Instantly, a pair of emergency atmospheric engines deployed behind the ship. Gulping atmosphere, they burned it and solid fuel in twin blasts that fired in the opposite direction the ship was taking. Immediately, it began to decelerate and drop faster.

They cut out just before the ship slid to a hard stop-in the center of the runway and slowing to safety inside the hangar. Wisps of smoke and vaporized hull protection rose from the side that had been sun blasted. Inside, nervous laughter mixed with expressions of relief.

Sighing heavily, the pilot tiredly removed his protective goggles and rubbed at his eyes. "And that's that's why I hate this run." why I hate this run."

One of the other mercs asked hesitantly, "What happens if you miss the first approach and have to go around again?"

The copilot squinted up at him. "You like fried food?"

There was no one to greet them. No reason for anything organic that valued its water to hang out in the vicinity of the runway and landing hangar. Exiting the ship once the soaring doors had shut behind them, they made their way to the small underground transport terminal. On other worlds, such a locale was often decorated with murals, photonic projections, adaptive flora. Like the rest of the installation on Crematoria, here it was wholly prosaic. The tunnel wall was bare stone that had been chiseled and melted out of the surrounding bedrock. The transport vehicle itself was a flat, utilitarian slug of a sled. Two of them, actually: main in front, secondary smaller one in back, for cargo. Their sole function was to go from one end of the line to the other while breaking down as infrequently as possible. That was the extent of the designers' intentions, the ultimate aim of its exceptionally well-paid builders. Importing labor to Crematoria was even more expensive than importing raw materials.

"Get in, meat!" The mercenary who shoved the tightly bound Ridd.i.c.k into the cargo sled might have received a murderous glare from any other prisoner, or at least a mumbled curse. Ridd.i.c.k said nothing, not even when the merc followed the push by landing hard himself on the big man's chest. The others took seats on the main sled.

Reduced to basics, the sleds had neither roof nor doors: a necessity of design since it was used for transporting goods and material as often as people. At a touch from the pilot, the lump of metal and plastic began to accelerate. Before long it was racing beneath the wretched surface at speeds approaching 300 kph. On the very rudimentary console, an odometer was ticking off kilometers. Long-lasting hanging lighting fixtures fastened to the ceiling of the tunnel kept it reasonably well lit.

Ridd.i.c.k's attention was focused on these fixtures as they flashed past overhead with almost hypnotic effect. Perhaps the evenly s.p.a.ced lights had a similar effect on the merc who was sitting on his chest. Perhaps he was already bored. Maybe he was convinced that the man on whom he was sitting was going to cooperate and ride quietly. After all, what else could he do, chained and pinned to the bottom of the cargo sled?

What Ridd.i.c.k did was arch his entire body in one single, convulsive muscular spasm. It boosted the startled mercenary upward. Not far. Just, however, far enough.

The next lighting fixture caught the back of the startled mercenary's head before he could so much as utter a startled shout-and removed it, simultaneously sending the decapitated body flying over the back of the sled.

By the time anyone else in the speeding vehicle noticed the absence of their comrade, many kilometers had pa.s.sed. It was the copilot who happened to glance back and, espying Ridd.i.c.k seated calmly and alone in the last row, raised the alarm.

"Where's Dahlven?"

Her companions joined her in searching for the missing merc. It took about twenty seconds to ascertain that he was nowhere on the sled. Toombs stared hard at Ridd.i.c.k. With those d.a.m.n goggles he wore it was impossible to tell where the big man's attention was focused. But he did shrug a response, as if to say, beats me. beats me.

Toombs hesitated, then burst out in a screaming cackle. "Four way! Four-way split!" h.e.l.l, he'd never much liked Dahlven anyway. Dumb a.s.s had a real dangerous tendency to react before he thought. Though the mercenary leader didn't know the details, he had a strong feeling that was just what might have happened. As the sled began to decelerate, he turned and sat back down in his seat.

It docked hard, the exceedingly low-tech absorptive b.u.mper 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 antic.i.p.ated the reaction. "One expensive piece of highly-priced a.s.s. 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. n.o.body likes to admit that we're here, and n.o.body 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 Ridd.i.c.k. 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 a.r.s.e of a dirt ball did you come up with that figure?"

Relaxing near a control console, Douruba glanced at his first a.s.sistant. "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. n.o.body 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 s.h.i.t." 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 increasingly irate 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 'Ridd.i.c.k' 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, Ridd.i.c.k 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 s.p.a.ce. Ridd.i.c.k 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 real books." Jerking his head sideways, he indicated the guard tech. "Not the electronic c.r.a.p you can manipulate with an eyeblink. The hard copy backup you maintain in case of total systems failure and memory wipe. Show me what you s.h.i.tniks are gonna bank for a guy like Ridd.i.c.k: all killer, no filler. books." Jerking his head sideways, he indicated the guard tech. "Not the electronic c.r.a.p you can manipulate with an eyeblink. The hard copy backup you maintain in case of total systems failure and memory wipe. Show me what you s.h.i.tniks are gonna bank for a guy like Ridd.i.c.k: all killer, no filler. Then Then we'll figure out my cut. we'll figure out my cut. Then Then I'll be on my way." 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 interior, 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 gla.s.ses. While everyone else in the room looked on enviously, the slam boss carefully filled the two small gla.s.ses. 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 gla.s.s briefly, he sipped at the contents. Heat that was not of Crematoria coursed down his throat and warmed his belly.

