Excerpts from The Chronicles of Riddick Novel + moew

[riddiiiiiick]

To refer to without having to whip out my kindle.

Toombs' Chase Log from Chronicles of Riddick DVD Bonus Features

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[riddiiiiiick]

     It docked hard, the exceedingly low-tech absorptive bumper at the end of the line sucking up the last of their forward momentum. Toombs leaped up onto the platform and headed for the containment door that led, if memory served, to the prison control center. Douruba, the slam boss, was there to greet him. Beyond gruff, he snapped disappointedly at his visitor as the other mercenaries unloaded their cargo.
     “This is all you bring me? After coming all the way out here? Just one?” Practiced, experienced eyes studied the prisoner, sizing him up.
     Toombs was not put off. He’d anticipated the reaction. “One expensive piece of highly-priced ass. Got room, don’tcha?”
     In the distance beyond the control room doors, something unearthly howled as if in expectation. Douruba shrugged. “Oh, we always got room for more.      Nobody likes to admit that we’re here, and nobody wants to do without us. Always a place for a setup like Crematoria.” Turning, he led the way into the control center. Toombs and his comrades followed, cargo in tow.

     “How’s business?” the head mercenary inquired conversationally.
     “Pretty good,” Douruba replied. “Just enough residents to keep things running smoothly, not too many to impact adversely on the bottom line. A good balance.” He looked over at the merc. “Your one boy won’t upset things.”
     Toombs grinned. “Wait till you see the line on him. You might think different.”
     The slam boss pushed out his lower lip. “Can’t cost that much.”
     Unpleasant as ever, the mercenary’s grin grew more crooked. “Wait till you see.”

     Runaway Nature had provided the basis for the prison in the form of a gaping volcanic throat whose subterranean source of lava had long since shifted elsewhere. Multiple levels had been sliced into its circular sides. From there, tunnels and accessways, storerooms and cells, punched deep into the solid rock, forming hollow spokes that extended outward from the central cavity. One side of the old volcano had been devastated by a small, rogue lava flow that had broken through and poured into the depths below. Now hardened as solid as the untouched rock around it, it entombed more prisoners than the supervisors had been able to count. But that had been a long time ago.
     Prison control was located at the top of the circular hollow. At the bottom, several guards noticed the ceiling aperture grinding open. One never knew what might be coming down. Since it was too early for a shift change, the lift might be sending down supplies, tools, extra rations—or something new. Numerous eyes regarded the expanding opening with interest. On Crematoria, anything new was worth studying.
     A single figure rode the service hoist. Unusually, it was suspended from its wrists instead of riding down on a platform. A bit out of the ordinary, but not unprecedented. Either the newcomer was being punished for something, or else he was being handled with extra care. If the latter, the guards would be taking special interest in him.
     The figure was only part way down, however, when its progress came to a jerking, unexpected halt.

     In the control room above, Toombs had just moved to halt the winch that had been lowering Riddick. The mercenary did not look happy. Behind him, his crew looked confused.
     “What in the bowels of Christ are you talkin’ about? ‘Seven hundred K’? Where on this bare arse of a dirt ball did you come up with that figure?”
     Relaxing near a control console, Douruba glanced at his first assistant. “Remind him.”

     In between popping and masticating some kind of light green nut, the other man proceeded to elucidate. “Look, you know how it works, Toombs. The Guild pays us a caretaker’s fee for each prisoner, each year. We pay mercs like yourself twenty percent of that total fee, based on a certain life expectancy and work output. Out of that, there are all manner of peripheral costs that have to be deducted and . . .”
     An angry Toombs took a step toward the lethargic speaker. “I wired this in at eight-fifty. Nobody at that time said anything about ‘peripheral costs.’ I know as well or better ’n you how the system operates.” He gestured in the direction of the unseen sky. “Any other slam in the Arm would deal me that much right now, no shit.” One finger pointed in the direction of the prisoner, who had not descended very far from the control level.
     Douruba was not impressed. “This isn’t any other slam, is it?”
     Across the room, a guard tech glanced up from the console over which he had been laboring. “Don’t take this one, boss.”
     The slam boss nodded at his subordinate, then smiled at his increasinglyirate visitor. “How about that, Toombs? Anatoli here has a nose for trouble. What I’m reading from him is that this one”—he jerked a finger toward the silently dangling prisoner—“this ‘Riddick’ guy, is—”

     “Big trouble,” the guard tech finished for him. Turning back to his console, he perused the latest readout. “He don’t come with a record, this one. He comes with an encyclopedia.”
     Nodding appreciatively, Douruba restarted the winch. Like so much else in the prison complex, like the sled transport system, it was intentionally low-tech. Advanced electronics and similar devices did not survive long on Crematoria. Where a seal applicator might easily clog or overheat and fail, for example, a simple hammer would not. It was a design philosophy that not only saved money, it kept the prison going.
     “Seven hundred K is good money,” Douruba reminded Toombs.

