3.
Riddick: Watcher in the Hills

Recon didn’t take long at all. Accustomed as he was to hiding in plain sight and negotiating unfriendly terrain, the crash site posed no real challenges to him. Riddick wasn’t sure if his findings left him impressed with the pilot’s skill or amazed she’d managed to land the craft at all.

The ship had skidded for more than a mile during its crash-landing, leaving a deep groove in the desert as it had torn itself to pieces. Cryo pods had gone flying and were scattered along the back trail. He’d popped the locks on a few, unsure whether their inhabitants still lived but figuring he’d give them as much of a chance as possible. One container, however, disturbed him. It had been wrenched open and was empty, with a small spatter of blood nearby… and what looked like claw marks, or the marks of fingers desperately digging into the soil and being dragged, leading to a small hole in the ground. There was more blood on the hole’s rocky edges, but no sign of the cryo pod’s inhabitant.

He had listened by the hole for several minutes but hadn’t heard anything else, except possibly wind whistling through the nearby rocks.

In the far distance, toward the end of the ship’s skid marks, he could see the wreckage of yet another cargo container. There was no point in even trying to hike the distance to see what was inside it, though; it was burning with dangerous intensity. Useless.

Okay, he told himself as he doubled back. That leaves the resources on board the ship itself, and the cargo container the other survivors are already plundering. Plus whatever exists in nature here.

The heat was powerful, but not the kind of oppressive heat that came with humidity. This was dry, thin air, thin enough that he had felt a little light-headed until he got used to it. He bet it would get every bit as cold when night fell.

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done a night raid to get something warm to wear. His first order of business would be to take Johns out, but the man’s jacket would be way too small for him. Maybe one of the others would have something larger and feel inclined to share. Assuming that the cargo container with everybody’s clothes wasn’t the one burning merrily in the distance, of course.

Next order of business: he told himself, find out what everybody’s up to and how they’re planning on circling the wagons. Johns would be filling their heads with horror stories about him, of course. One or two might even be true.

The crazy girl and another kid had been put to work, he saw. The two were slowly making their way from the cargo container to the main crash ship, a large crate with Emergency Ration labels emblazoned on its sides awkwardly carried between them. In the intense heat, the girl had stripped down to a small halter top and shorts, and he took a moment to just enjoy the show. Weirdly enough, though, the boy still had several layers of clothing on and seemed loathe to shed them, even though he was clearly suffering in the heat.

That’s gotta be damned uncomfortable, he thought, and frowned. More than that, it was dangerous. Tryin’ to give yourself heat stroke, kid? You need to at least take off that vest.

Long sleeves, vest, hat, trousers… the kid was going to be comfortable enough come nightfall, but working in those clothes now put him at serious risk. Was he that self-conscious around the girl? Riddick had vague memories of feeling intimidated by that kind of beauty when he was the boy’s age—

Was I ever that young? Really?

But still, this was dangerous. Very dangerous.

He stole closer, feeling an irrational urge to protect the kids.

This is how Billy catches you, asshole, he reminded himself. And yet he crept closer still.

2.
Fiona: Girls Traveling Alone

“You stupid bitch, this is your fault!”

The survivors had gathered around them as Johns and Fiona faced off. Johns was waving the cut-up pieces of Riddick’s chains in her face, his own face almost purple with rage.

“What, did he bite through them?” It was probably a bad idea to provoke him further, Fiona reflected. Then again, maybe she’d get lucky and he’d shoot her.

“No, you fucking cunt, he used this!” Johns flung the chains down and grabbed a cutting torch out of his vest. Then he threw it to the ground as well.

“Careful, Mate! We need that!” Zeke stepped forward, grabbing the torch. Engrossed in making sure that it hadn’t been damaged, he missed the look of pure rage Johns flung at him.

He’s completely out of control, Fiona thought, watching Johns.

Good, a strange voice within her replied. Good. She shook her head, trying to clear it away.

