts, the monitor screens, the pilots' technical back-and-forth. Clocking everything. Filing it for later.

"Destination lock on," the copilot announced tightly. "One, two . . . go go."

The pilot jammed controls forward. Usually, all he had to do was sit back, watch, and monitor touchdown. Not here. Not out in this deity-forsaken backwater piece of h.e.l.l itself. For a change, his life and that of his pa.s.sengers resided in his own hands instead of a bunch of unfeeling circuitry.

Coming in to almost any other world, it would have felt good.

Ridd.i.c.k felt himself slammed back into the rear of his prison as the s.h.i.+p dipped into atmosphere. His situation differed little from that of his captors, who were similarly pressed back into their chairs. A couple of the mercenaries howled with bravado, trying to cover the fact that they were struggling not to soil their shorts.

On the desolate landscape below, something was moving. It was active, but not alive. Among obsidian mountains and fields of cracked and cooled gla.s.s, safely distant from volcanoes whose lava flowed downslope in other directions, a pair of doors were opening. Fas.h.i.+oned of a special alloy of ceramic and t.i.tanium, they parted to reveal an underground hangar that marked the terminus of a specially fabricated runway. Within the area open to the atmosphere, nothing moved.

A towering pillar of natural stone marked the general location of the hangar. The pilot nosed for it, wis.h.i.+ng he could use the automatics, knowing that if he did so those on the ground were likely to react unkindly, and perhaps lethally. The s.h.i.+p dropped steadily-not quite fast enough.

The sun came over the horizon.

Stunned atmosphere shocked the descending vessel. Unequipped with the special stabilizers used on regular Crematoria resupply s.h.i.+ps, the mercenary craft heaved wildly. Recoiling from the sun despite the special goggles he was wearing and the muting effect of the foreport's automatic polarizers, the pilot fought to maintain control. Behind him, someone uttered a panicked obscenity.

The hangar was coming up way too fast. But if they slowed gradually, they'd be subject to more of the brutal solar effect. Without waiting for instructions, the copilot slammed her open palm down on a large, red plunger someone had hand labeled PARTY POPPERS.