The Chronicles of Riddick Part 9

"I know some do," the commander replied without admitting to anything. Unlike the Lord Marshal or his fellow commanders, the Purifier could sometimes be frustratingly cryptic. When beset with questions that were enigmatic, it was best to provide answers that were equally nonspecific. Vaako considered it only tactful. Dame Vaako would have called it self-preservation.

Not that he felt any threat from the Purifier. On the contrary, he was usually quite relaxed in the other man's presence. It was only when the spiritual head of the cause was standing behind him, out of sight, that he found himself wondering about the nature of the other man's thoughts. What did he think of Vaako? Of the Lord Marshal? Of their respective abilities, for example? It would be useful to know.

He couldn't ask, of course. That would have been worse than tactless. Such a blatant need to know would have suggested uncertainty: a dangerous trait in a high commander. But the fact that he dared not ask such things did not keep him from wondering about them.

"Just being so far from the armada," the Purifier was saying, "your head can fill with strange thoughts. Doubts. Don't you ever have doubts, Vaako? About the campaign? About our Lord Marshal?"

Was the Purifier trying to bait him? If so, the transparency of the attempt was an insult to the commander's intelligence. Surely a wise, knowledgeable adviser like himself could do better than that. It was a good thing Dame Vaako wasn't there, he knew. She would have been hard-pressed to keep from bursting out laughing at such obviousness. There There was a woman, he knew, from whom even the most cunning diplomat could take lessons. Not for the first time, he found himself thinking how glad he was that she was on his side. was a woman, he knew, from whom even the most cunning diplomat could take lessons. Not for the first time, he found himself thinking how glad he was that she was on his side.

As for the Purifier's questions, he was able to respond straightforwardly and without hesitation.

"If you're here to test my loyalty, you succeed only in testing my patience. I have a task to perform that allows little time for such barefaced nonsense. Take your testing elsewhere and annoy others with it, Purifier. I am Vaako: first and always a Necromonger commander, a defender of the faith, and a leader of converts new, old, and always."

To this the Purifier only nodded, giving no indication whether he was satisfied or disappointed by the response. "Well spoken, n.o.ble Vaako. 'First and always.' Have you ever paused to consider the full meaning of the words we all speak? For myself, I have always wondered what that really signifies . . . 'always.'" Without another word, he pivoted and headed out of the command center.

Vaako watched him go. Peppered with queries, left in custody of a riddle, he was more disconcerted by the fleeting exchange than he had been when the Purifier had been staring at him from behind. What was the meaning of the brief confrontation? If the other man was not checking his loyalty, then what had been the purpose of it all? Amus.e.m.e.nt? Somehow that did not fit with what he knew of the Purifier's personality. The interpreter of the faith was nothing if not somber by nature.

A navigator was pressing him for a decision. Reluctantly, he abandoned the mystifying line of thought to return to the business at hand. This was This was what was important, what was important, he reminded himself. The work. The task that had been set before him. Not the philosophic ramblings of a solitary theologist. He respected the Purifier for his learning and for his devotion, but that did not mean Vaako had to admire him slavishly, nor pay close attention to everything he said. he reminded himself. The work. The task that had been set before him. Not the philosophic ramblings of a solitary theologist. He respected the Purifier for his learning and for his devotion, but that did not mean Vaako had to admire him slavishly, nor pay close attention to everything he said.

There was no shower, no UV room where dirt could be removed and potentially infectious organisms destroyed. What the bottom level of the slam did have, however, were several streams of geothermally heated water. While they smelled of sulfur, the odor would soon wear off, and the minerals dissolved in the liquid actually made for a healthier soak than an equivalent amount of purified dihydrogen monoxide. The problem was not an insufficiency of hot water but an oversupply. Prisoners desiring to take a bath had to time their immersions carefully, as the temperature of the flows frequently jumped according to unpredictable variations in subsurface magmatic levels. Hop in too soon, and the flow might stop entirely. Linger too long, and you could find yourself parboiled redder than the last dinner delivery of unidentifiable alien arthropod. Or you might not emerge at all, until the guards came to fish out your boiled, blistered corpse.