“What happened?” Paris demanded. She spared him a swift glance, unimpressed. She’d noticed him earlier and had heard him talking to the others, and it had left her with a distaste for him. He used the sort of effete superiority that mining executives had leveled at her father, in spite of the fact that their academic credentials were far eclipsed by his—

I can’t think about my father now. The wall of pain rose up for her and she fled from it.

“Riddick escaped, that’s what happened!” Johns bellowed. “This idiot distracted me while he made his escape—”

Fiona turned away because she knew she was dangerously close to laughing at the man. That probably wouldn’t be the smartest of moves. The problem was that she kept hearing her father, muttering “redheads and fiery tempers, Fee,” almost as if he was actually standing beside her.

How many voices can fit in my head?

She didn’t dare laugh. She suspected that the tears wouldn’t be far behind, and she didn’t know if she’d be able to stop them again once they started up again.

“Do we have any weapons we can defend ourselves with?” That came from the wild-haired woman who had held Fiona earlier while she’d screamed and sobbed for—

Do not think about it! She concentrated on taking another step away from the group and towards the cargo container. Walk. Just like a normal person. Walk.

“I’ve got a rifle and a pistol. That’s it. Any of the rest of you packin’?”

A murmur of negation ran through the group. Fiona managed another step, feeling more sure of her movements. Behind her, Paris spoke up once more.

“I have a collection of antique tribal weapons, among my things. Perhaps there are some useful items in—”

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” Johns grabbed at her shoulder, swinging her back around to face him, but one of the others — the Muslim cleric — knocked his hand away.

“Mr. Johns, enough! I’m sure she did not mean to—”

She didn’t stay to listen but made herself keep walking, heading for the cargo container. A moment later, a boy fell into step beside her.

“Hey, Fiona, right?”

The boy was tallish and slender, with delicate, almost pixie-ish features. Light brown hair had been cut unevenly, as if in a hurry, and was tucked beneath a cap. The boy was dressed in a way that made Fiona think of old Twentieth Century movies about vagabond children.

“Yes?”

“I’m Jack.” The boy flashed her a grin. “What’s he like?”

“Hmm?” She turned and glanced at him, a little confused by the abrupt shift.

“Riddick. What’s he like? Is he as scary as the newsfeeds made out?”

“I don’t know,” Fiona replied. Riddick? She’d heard that name before. It had been in the feeds the day before they boarded the ship. Spree Killer Captured At Last…

Oh dear. Is that who he is?

“Not really,” she continued. “Maybe. I’m probably not a very good judge right now.”

“Look, Fiona… are you going to your cargo locker?”

“Yes.”

“I was wondering… well… you see…” Jack’s voice trailed off.

Fiona turned, afraid that she was about to get hit with some juvenile proposition. She hoped the boy didn’t have a crush on her or something. She was probably five or six years older than him, and it was the last thing she wanted to deal with right now.

Is there anything you want to deal with right now?

Fair question, even if the voice’s presence disturbed her. There wasn’t. She wanted to be somewhere quiet and empty. Where movement wasn’t an issue or a requirement. Where she didn’t have to see or hear, think or feel.

The deep unease on the boy’s face confused her. Was her unbalanced state so obvious?

Jack took a deep breath and finished the question in a rush. “Do you have any tampons?”

Fiona stared. She forced herself to look — really look — at the youth.

“You’re a girl,” she decided after a moment.

Jack looked around, nervous. “Yeah. But look, please don’t tell anybody, okay? You know how it is… a girl traveling alone…”

Alone. No family. A thousand synonyms flashed through her head and chipped away at the fragile scab over her grief. The weight of it came crashing back down on her. No wonder she didn’t want to move.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry, Fiona, I didn’t mean—”

She took a deep breath and forced the pain back into its cage. “It’s okay. I’d probably try to disguise myself as a boy, too, in those circumstances, if I thought I could actually fool anyone.” She turned and began walking toward the storage container’s far side, where the smaller, private passenger lockers were located. “I think I have some tampons in my gear, sure. Come on.”

