The Chronicles of Riddick

  Sensing movement, he glanced up. Aereon was on the veranda, gazing down at him. Tricks. He didn’t like tricks. Not when they were plied by others, and especially not when they were directed at him.

  The little girl took a step forward. If she had any comprehension of what had taken place up above, it had not visibly affected her. “Are you gonna stop the new monsters now? The human monsters?”

  He looked back up at the veranda. The Elemental was still there, watching him. They made eye contact for a moment. Then he turned and moved on, passing the girl without answering her question. In seconds, he was enveloped in shadow. It was his preferred place of abode.

  From above, Aereon watched the big man depart. “Sad and difficult, conflicting and sad. He doesn’t even know who he is.”

  A distraught Imam watched him go. Nearby, the clerics were murmuring worriedly among themselves. Imam hardly heard them.

  Something made contact. Looking down, he saw that Lajjun had come up beside him to take his hand. She smiled reassuringly, and he smiled back. But he was troubled. It had not gone as he had hoped. Could the Elemental do more? She had not moved to prevent Riddick from leaving. Despite her abilities, Imam was not sure she could have done so. Perhaps she had felt similarly. Or maybe she had another reason for not intervening further. The Elementals were a strange spin-off of humanity. It was always hard to tell what one was thinking.

  There was nothing more he could do. He knew Riddick well enough to know that even had they been able to restrain him, they would not have been able to compel him to do anything he himself did not want to do. Easier to move a mountain. That was only a matter of physics.

  There was no equation to explain Riddick.

  It was a beautiful, clear night. Clear as noontime to Riddick, who shunned the daylight. A quick check behind showed that no one was following him. Imam knew better, he assumed. Not that the delegate or his clerical friends could have stayed on Riddick’s track for more than a few meters had they tried to follow him. The big man moved too fast, too silently. He could not disappear in a blur like an Elemental—but it would seem to others that he could come close.

  He drew the ship locator without a thought for its original owner. Yesterday’s news. It sprang to life when he opened it. Standing in the shadows, he waited for the instrument to lock in and provide him with a return route. This took only seconds. Striding out in the indicated direction, he passed a few citizens engaged in late-night business, or just out for a stroll.

  He had covered some distance when he noticed figures on a rooftop. Clearly agitated, they were pointing skyward and jabbering excitedly among themselves. None so much as glanced in his direction.

  Turning, he moved out from the darkness until he had a clean line of sight between buildings. The brightness of the comet caused him to squint slightly. It was clear what had unsettled the people on the roof. A second head was splitting away from the cometary nucleus. Riddick was able to see certain things those with normal eyesight couldn’t. Was able to discern details. His expression did not change— but his direction did.

  Near the outermost atmosphere of Helion Prime, the secondary head of the comet began to fracture. These multiple fragments resolved into conquest icons, each as massive and imposing as the next. Ice formed of frozen gases began to crack and flake away from what had formed the head of the “comet.” Trailing the flotilla of camouflaged icons were shapes that were small only in comparison to the gigantic structures that had preceded them. Changing course and spreading out, they began to fall toward the planet below. As Necromonger warships, their appearance had been designed with intimidation as much as functionality in mind.

  Riddick had been right. Recovering from his temporary paralysis, the young soldier he had spared had reported in. Now other soldiers were carting their dead colleagues out of Imam’s house. An officer stood waiting to question the owner and his family. Delegate or not, the senior soldier thought grimly, if some kind of treasonous complicity could be proved, political connections would not save—

  The screaming of launching weapons snapped his train of thought. Moving out onto the veranda, he stood with his head back, mouth agape, staring. The family he was supposed to be questioning stood not far away, forgotten. Noticing this, Imam quietly shepherded his small flock toward the stairs. No one stopped them as they descended, passing soldiers both dead and living. The latter were now moving about with greater urgency.

  Once back out on the street, the family turned to gaze skyward. The night sky was alive with moving lights that were brighter than stars. High-velocity missiles left streaks of fire in their wake as they soared upward, while pulse weapons blitzed the bowl of heaven with multiple blasts. Their targets were other lights, descending. They illuminated the innocence of Ziza’s face as she stared up at them.

  “So pretty . . . ,” she whispered, seeing but not understanding.

  Interior illumination had sprung to life in the buildings that neighbored their own. Ignoring them, Imam lowered his gaze and whispered urgently to his wife.

  “We take nothing. Nothing but ourselves.”

  He sensed they did not have much time. Putting his hands protectively behind his wife and daughter, he guided them away from the only home they had known and off into the darkness of the city night. It did not matter that he was an important member of the government. It did not matter that his financial resources were substantial. Only one thing mattered anymore.

  Reaching the shelter on the other side of the river that would protect his family from the lights that were falling from the sky.

  V

  Disdaining the speed and convenience an internal conveyance would have provided, Riddick had climbed the exterior of a dark building until he reached its roof. Though it would have seemed difficult to anyone else, it had been an easy ascent for him, far simpler than many he had been forced to make on less civilized worlds. Now he stood and looked up, his view and field of vision much improved.