Right now Ridd.i.c.k found the temperature just about right. Soaking away layers of grime and sweat was about the only real pleasure available to prisoners on Crematoria, and he relished the opportunity. There was no soap, but the mineral content of the water rendered unnecessary the need for artificial epidermal abrasives. The water stung the small gash on his cheek: a departing kiss from the woman who now called herself Kyra. The thought, or something else, made him turn and peer out from beneath the sweltering flow.

She was there, watching him from across the way. Watching and sharpening something reflective, edged, and pointed. Her expression was unreadable, her thoughts concealed. He kept an eye on her as he started to dry himself. A different voice greeted him, coming closer.

"Still pa.s.sing through, I see."

Though outwardly studiously neutral, there was a twinkle in the Guv's eye. The possibility that at any moment it might turn to uncontrollable rage did not escape Ridd.i.c.k. He listened politely without letting down his guard.

Unexpectedly, the older man held up one hand. The fingers looked as if they had been run over by a transport sled. Several times. But they were all there, which spoke volumes about the man's ability to take care of himself even in the worst surroundings imaginable. A gold band glinted on one finger. It was nearly as scarred and beat-up as the flesh it encircled.

"I remember how gorgeous she was-well, gorgeous in the right light. But for the G.o.dd.a.m.n death of me, I cannot remember her name anymore."

Compressed in the quiet observation was an entire personal history: one the Guv chose not to expound upon. Instead, he motioned to another nearby convict. The second man was squatting around a particularly hot spot in the cavern floor. Suspended above the hot spot was a crude but serviceable setup for brewing liquids. In this case, Ridd.i.c.k suspected, the local variety of slam tea. Ingredients varied from prison to prison, but it was always something conjured out of fragments of edible material that was not part of the regular slam diet. In its own quiet, scalding way, seeping slam tea was a means of one-upping the guards, who were never granted access to it. If one was intrigued enough to come nosing around, the teapot was always empty-even if it had to be "accidentally" knocked over and its laboriously prepared contents dumped on the ground.

"Have one on me," the Guv offered. "Since we're all going to be here for the rest of our unnatural lives. Not exactly the kind of welcome drink you get at the better outsystem hotels, but brewed with more honesty and care than you'll find anywhere else. And the price is right."

Ridd.i.c.k nodded. "Where do you get the water?"

The Guv gestured upward. "Distill it ourselves. Anytime you got this much water and this much heat, it ain't difficult to put together a still." He moved off, but stayed within earshot.

Displaying a certain coa.r.s.e pride, the brewmaster offered a steaming cup to the new arrival. "Tobacco, syrmoss, bits and pieces of this and that. Sweetener when we can get it. Nothing harmful." He grinned, showing an impressive deficiency of teeth. "Nothing diuretic. Tastes better than you think." When Ridd.i.c.k kept his hands down and continued to eye the cup, the brewer's att.i.tude changed instantly. "What, you don't want to drink the Guv's tea?"

At this, a number of the other convicts in the immediate vicinity began to gravitate closer. In a moment, they had surrounded Ridd.i.c.k. A prisoner could go solo if he wanted to, but violating hospitality- that was something that could not be allowed to pa.s.s unremarked upon. Preparatory to making any remarks, several of the convicts had picked up fist-sized rocks or hand-made utensils.

"Maybe he knows nothing's free in slam," one of them commented.

"Got nothing to sell, nothing to trade." Another greedily eyed Ridd.i.c.k's boots and goggles, even though he had no idea of the special nature of those dark lenses. "Nothing he'll give over voluntary, voluntary, that is." that is."

"We can make make him comply," a third insisted, shuffling the sharp rock he held back and forth between his hands. him comply," a third insisted, shuffling the sharp rock he held back and forth between his hands.