She had a large box of them, in fact. While Fiona stood look-out, Jack cleaned herself up and changed, chattering in a deliberately deep and boyish tone about her adventures stowing away on freighters and even the occasional cruise liner. Heading out into the day again, they were confronted by the wild-haired woman.

“There you two are! Don’t go wandering away like that again, yeah? I thought Riddick might’ve grabbed you.”

Jack looked down for a second and then gave her a shy grin. “Sorry, Shazza.”

Shazza smiled, relenting. “It’s okay. Just stick close from here on out. C’mon, now. We’ve got weapons, and you two need to pick some for yourselves.”

Fiona frowned as she and Jack trudged after Shazza, back towards the main section of the ship. Weapons…

“The thing you need to keep in mind about a weapon, Fee,” her father had told her, “is it’s something that can be taken from you and used against you. Knives and guns are tempting things to people who want to feel powerful, but they don’t necessarily make you safer. If your opponent is bigger, stronger, faster, or better trained than you, he’ll still have the advantage. Drawing a weapon is often a provocation to even greater violence…”

Should she take one or shouldn’t she? She wasn’t sure.

Conversation swirled around her in the ship as Johns described what a depraved creature Riddick would be. She watched as Jack picked out a hunting boomerang, frowning. Looking dubiously over the remaining weapons, she reached out and then her hand stopped.

I really don’t have the first idea how to use any of these things.

Her father always said those were the most dangerous weapons of all, the ones that were wielded without any knowledge or understanding. Riddick, she knew, could take any of them out of her hands in a second.

Her fingers hovered over the weapons. Take one or not? What were the risks in each direction?

He might kill me fast if he thinks I’m going to fight… Her hand began to reach for the blow-gun.

The absurdity of it all startled a giggle out of her. She covered her mouth quickly, thankful that everyone else had moved away. Images crowded into her head of just exactly how she might use such a thing in a defensive situation, each more ridiculous than the last. I’m a fool.

Fiona gazed down at the blow-gun, studying its contours. Her mother would have loved the carving on it. The giggle, beneath her hand, turned into a sob. She leaned against the table, taking several deep breaths.

The blow-gun was still on the counter when she headed back out into the sun.

1.
Riddick: Just Wrong

The pain in his arms was a low, dull ache now. Soon it would be fiery agony, once all the other survivors left the area. Riddick had overheard Johns telling the captain how dangerous he was; no help there. With the bit in his mouth he couldn’t even attempt to contradict the merc, or suggest that she ask to see some more comprehensive ID.

It was a shame he hadn’t managed to take the son of a bitch’s head off when he had the chance. It had been the perfect opportunity — everyone else had been off restraining some girl who was screaming for her parents and siblings, trying to reach their burning cryo-tubes. He could have done Johns and been out of his restraints before the bastard had a chance to tell any of them who he was. If only his luck hadn’t stayed the same. Just plain gone. These days, Johns was the one with all the luck.

Which meant he was on his own again. There were no allies here. Well, not immediate ones, anyway. And depending on what he had to do to stay free and stay alive, even Johns’ true colors emerging might not turn them. He had to think of them as The Enemy, individually and collectively. There would be no help for him.

He could hear them leaving. The captain — he’d heard her introduce herself as Carolyn Fry — was calling out something about searching a cargo container for water. Finally he even heard Johns’ receding footsteps. Riddick slowly stretched, preparing himself for the agony to come, when he heard the quiet footfall. Someone was in the room with him.

He went completely still and stretched out his senses. In the years it had taken him to scrape up enough prison currency to pay for his shine job, he’d been forced to develop his other senses to the highest degree possible. They didn’t fail him now.

Quiet breathing. The scent of a woman’s perfume. Vanilla, sandalwood and nutmeg, mixed with the musk of her skin. Expensive perfume, maybe. Unusual, anyway. He was used to more garish scents, but that might have had something to do with the quality of female company normally within his reach… when he had access to women at all. What the hell was she doing on this cheap crate?