     Outside the control station and once more dropping steadily again, Riddick glanced up and barked at his captor. “Better take it, Toombs.” The mercenary just glared down at him, watching his former prisoner winch farther and farther out of reach.
     On multiple levels, guards and techs and prisoners watched the newcomer descend through the center of the volcanic throat. As depth increased, mobile lights supplied additional illumination within the impressive open space. Riddick took it all in silently, surveying his new surroundings, ignoring the emotional range of the stares that tracked his descent. At the moment, they were irrelevant to his needs.
     Above, Toombs had turned away from the cylindrical cavern to once more confront Douruba. “I got a better idea. How’s about this?” He nodded at something behind the slam boss. “You open the safe hidden behind that console there, pull out the real books." Jerking his head sideways, he indicated the guard tech. "Not the electronic crap you can manipulate with an eye blink. The hard copy backup you maintain in case of total systems failure and memory wipe. Show me what you shitniks are gonna bank for a guy like Riddick: all killer no filler. Then we'll figure out my cut. Then I'll be on my way."


     Douruba could not have been more shocked had Toombs suggested they go for a casual stroll out on the surface. At noon.
     "Open my books? Let you roam through the hard copy? This is what you suggest?"
     The mercenary had taken a step backward. The movement appeared casual. It was not. "Wasn't a suggestion."
     It was enough to charge the atmosphere within the control room. Guards and mercenaries alike stiffened. Within holsters and attached to fastsnaps, sidearms were prepped for quick release. Slam boss and merc leader locked eyes.

     Moving slowly and keeping his hands in clear view, Douruba walked to a nearby cabinet. Standing to one side as he opened it, so that Toombs had a clear view of the inferior, he reached in and removed an exquisite bottle of cut crystal. Half full of some glistening crystalline liquid, he placed it on a flat portion of a nearby console, then brought out a couple of glasses. While everyone else in the room looked on enviously, the slam boss carefully filled the two small glasses. They were the only shots in the tension-filled room.
     He handed one to the wary mercenary leader. "This is not the time for confrontation. Not when you hear what is happening elsewhere in the Arm. These are dangerous days for everyone, if you believe the talk." Raising the glass briefly, he sipped at the contents. Heat that was not of Crematoria coursed down his throat and warmed his belly.
     Accepting the other glass, Toombs eyed it for a moment-- then nonchalantly poured it down an open hatch, much to the slam boss's obvious disapproval. Toombs's free hand continued to hover in the vicinity of his sidearm.


     "Talk. What talk?"
     Douruba turned introspective. "About some army. Appears out of nowhere. No indication of origin, no warning or quarter given. Not robots, but its soldiers fight like automatons. Absorb any healthy survivors. Strange beliefs--you wouldn't believe some of the rumors. About dead planets, societies reduced to ashes. About 'them.'"
     The slam boss's final word seemed to hang in the air, casting a further shadow over the already stressed negotiations.
     Toombs refused to be distracted. "Here's one for you that ain't no rumor. Am I gonna get my money?"

     Douruba sighed, downed the last of his drink, set the glass aside. "I can see that your interests are typically narrow. Tell you what: I'll run the numbers again. Isn't as simple as it sounds. Have to figure in how this new meat will interact with the system, what it might produce, stats in re potential disruption. It will take some time. Meanwhile, you and your team can stay as my guests. No hotel here, but it'll get you off that little ship for a while, let you stretch your legs. At least we're all safe, yes?" He smiled thinly. "Just tell your people not to go for any long walks in the countryside."
     "They know," Toombs replied. "Everyone saw, coming in." He knew full well that the slam boss was stalling for more time so he could look for an out. Preferably, but not necessarily, a legal one. The mercenary was not concerned. His formal filing and notice of intent to deliver had carefully complied with every relevant guild regulation. Let the boss have his math toadies run the regs. They wouldn't find any holes. And as much as he wanted to be off and away from this miserable hot rock, a night in a real bed instead of the soggy slog that was cryosleep would do his body good.
     "I'll give it a day," he finally announced. "One."
     The first assistant grinned. "And our days are fiftytwo hours long." Toombs did not smile back. He knew that, and had factored it into his offer.
     Douruba seemed pleased. "Fair enough. Anatoli," he instructed the guard tech, "find our new friends some slots. Someplace comfortable. Someplace cool." Having defused the looming confrontation, he returned his attention to the main console.

Foster, Alan Dean (2007-12-18). The Chronicles of Riddick (pp. 159-173). Random House Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.