Free The Chronicles of Riddick by Alan Dean Foster Page A

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,