"Information," exclaimed still another member of the gathering pack. "First newcomer in months. Information for tea. That's a fair trade."

"What kind of information?" the one who envied Ridd.i.c.k his boots snapped.

"News." Two of the inmates voiced the wish simultaneously. "Outside news. Outsystem news. Like about the rumors."

"Guards' rumors," growled a bigger man. "s.h.i.+t and spittle."

"No," insisted his companion. "Too much natter about the same matter." He looked hopefully at the still silent, attentive Ridd.i.c.k. "We hear things. Even down here. Visitors talk to the boss, boss talks to the guards, guards b.i.t.c.h among themselves. Talk about some kind of widespread invasion. Multiple worlds, not just one. Some kind of spirits, or spirit-infested folk."

"More like G.o.ds, I heard," another inmate chipped in uneasily.

"What planets? Which ones?" the second speaker demanded.

"They can't be killed," the one whose concern had prompted this line of talk insisted. "At least, it's said that their leaders can't. Because they're already dead."

Initially skeptical, the biggest of the convicts now found himself peering uncertainly at Ridd.i.c.k. "Is it true? Any of it? Or is it all interplanetary bulls.h.i.+t?"

Ridd.i.c.k let his gaze travel slowly over each and every one of them. "They call themselves Necromongers. And it sure as f.u.c.k was true on Helion Prime."

Now he accepted the tea and drank thirstily from the metal cup. While he did so, the news rippled through the a.s.sembled convicts and rapidly pa.s.sed up the rings of tiers all the way to the top of the uppermost prisoner level. Whispers winged from cell to workstation and back, traversing the prison like a bad wind.

"Helion Prime-they're on Helion Prime. . . ."

One of the convicts who had spoken first stepped forward, his tone and expression a confused mix of pride and fear. "I'm Helion Four. You're not just sunning us, newcomer? These people really exist, and they've taken Helion Prime?"

Ridd.i.c.k peered over the rim of the cup. "I was there. I saw it. I smelled it. Bunch of mercs s.n.a.t.c.hed me clear." His goggled eyes dropped back down to the cup. "Right now, not much difference between there and here. One h.e.l.l's noisier, the other's hotter."

Another inmate presented himself. "Helion Six- dammit. Still got family there." His eyes pleaded with Ridd.i.c.k even if his voice did not. "You think these freaks are gonna take Helion Six, too?"

Ridd.i.c.k said nothing. Stating the obvious would only make the two men feel that much worse. It was transparently clear that if Helion Prime completely went under, the entire Helion system would fall to the Necromongers. He knew military strategy, even if these poor cage monkeys did not. There was no need for the Necromongers to attack Helion VI, or IV, because both secondary inhabited worlds relied on Helion Prime for the basics necessary to keep their commerce and societies functioning. The Necromongers knew this, too, hence their bypa.s.sing of the outer worlds to launch a straightforward attack on Helion Prime itself.

Faces turned to the Guv as the other convicts waited for him to announce the name of his home world. Whether he would have done so or not no one knew, because they were interrupted by the sound of multiple doors opening somewhere overhead. And another sound, different entirely.

To the prisoners, an all-too familiar, unearthly, and bone-tingling howling.

It was new to Ridd.i.c.k, however. Head tilted back, he stood and listened with interest. Meanwhile, the Guv put an end to the conversation. "Doesn't matter where anyone's from. Not here. There's just one world now: this one. And we didn't get to pick it."

Above, security doors opened and shut as the detachment of guards entered the prison proper. Working quickly, they unfastened bridles and removed muzzles. As soon as the latter came off, they stepped back fast. No matter how much experience one had with the h.e.l.lhounds, it was impossible to predict their initial reactions at being released. Usually, the beasts followed their training. Usually. It was the occasional, rare, but not unknown psychoflip you had to look out for. More than one guard bore physical evidence of this in the form of scars not even modern medicine could completely erase. There were also a couple of ex-slam employees buried Outside. One had not reacted soon enough to his animal's drastic mood s.h.i.+ft. The other had made the mistake of teasing a large male by withholding its food. The enraged h.e.l.lhound had eaten the guard's face instead. That was a gaffe every other guard handler was careful not to repeat.