He peered through the blindfold, and could make out a blurry outline. A woman, definitely. Idly he wondered what the male-to-female ratio of the survivors was. If they were here for long, it’d become an issue. Then again, if they were here for too long, food would be the issue and it wouldn’t matter how many sexual favors were exchanged.

Don’t matter. I’m gonna be on top of whatever pile-up happens, no matter what. If it comes down to survival, there ain’t anybody on board this heap who can outlast me—

“That’s just wrong,” the woman murmured, jarring him back to his present circumstances. For one bizarre moment he thought she’d heard his thoughts and was contradicting him.

Riddick recognized her voice, even though it sounded almost nothing like her hysterical cries of earlier. This was the same girl who’d been screaming for her family. She had a slight brogue to her speech, he noticed. Probably from New Ireland. He felt her approach and kneel down astonishingly close to him, so close that he could feel the heat of her body by his.

She reached out and began unbuckling the straps that held the horse bit in place. Then she gently removed it from his mouth. She set it aside on the floor and reached toward his face again.

“Not the blindfold.” It hurt to speak; he hoped she could understand what he’d just said.

Her hands stopped, the fingertips resting lightly on his cheekbones. “Why?”

Riddick took a moment to work his jaw and get some moisture back into his mouth. His companion waited, hands still resting on him almost as if they were lovers, while he did. Someone here is just a little out of her head, he thought.

It made sense, though. Only an hour or so had passed since her hysteria had died down. That had been followed by the beginning of the navigator’s screams. With all this drama, he doubted she and sanity would recognize each other if they collided in a hallway.

Someday I’m gonna find a place where there’s no fucking drama and I’m never gonna leave it.

Swallowing one last time, his own saliva like wine to his parched mouth, he tried to talk again. This time it worked much better. “My eyes are very photosensitive. Unless you happen to have a pair of sunglasses lying around, I’d better keep the blindfold on.”

He actually had plans along those lines already. A pair of welding goggles had been set aside near him, after a cryotube had been broken open and its young occupant liberated. But if he tipped her off to them, he’d reveal two things he didn’t want anybody to know — first, that he could see well enough through the blindfold to make out his surroundings; second, and much more important, that the cutting torch had been left way too close to him.

“Sunglasses…” She looked around, shifting her position. If he’d been free, it would only have taken a fraction of a second to overpower her and finish her off. Then she rose and—

Shit! Do not think about the torch, woman!

“Would these work?” She asked him, moving over to the crate where his prizes rested. “They’re welding goggles.”

“Probably. Can’t actually see them,” he lied.

She walked away from the cutting torch without another thought. “I’ll put them on you. Keep your eyes closed.”

Not a problem, babe, he thought to himself with amusement. He was privately amazed that she was willing to get as close to him as she had, but she probably either hadn’t heard Johns’ explanation of who he was, or had been too crazed by grief to comprehend it. For the moment he decided to bask in the novelty of having a woman so near him, and so completely unafraid. There was no way it’d last.

Never does, when they find out who I am—

She slipped the blindfold off of his head gently, and then carefully slid the goggles down, adjusting them until they fit comfortably over his eyes. He opened them, blinking, trying to adjust to the new light level.

The goggles worked better than he’d expected they would. Blocking out most of the light, they left him able to look around without any pain. It was dim within the ship’s hull but a great deal of intense light streamed in through a gash near him. With the goggles, he could make out details beyond just light. He could see the other survivors moving around outside, several of them making their purposeful way toward a distant building.

Habitation? So they wouldn’t have to worry about basic survival, then—

A moment later he realized that was no building. It was part of the ship, broken off, lying canted at an odd angle on the ground. Were those retracted landing struts on its roof? The damn thing was upside down! He knew the crash had been rough but—

Fabric rustled beside him. He turned his attention back to the woman who had liberated his vision.