  The sky was aflame with flashes and bursts of brilliant destruction, as if two flocks of phoenix were engaged in mortal battle. The fire grew steadily more intense as more and more defensive weaponry was brought online. The noise was overwhelming. Riddick increased his pace, sprinting over the rooftops. While citizens below gawked openly at the aerial conflict, even with his goggles on he was forced to shield his uniquely sensitive eyes from the brightest explosions.

  The gap between buildings that loomed before him was clearly too wide for any human to leap. As such, it required extra effort on his part to clear it. Feet first, he slammed down hard on the other side. As he did, atmosphere and ground began to quake all around him. There was something new in the air, and it wasn’t the scent of roses.

  Unimaginably vast, the dark mass was descending under exquisite control. It loomed above the city, hovering as if with a mind of its own. Within, individual minds functioning as one were deciding where to move first. As Riddick continued to run, the mass shifted slightly toward the center of the capital. Defensive weaponry raised harmless blisters of fire on the object’s flanks, deflected by its massive screens.

  Perhaps something emerged from the underside of the mass. Or it might have let loose with a wave projection instead of particulate matter. Whatever the source, the result was a shattering concussion. For an instant, the center of the city was lit up as if by sunlight. Seeking shelter, any shelter, Riddick leaped just as the shock wave reached him.

  Throughout the city, chaos, as it usually did in such situations, reigned. Panicked citizens scrambled for the imagined safety of strong buildings, monuments, hillsides—anyplace they could think of. One of the first and most natural sources of shelter were the public transit stations that lay underground. It was there that Imam had taken his family, not only to escape the attack, but in hopes of securing speedier transportation to the assembly point than mere walking could provide. To his delight and relief, there was an automated transporter car already in the station. Leading his wife and child, he s
truggled to force a path through the surging mob, not all of whom were trying to board the vehicle.

  Then the effects of the same tremendous explosion that had blown Riddick off his rooftop struck, and the interior of the station went completely dark.

  The lights of the capital of Helion Prime were failing, the dominating beacons being extinguished one by one from the center toward the countryside. Hovering above the destruction and devastation was the single black mass. Beneath it, replacing the joyful light of the beacons, was an impact cloud: ominous in its implications, implacable in its spread. After a moment, as if studying what it had done, the black mass began to move again, slowly, but with defined, inimical purpose. Looking for something else to smash.

  A lull followed the immense detonation that had flattened the city center, as if the sky itself had been momentarily shocked into silence. There was dust everywhere; the powdered flesh of broken and shattered buildings. Beginning to rise above it all was the seeping stench of death. Having been moved from panic to despair, the citizens of the capital were running in all directions, as if by sheer good fortune they might somehow stumble on a way out of the total destruction that had enveloped them. Bedlam had descended on them without warning, and they were ill prepared for it. Having no idea what was happening or why, screaming, howling, crying, they surged back and forth like ants trapped in a rising pond, their only common denominator the fact that there was a general consensus of movement away from the devastated city center.

  One figure was an exception. Keeping to the remaining shadows as much as possible, grateful for the clouds of dust that obscured the brighter lights of distant explosions, Riddick fought the flow, working his way back toward the central business and commercial district. Too shell-shocked to care, few of the other refugees thought to wonder why one man was pursuing a single-minded course in the direction of what must surely be certain death. Those who did pause briefly to speculate on the lone runner’s bizarre choice of destination were sure he had gone crazy. In that, he certainly now had company. In madness lay one unarguable way out of what had befallen them.

  The rising thunder slowed him. Something was happening off to his left. Changing course, he angled toward the sound. Whatever was generating it was big, very big. Rounding the corner of a once-beautiful, now collapsed building, he came to a sudden stop.

  Dark dust clouds enveloped the fringes of what at first glance appeared to be a massive, undamaged structure. It seemed impossible that any building of any consequence could have survived the detonation that had obliterated much of the city’s center. He was right. What he was seeing was not a building.

  Removing his goggles allowed him to clarify the vision. Rising from the ruins of one of Helion Prime’s great beacons was a conquest icon. He was impressed, and Riddick was not a man to be impressed easily. That was the purpose of such a construct, of course. The rising crescendo he had heard was still sounding, the rumble of engines reaching release strength as small fighter craft began to detach from the icon and take to the air. Though he did not expect any of them to pay attention to a lone survivor, he nevertheless clung to the shelter of the ruined building. Even a big dog will snap at a bug, if it’s in the mood.

  On board and within the bowels of the Basilica, uniformed figures worked silently at their stations. Their surroundings were darkly baroque, a reflection of the Necromongers’ affection for design as well as efficiency. Believing that everything ought properly to echo their deeply held values—a tenet of the faith that extended all the way back to Oltovm the Builder—even the battle command center had been constructed with these in mind.

  One figure in particular commanded attention. Pacing concernedly but unworriedly back and forth, checking readouts and statistics with his own eyes, the Lord Marshal followed the progress of the campaign. Penetrating eyes glittered within a face that was lean without being drawn. As he passed one monitor station, its operator glanced up at him.