The name of the creatures derived from their appearance, which was vaguely caninelike without possessing so much as a single strand of earthly doggy DNA. At times they could also appear strikingly feline, though there was no more cat in them than dog. They were wholly alien, imported from a world noted for the ferocity of its native fauna. That they were manipulatable at all was a tribute to a few small dedicated families who had settled on their home world and made quite a nice business out of training and exporting the animals. In nowise, however, could the h.e.l.lhounds be called domesticated. Their inherent and unsuppressed wildness made them that much more useful in such occupations as prison work.

Occasionally, as a special treat, they got to eat a prisoner.

Just watching them deploy was a lesson in vertebrate efficiency. Flying over a walkway, their scaly, slate-gray skin changing color as the chromatoph.o.r.es within reacted to the animals' heightened emotional state, they were a perfect image of racing terror. Seeing them, the last thing anyone, down to the toughest of inmates, would want to do was get in their way. Relaxed and at ease, knowing that the path ahead would be cleared for them by the eager patrolling beasts, armed guards followed.

Word traveled quickly throughout the prison. Shouts of warning made the rounds of the ranked tiers, descended to areas inhabited only by those who scavenged for food in the sulfurous depths. Cell doors slammed shut; not to keep prisoners in, but to keep four-legged berserker carnivores out. The inquisitive crowd that had gathered around Ridd.i.c.k evaporated as convicts sought shelter in open cells or among the rocks.

"Here they come!" The shouts rained down. "Slot up, slot up! Get off the tiers!"

Head back, the Guv all but shook a fist skyward. "A herd! A G.o.dd.a.m.n herd. Is that all we are to you? Is that all we are to you?"

Pus.h.i.+ng frantically past his fellows, the man who had first questioned Ridd.i.c.k scrambled around him toward safety. "Flee now, talk later! The cull is on!"

Lowering his gaze, the Guv turned to Ridd.i.c.k. Without saying so, he had apparently come to a decision regarding the new prisoner. "Just don't let the howlers catch you out. Find an empty cell, a crevice, anything. Make sure it's solid-you can't believe how strong the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are. If they think they can get at you, they'll try to bite their way in right through the rock. And if you're confronted, do not-do not- make eye contact. Play deaf and dumb and you might might get away with it." He started off in the opposite direction. "Or you might get to be lunch." get away with it." He started off in the opposite direction. "Or you might get to be lunch."

Above, more guards were descending via the lift. One hound was giving its handler added trouble. Snarling and hissing, it snapped at the guard's maulstick but was finally jabbed into compliance. Its ear tag identified it as #5, but the nameplate it wore was considerably more evocative: Thrash.

Circling the prison singly and in pairs, h.e.l.lhounds did their work, making sure level after level was clear of prisoners. To their disappointment, it usually was. The slam on Crematoria had no need of elaborate scan and check systems, no need for guards to inspect every cell and hiding place individually. The h.e.l.lhound pack did it for them. Furthermore, the pack could not suffer from systems failure, or electronic breakdown, or a power outage. Should any of those events take place, either as a result of an escape attempt or naturally occurring breakdown, all prison administration had to do to secure the entire complex was release the h.e.l.lhounds and let them run free.

Years earlier, a trio of prisoners had tried just that. They had succeeded in shutting down all electronics in the hope of reaching the landing hangar and overpowering the crew of the regular supply s.h.i.+p. They were found in the transport tunnel, barely ten meters from the prison access station, with half a dozen snarling h.e.l.lhounds on top of them. By the time the handlers managed to pull the pack off the would-be escapees, there was nothing left but a pile of bones, cracked and broken to extract the marrow.

That was the one and only time anyone had tried such a stunt.