Accepting the other gla.s.s, 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 gla.s.s 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 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 here we're all safe, yes?" He smiled thinly. "Just tell your people not to go for any long walks in the countryside." 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 here 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 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 a.s.sistant 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.

X.

The winch that had been steadily lowering Ridd.i.c.k jerked to a halt about three meters above the floor of the cavern, leaving him still dangling in midair. Since it provided a good view of the lowest level of the prison, and never one to waste time that could be put to use, he utilized the opportunity to study his latest surroundings. It also helped to take his mind off the ache in his wrists.

The encompa.s.sing environment was less than salubrious. Sulfurous steam rose from fissures in the ground. Illumination was weaker here than higher up, adding further to the Dantesque aura of his new surroundings. At first, there was little sign of life.

Then three figures appeared. Emerging from a sizable fissure, they immediately spotted the man hanging from the lift chain and started toward him. Ridd.i.c.k eyed them with interest. They were completely covered in yellow dust. Clothes, exposed skin, hair-everything except their mouth filters was coated in a fine and apparently permanent layer of powdered sulfur. In the lightweight netsacks they carried, Ridd.i.c.k saw the outlines of small, sulfur-coated crustacean-like forms. Something to eat or maybe something to barter.

Tracking downward from Ridd.i.c.k's face and special goggles, the attention of the flavescent trio eventually came to rest on the big man's boots. This was not surprising, since the footgear of the recently emerged three was shabby, torn, and in certain spots, actually melted from the intense heat of the ground on which they walked. Brandishing their homemade collecting pickaxes, they moved into position beneath him and took up expectant stances, making no attempt to disguise their intent. It was usually food that came from above, but this was the first time in a long, long while something as appealing and useful as Ridd.i.c.k's boots promised to do the same. Pickaxes in hand, they waited for him to drop the last three meters. With a resigned, internal sigh, Ridd.i.c.k prepared to do so also.

Moments later, the latch above his wrists gave a soft click and disengaged.

As he fell, he flipped and twisted. Bunched muscles torqued open his bonds. It was a trick he could have done earlier, on the merc ship or while being transported to the prison. But while he could force open his restraints, he would have still have had to face three or four guns. Get all, get free. Get three, get dead. He wouldn't call the shots until he could also call the odds.

But there were no guns aimed at him now, and he had no compunction about finally releasing his hands.

As he stuck his landing, he caught the first blow, parried it, dislocating the first attacker's shoulder and driving the pickax-wielding arm so far backward that the aft end of the pick pierced the man's spine. Almost immediately, he whirled to confront a second a.s.sailant.

The crystal scavengers were not slow. As Ridd.i.c.k was taking apart his second attacker, the third slipped behind him and started to swing his axe. Halting in mid-swing, he dropped the tool, both hands grabbing at his neck, around which a chain had just wrapped itself. As Ridd.i.c.k disposed of his hapless second a.s.sailant, he watched the chain being yanked back. Following it led him to a deceptively slender, lithe figure. The figure's slimness did not surprise him. Its lines did.

As he removed his goggles, the woman disappeared into the stone rubble that littered the bottom of the cavern. He would have followed; perhaps to thank, certainly to question, but was distracted by a voice from above. A deep, male voice that boomed off the surrounding walls.

"There are inmates and there are convicts," it declared with the conviction of the long converted.

Two tiers up, a formidable group of the latter were working their way downward. Leading them was an older individual whose face was as worn, battered, and tough as the surrounding volcanic rock.

"Who says so?" Ridd.i.c.k called upward.

"The Guv says so," came the reply from the man. "I say so. A convict has a certain code. He learns the corners, he learns the pulse of the prison. A convict knows to show a certain respect when it is warranted. Respect to his fellows, respect to the system. The convict system, not the prison system. say so. A convict has a certain code. He learns the corners, he learns the pulse of the prison. A convict knows to show a certain respect when it is warranted. Respect to his fellows, respect to the system. The convict system, not the prison system. Our Our system." system."

Arriving at the bottom, the Guv approached, halting a mutually respectful distance from the newcomer. His retinue formed up behind him, ugly and prepared, but also willing to give the new arrival a chance to define himself. Eyes studied Ridd.i.c.k. Expressions granted grudging respect.