  “One foot on the ground.”

  The Lord Marshal nodded tersely. Everything was going as planned. It always did.

  Below, squadrons of Necromonger fighters cut through the air, searching for targets. They were met by Helion ships whose pilots were dedicated and well trained but most of whom lacked the kind of actual combat experience that had been mastered by their opponents. Nevertheless, they fought with determination and courage. Kills were scored by both sides. Like dying moths, ship after ship was struck, to curl and spiral its way finally to the ground.

  Behind the Necromonger fighters, the warrior ships were descending. Transports packed with troops and ground vehicles, they rode the first shock wave of success as they dropped toward the devastated city below. It was a scene being played out all across the surface of Helion Prime, as the invaders targeted every major population center simultaneously. To do so required seamless coordination, which the Necromongers possessed in plenty. But it was on the capital, as always, that they focused their efforts. An enemy could always be subdued by repeated stabbings, but victory came far sooner and easier if the head could be cut off first.

  Not all of the Helion fighters were intercepted and dealt with by their Necromonger counterparts. The Helion pilots were too good for that. A number of them got through the screening fighter craft to engage the descending warrior ships. Few did any damage against the massive vessels—but one pair did.

  An enormous explosion blew off the front of one transport. Unbalanced, its command center destroyed, it lurched to one side as emergency navigation systems struggled to correct and maintain a proper angle and rate of descent. They failed as destruction ripped through the rest of the craft. It promptly blew up, and almost as immediately, imploded as its gravity-defying propulsion system collapsed in on itself. The result temporarily lit the sky around it, blinding everything and everyone not equipped with appropriate protection.

  Back out on the increasingly empty streets, a desperate Imam led his family forward on foot. When his daughter, exhausted, slowed to a stop, he picked her up and settled her on his shoulders.

  “Hold on, Ziza. Hold on tight, and don’t let go.” With a nod at Lajjun, he resumed running. He would do so until he, too, dropped. And then, he told himself determinedly, they would crawl.

  Across the city, in areas cleared of defenders, the enormous warrior ships were already setting down, disgorging battalion after regiment of helmeted, armed soldiers. Their motivation was simple, their methodology straightforward. It had already been pursued with great success on many worlds, ever since the Necromongers had made their presence and their determination known to the rest of the developed galaxy. Implacable and humorless, they surged eagerly out of their ships, responding to the directives of their officers as they fanned out across the capital in search of resistance.

  As always, and as was proper, they envied those they intended to kill.

  High above, the Basilica hovered in low orbit. It was well out of range of the majority of independent, ground-based defenses and too well escorted and screened for surface-to-space craft to reach. Not impregnable, but as close to it as Necromonger technology could make it. Those aboard would have felt confident even in the absence of such defenses. When one has been educated and enlightened to have no fear of death, it is easy to go about the business of war.

  The tech officer who had spoke earlier turned once again to the tall, angular figure standing behind him. “Second foot down, Lord Marshal.”

  The leader checked his own personal chronometer. “Already ahead of schedule. It is as our scouts reported. This system has been too wealthy, too content, for too long. Their equipment is good and their training adequate but no match for those who have been through battles for worlds. Nor for those who are properly motivated.”

  Wandering to his left, he paused before a lensing port. Not truly a hole in the floor of the great ship, it perfectly duplicated what one would have seen through a hole in the floor, with the added benefit that one was not exposed to temperature fluctuations or radiat
ion from outside. As the battle for control of the planet below raged on, he was joined by a second figure, one even more at ease, and more richly garbed. The two men acknowledged each other with a glance.

  “All those poets, on all those worlds: the ones who spoke of battle being such an unsightly thing?” The Lord Marshal nodded at the view presented by the lensing port. “They never stood here, did they? Strange how, from a distance, war can actually be beautiful.”

  Below, it was as if much of the planet was enveloped in a lightning storm, flashes of light erupting and fading at significant points, some clear and sharp, others muted by cloud. The latter would not slow the forces that had been dispatched to take control of their respective regions, he knew. A Necromonger was happy to fight in any kind of weather. The flashes had grown noticeably fewer since the last time the Lord Marshal had looked.

  Next to him, the Purifier stood quietly as he considered the tiny flickering lights far below. None of it was new to him. He had observed the same on numerous worlds. The end here would be no different. It could not be otherwise.

  “Perhaps this time,” he murmured, “converts will be easier to come by. It is discouraging when so many die without having known why they have lived. Without having been given the truth.” A hand gestured at the port. “Good fighters, these. Not their fault they cannot conceive of what they are up against. Those that survive will make good converts to the cause.” Turning away from the scene below, he eyed the Lord Marshal. “Care should be taken to preserve as many as possible.”

  The Lord Marshal shrugged slightly. “The work must be finished first. And lessons delivered where necessary.”

  “Very true,” agreed the Purifier. “However, it is a wise man who, when cold, seeks other means of warming himself besides setting his clothes on fire.”

  It was not quite a grin that appeared on the Lord Marshal’s aquiline visage. But the Purifier could see that his observation had been duly noted.