Continuing on their patrol, multiple animals leaped gaps between tiers that no human could manage without mechanical aid. One brute, hungrier and more hopeful than its fellows, disdained the ramps in favor of sliding down the solidified lava fall. Its claws left grooves in the rock.

The overall effect was one of controlled panic, if that wasn't a contradiction in terms. Stumbling over one another, shoving fellow prisoners out of the way, grim-faced convicts scrambled to find cells with doors that closed tight. Caught out far from their chosen abodes, one group resorted to grabbing a dehinged door off the ground and frantically propping it into place, wedging it tight with rocks and whatever other materials they could find.

Loping along one of the lower levels toward her own residence, Kyra found herself cut off. Ignoring the ramps, one of the hounds had come down a service chute. Half crazed with longing for the taste of human flesh they might be, but they weren't stupid. Repet.i.tion prompted learning. One day she would not be surprised to see members of the pack using the lift in an attempt to beat unlucky prisoners to their cells.

Spotting her, the h.e.l.lhound lengthened its already impressive stride, then leaped. Instead of trying to dodge the animal, she accelerated straight toward it. At the last possible instant she dropped, sliding feetfirst beneath it, and was up and running on the other side before the creature hit the ground. It turned within its own body length, but by that time she was on a rope and rappelling her way to the bottom of the cavern.

One group of guards was methodically patrolling the upper tiers, whistling menacingly as they walked. The second group made its way downward via the central lift. A couple of them carried powerful spotlights. These were used to pick out prisoners foolish enough to remain out of their cells. Whether it was done for reasons of security, to provide a quick snack for the h.e.l.lhounds, or simply for the guards' amus.e.m.e.nt it was impossible to say. It was just the way it was in Crematoria slam.

At the bottom of the cavern, a pair of sulfide scavengers vanished into a fissure so rank with the smell of sulfur-laden steam not even a h.e.l.lhound would enter it. Not far away, a prisoner who had hatched the crazy idea of waiting in hiding in hopes of grabbing onto the bottom of the lift and finding himself hoisted to the half freedom of slam control found himself confronted by one of the remorseless creatures. He turned to run but wasn't nearly fast enough. The sounds of human shrieks mixed with delighted snarl-hisses drifted upward through the cavern. Fortunately, the accompanying crunching sounds were too subdued to be heard more than one tier up.

Ridd.i.c.k had sequestered himself behind one of the geothermal cascades the prison population used for bathing. The steaming rush was loud enough to mute any sounds, the sulfurous stink strong enough to mask any body odor. Droplets of heavily mineralized water beaded up on his goggles as he stared silently into the surge.

They did not prevent him from seeing the approaching h.e.l.lhound. He lifted his goggles in an attempt to obtain a clearer view. Head sweeping back and forth over the ground, the creature would occasionally lift its muzzle to sniff at the air, then drop its jaws to the surface again. As it strode past, Ridd.i.c.k had the opportunity to observe the muscles rippling along its flanks, the razor teeth that flashed in its jaws, the feral glint in its predatory alien eyes. Powerful and lightning fast, it was capable of easily overwhelming any human.

It continued past the cascade-and stopped. Maybe it sensed movement not generated by water. Maybe some smell lingered in the air. Whatever the reason, it turned sharply, growling deep in its throat, and approached the waterfall. Pus.h.i.+ng through the aqueous veil, it nosed steadily deeper within. Rising up on its hind legs, it was even more impressive than it had been on all fours. As it probed, an identification tag jiggled against one ear. Number five. Piercing, animal eyes flashed menacingly.

And came face-to-face with Ridd.i.c.k. Eyes.h.i.+ne to eyes.h.i.+ne.

XI.