Pretty. She was small and delicately built — waifish, that was the word — with light hair that looked like it might be red-gold in normal light. Between the glare of the twin suns and the color-distorting effects of his shine job, it was hard to tell. Despite her slimness, her body had lush curves to it that his hands itched to explore. Her face was still marked with signs of her recent spate of deep grief, but it was calm. She leaned over slightly, examining the restraints that imprisoned his wrists, her hair brushing his shoulder. He took a moment to indulge himself and inhale her scent.

“I don’t think I can undo those,” she murmured. She moved back slightly and sat down in front of him.

“You probably shouldn’t, anyway,” he replied with amusement. “I guess nobody gave you the bulletin on who I am.”

She shrugged, the gesture minimal, almost apathetic. “You’re a prisoner. But this still seems a bit like overkill to me. Just where are you going to go?”

“It’s not where I might go as much as what I might do. To you.” He expected her to react like all the other civilians he’d encountered over the years. He expected her to pull back, to stare at him as if he might be something dangerous, a rabid dog in human form. She didn’t.

She did draw back a little, but only far enough to lean back against one of the fallen cryo-lockers and watch him sadly. “Do you really think there’s anything you could possibly do to me after what already happened? The only thing I have left to lose now is my life, and you might be doing me a favor.”

He considered that for a moment, studying her. She reeked of pain, he realized. He hadn’t felt grief that intense, personally or vicariously, since the day Morgan—

“What the hell is goin’ on here?”

Riddick didn’t bother to turn at the familiar sound of Johns’ voice. The girl — whatever her name was — glanced up with the same air of sodden disinterest that characterized all of her gestures.

“Did you find any water?” she asked, sidestepping Johns’ question entirely.

Riddick kept his face expressionless, knowing that Johns would soon be near apoplexy over the girl’s complete disregard for his authority. More power to you, babe. I wonder what you’re like when you’re in your right mind.

“Did you take his bit and blindfold off?” Johns had practiced that voice for years, Riddick believed. It was designed to convey the sort of menace that Riddick knew he could convey just by smiling at someone, and was only partially effective. This was one of the times it failed completely.

“Yes.”

“And what the fuck were you thinking?” Johns’ voice had taken on an odd grate.

“I was thinking that the bit must hurt like hell, actually.” The girl shrugged. “And I was thinking that, unless you’re planning to go ahead and shoot him, you should show him a little more humanity. Things are bad enough as it is.”

Ordinarily, Riddick would have been annoyed. In fact, ordinarily he would have been pissed the fuck off. One of the things he’d never been able to stand was people talking over him like he wasn’t even there, especially when they were talking about him.

This time, though, was different.

Talk all you want, you two. Hell, get into a screaming match. Just don’t pay attention to me and do not notice my cutting torch.

“Okay.” Johns was clearly seething. Riddick glanced up for a quick look. The pseudo-lawman was staring at the girl in complete, absolute contempt. “Well, missy, you can just put them right back on him, right now.”

Riddick almost missed the change, looking at Johns. He almost didn’t see the girl’s face morph into something steely. She stood slowly, bent over, and retrieved the bit and blindfold. Then she raised herself to her full height — not more than 5′2″ by Riddick’s estimation — fixed Johns with a scornful gaze that somehow seemed to beat down on him rather than up, and stalked out of the compartment with the restraints still in her small hands.

Johns stared after her for a long moment, too astonished to react. Then he let loose with a string of curses and hurried after her.

Now’s my chance. Lady, whoever you are, I could kiss you. In fact, I just might. Later.

Riddick slowly rose to his feet and glanced backward. As he’d thought, there was a break in the bulkhead above him. He could do this. Grimly, ignoring the pain in his arms, he raised them as high as he could. After one more deep breath, he gritted his teeth and deliberately dislocated both of his shoulders. He could barely keep from screaming as he pulled the restraints through the break in the bulkhead. Even as he popped his shoulders back in, he felt his knees give out and he began to fall. He managed to grab the cutting torch as he hit the floor.