"An inmate," the Guv continued solemnly and meaningfully, "on the other hand, is someone who pulls the pin on his fellow man. Who does the guards' work for them. Who brings shame to the whole game." It did not seem possible, but his voice lowered even further. "And in this slam, inmates get someone right up in their mouth. Might be right in the middle of breakfast, might be in the middle of the night. But it's d.a.m.n f.u.c.king straight righteous inevitable."

Advancing once again, he drew close to Ridd.i.c.k, unafraid and challenging. As he did so, one of the yellow men started to get up. Without breaking stride, the Guv kicked him in the mouth and put him right back down. He did not like interruptions.

"So," he inquired emotionlessly of the newcomer, "which would you be?"

"Me?" Ridd.i.c.k slipped his goggles back into place. "I'm just pa.s.sin' through."

With that he stepped past the Guv and strode away, swallowed up by a hissing wall of steam, ignoring the intense eyes that followed him.

Later, food was provided, if you could call it that. That afternoon it came in the form of some large, boiled arthropod hailing from a family and species Ridd.i.c.k didn't recognize. But if the k.n.o.bby, spine-sporting exterior was a horror, the meat inside was pale white and perfectly edible. Settling himself outside an empty cell, he studied the ongoing activity within the vaulted cavern while cracking sh.e.l.ls and sucking out the contents. Stringy, but nutritious, he decided.

As he was walking back inside the cell, a shape materialized behind him. Alert, lithe, and livid, the newcomer eyed him with quiet intensity.

"Should I go for the sweet spot? Left of the spine, fourth lumbar down; the abdominal aorta. What a gusher . . ."

Turning, Ridd.i.c.k removed his goggles to stare clear-eyed at his visitor. He said nothing. What could he say, to this woman?

"How do I get eyes like that?" she muttered at him.

He shrugged. "You gotta kill a few people." The woman nodded knowingly. "Did that. Did a lot of that." She moved closer. It's unlikely anyone else would have noticed the small knife concealed in one hand. Ridd.i.c.k caught her before the hand could swing forward, swung her around, and slammed her into the bars of the cell. Not hard enough to break bones but roughly enough to make her drop the shiv. He continued talking as if nothing had happened.

"Then you gotta get sent to a slam."

Her body might be pinned against the bars, but there was nothing restraining her mouth. "Where they tell you you'll never see daylight again. Only there wasn't any doctor here who could shine my eyes. Not for twenty cools, not for a quick bang off, not for nothing." Her voice dropped slightly, but the words were as hard-edged as before. "Was there anything you said that was was true?" true?"

She wrenched upward, fighting to break free, trying to catch him in the wrong hold. It only made him boost her harder.

"Remember who you're talking to, Jack."

She seemed to spin within her own skin, whirling around and popping forward the miniature blade she kept concealed inside her mouth. Just like Ridd.i.c.k's hold, it didn't keep her from talking.

"'Jack' is dead. She was weak, just couldn't cut it." Lashing out with the concealed blade, she slashed his cheek before he could completely draw back. It did not make him let her go, but he did so anyway. He followed her as she vanished into the steam and sweat-soaked murk outside.

"I'm Kyra," she called back to him, her voice still trembling with cold anger. "A new animal."

The frigate represented the epitome of Necromonger science and adaptive technology. Swift, sleek, stunning in its size and overawing in its ma.s.s, it swept through deep s.p.a.ce like a wasp searching for a world to paralyze and feed upon. Within its dark depths, her crew operated in shifts: some in cryosleep, others emerging from time to time to ensure all was operating optimally and that the vessel remained on course. As yet, few aboard knew that the urgency with which they had departed orbit around Helion Prime was inspired by the disappearance of a single man. They did not need to know, nor would it have affected the efficiency with which they went about their work if they had.

At present, the command team was out of cryosleep for several days. Time to exchange thoughts, eat real food, drink, and stretch underused muscles. Then they would return to the embrace of cryo travel while automatics and a skeleton crew watched over the vessel. But for now, they talked.

Vaako was engaged with his navigators. The process of trying to track another ship through deep s.p.a.ce was a complicated one. Without advanced computational predictors, it would have been impossible. But with people as dedicated to their work as to the cause, the commander was confident of eventually finding what they were looking for.

The Purifier entered and stood off by himself, observing. Occasionally, his gaze would travel from the distorted stars visible beyond the port to the converts busy at their stations-and eventually, to Vaako. It unsettled the commander more than he would have cared to admit.

It was better when the Purifier came toward him. At least the man wasn't standing off by himself, lingering in the background, piercing everyone with his critical gaze. Talking to him reduced Vaako's feeling that he had been weighed and found wanting.

He did not know the half of it.

"Long journey." Standing behind the commander, the Purifier peered past him, his gaze focused on the glistening firmament ahead. When the commander did not reply, the other man continued. "They can be a test, these deep runs. A test of our inner selves as well as of crew and vessel. Difficult to be so long away from the comforting confines of Necropolis. Yet sometimes they must be done. Long and lonely they are." His attention shifted to the martial figure before him. "Do you find that to be true, Vaako?"