The Guv's chosen living quarters lay nearby. While the majority of prisoners preferred to live on one of the upper tiers, near the control center, he and the other, more wizened convicts had made their homes at or near the bottom of the cavern. There was no sky to be glimpsed from the upper levels, anyway, and the guards got to you sooner. Sure, the air was a little fresher, but for a lifer that was only a tease best avoided. It wasn't really fresh air, anyway, a commodity that was sorely lacking on Crematoria. Down bottom, a man or woman had time to think. And to forget.

In his convoluted, troubled, difficult life, the Guv had seen it all. Or thought he had, until that moment. Moving to the bars of his self-sealed cell, he gaped in amazement at what he thought he was seeing. It was hard to tell, at a distance and with all that falling water. There was Ridd.i.c.k, that was for sure. And there was a h.e.l.lhound-that was a surety also. It was the interaction that caused him to blink and rub several times at his sulfur-stained eyes. Because it could not be happening.

Ridd.i.c.k was petting the h.e.l.lhound. Toying with it, slapping it playfully back and forth across its lethal muzzle. Once, the Guv could have sworn he saw the newcomer put his clenched fist inside inside the predator's mouth. Instead of snapping off the morsel in one bite, the h.e.l.lhound gnawed on it affectionately. The Guv would have doubted it all, attributed what he was seeing to age and delusion, except for one thing: as he stared, the h.e.l.lhound's flushed skin changed from an energized deep red to a neutral slate gray. the predator's mouth. Instead of snapping off the morsel in one bite, the h.e.l.lhound gnawed on it affectionately. The Guv would have doubted it all, attributed what he was seeing to age and delusion, except for one thing: as he stared, the h.e.l.lhound's flushed skin changed from an energized deep red to a neutral slate gray.

Within the mist-shrouded cascade, Ridd.i.c.k continued to play with the carnivore. As he did so, he noted the deep scars on its muzzle and body, the dark slashes that were the mark of a maulstick applied at maximum power. He chucked the h.e.l.lhound under its chin and it snapped at him playfully.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Know how it feels."

Outside the cascade, a sharp whistle sounded, piercing the unwholesome air of the cavern. At its sound, the h.e.l.lhound dropped to all fours, backed off, and departed.

With reluctance.

As the lift touched bottom, the quartet of guards that was riding it jumped off. Adjusting breather units and checking weapons, they headed for the base of the lavafall. Periodically, it was necessary to perform a comprehensive sweep of each part of the prison. One never knew what kind of fiendish devil-try the prisoners might get up to if left too long to their own devices.

Today, it was the turn of the cavern bottom, the top of the volcanic plug that had choked off the flow of magma to the now empty core. There wasn't much to it. Anything resembling a permanent, functional installation had been pretty much ruined by the surprise lava flow of decades before. But with convicts, you never knew. Better to regularly scan every centimeter of the prison than to wake up one morning to find out the system had overlooked something potentially dangerous.

The area around the base of the lavafall was exactly where one might expect to encounter such problems. Full of nooks and crannies of tormented stone mixed with the remnants of the prison installation that the lava had destroyed, it was the perfect place for a convict to dwell in self-imposed isolation, away from guards and prison routine. A place where plots might be hatched. While the handlers and their h.e.l.lhounds cleared the tiers elsewhere, the four-man team began probing places where sedition might lurk.

What they found was Kyra. Light beams joined together to focus on the single figure, momentarily blinding her.

"And just when you thought the cull was over," one of the guards commented as the shape of the prisoner was identified. A nice shape, too, he thought to himself. Of course, down here, you never knew whether a protrusion beneath prison clothes was part of the prisoner, or a portent of something potentially treacherous. So even though there were four of them and only one of her, the guards still advanced with caution.

"Runnin' solo." The nominal leader of the group let his light sweep their immediate surroundings, search for scat or urine. "Hounds ain't been through here. Could be she's trying to hide something. Which is why we're here." He used his light to gesture at the unmoving figure. "Check her out, make sure she's clean." Alongside him, his three colleagues hesitated, looking at each other, avoiding their superior's gaze.

"C'mon," the senior member of the foursome chided his comrades. "What're you afraid of? What is she, fifty kilos? Search her."

Taking the lead, one of the other guards warily entered the open cell where Kyra had retreated. Making himself as large as possible, he gestured with his maulstick.

"Let's go, sweetheart. You know the routine."

Without a word, she turned, placed her hands against the wall, palm forward, and spread her legs, a.s.suming the cla.s.sic, age-old search position. Her compliance was more than encouraging: it was stimulating. Thus motivated, the other guards edged forward to join their colleague.

"Too bad Pavlov couldn't see this," one of them murmured.

The guard who had been bold enough to approach moved closer. Close enough for her booted foot to rub up and down his lower leg. The action simultaneously calmed and encouraged him. This wasn't going to be so difficult after all. Some of the female inmates, now, they made a habit of being troublesome. That was what the maulstick was for. But this one . . .

Eyes closed, Kyra was repeating some private mantra. "'Sokay . . . it's okay . . . it's okay. . . ."

The guard thought she was murmuring to him: mistakenly so. But, momentarily mesmerized by the inviting sight spread out before him, that part of his brain that should have been on full alert had turned to tapioca. Advancing the rest of the way, he put one hand on her back. It was well muscled, of course. Young or old, male or female, there was no fat on any of the inmates. Crematoria's diet was not conducive to the acc.u.mulation of excess avoirdupois. His other hand reached up between her legs . . .

At which point a pair of steel spurs snapped out of the heel of her boot, driving upward and back, gaffing him like a trapped fish. The way his eyes bugged out was pretty piscine, too. He was too startled to scream.

That would come later, when he had time to fully comprehend where the steel had struck home.

Rabbit quick, her head snapped straight back to break his nose. Whirling around, she grabbed the maulstick and slammed it into him, driving the already half-unconscious ma.s.s into the cell bars. Libido literally crushed, he slid to the hard ground as limp as a sack of Jello.

It was the best she could do. Her intent, her hope, had been to break through and escape to the other side of the cavern, where she could take refuge in the sweltering hideouts of the sulfide collectors. She was not quite fast enough. One of the remaining three guards caught her as she dodged past the other two. Despite taking a solid whack from the purloined maulstick, he held on long enough for his companions to pile in. She crumpled beneath the sheer weight of ma.s.sed muscle and raging testosterone.

The maulstick was wrenched from her fingers. Behind, as the three of them wrestled her toward a smooth patch of ground, the guard she had gaffed had lapsed into unconsciousness. Too bad, the leader of the remaining trio thought grimly. He was going to miss all the fun. They would make it last as long as they could, of course. But of one thing he was certain: this was one convict who by tomorrow morning would no longer be around to collect her food ration. She'd earned that end for what she'd just done.

Two of them were putting her down on the ground, pinning her with their weight. They ignored her curses and involuntarily moans of pain, not caring if they broke anything in the process. They were all three of them plenty mad: mad at what she had done to their colleague, mad that she had managed to get away with it, and particularly mad that they had been so easily put off their guard. That wouldn't happen again.

The guard holding her left arm down frowned. Something was hovering in the shadows behind them, in the direction of the central cavern. As he stared, it emerged from the darkness. Just another convict, drinking calmly from a metal cup. Well, no matter how long he lingered or what he saw, the intruder was not going to get any. If he was lucky, the guards would let him disappear back the way he had come, instead of making him disappear permanently. Not that the slam boss was likely to raise an eyebrow over the death of one more prisoner. Especially after being told what she had done to a member of his staff.

The figure spoke. "You should take your wounded and go." The newcomer nodded in the direction of the guard lying unconscious and bleeding in the cell. "Chalk it up to lessons learned. Take him and get out. While you can."

Slowly, the guards rose from the slender shape they had been pinning to the ground. Raising her head slightly, Kyra lay there, not getting up. Not wanting to meet the business end of another maulstick. The three guards formed a small semicircle facing Ridd.i.c.k. They were not happy at having their fun interrupted.