The Chronicles of Riddick Read Online Free PDF Page A

versatile transport a pack of mercenaries would utilize, if they could afford it. In addition to traversing interstellar space and a variety of atmospheres, it could also burrow or swim. Doubtless it had cost Toombs and team a pretty credit or two. Now it belonged to someone else: him. That’s the way the comet crumbles, he thought to himself as he pulled out the locator and ran a subsidiary check. Unless the information he sought was being masked, the ship was empty; devoid of life-forms. No reason to mask the interior, he decided as he started toward it. Not with the maskers among the recently departed.
    It didn’t matter. He always preferred to rely on his own judgment and instinct, turning to machines only when necessary or when left with no choice. The locator said the ship was empty. He entered through the obeisant port as warily as if the compact craft were crammed to its outer shell with a contingent of waiting, heavily armed representatives of the law.
    It was exactly as empty as the locator insisted it was.
    Settling himself into the command chair, he methodically coaxed quiescent instrumentation to life. Though no professional pilot, he knew what to do to survive. One of these talents involved piloting small spacecraft. Though some of the indicator markings were new or unfamiliar, the controls were basic enough.
    At his command, protective internal screens whisked aside. The main distorter drive powered up. With the ship alert and awaiting instructions, he paused to delve into its internal supplementary databases. Another talent. He almost, but not quite, smiled as his own record appeared, glowing softly with the details of his personal history. Alone, as usual, he read silently to himself from the section catalogued under “LEADS.”
    “. . . Now known to have survived emergency reentry and subsequent vessel crash on double-star system M-344/G. Likely killer of Class-I mercenary William J. Johns. Possible sighting on Lupus III. Reported seen on . . . Reported seen on . . .” There was quite a lot of the latter. This time he did smile. To have been everywhere he had been reported seen, there would have to be twelve of him.
    An unsealed can of protein rope sat on the deck between his seat and the co-pilot’s chair. Popping the lid, he pulled out a length, bit off a mouthful, and chewed as he scrolled through the readout. It didn’t take long to find the one labeled “PAYDAY.”
    The list of worlds where he was wanted exceeded those where he had reportedly been sighted. Unlike those, this second list was not fanciful. A lot of people in a lot of places wanted him incarcerated for a variety of reasons. The justification didn’t matter to mercenaries. Only the potential payoff was important. Each individual prison or facility had been handicapped by Toombs and his team. Different slams would pay different fees for delivery of the desired quarry. The rates ranged from three hundred thousand K up to seven-fifty. One glaring exception made Riddick take notice.
    One point five million. Universal denomination or specific currency of choice. Hard cash.
    Spitting out a piece of the protein rope that had been processed from part of an animal that would better have remained anonymous, he opened the file associated with the oversized cash offer. The place on the screen before him that was normally reserved for an image of the bidder was empty. The accompanying banner bleated PRIVATE PARTY. That was nothing new. Even slam directors and their administrators liked their anonymity. In contrast, the originating source was a bit of a surprise.
    PLANET: HELLION PRIME. REGION: NEW MECCA.
    “So even holy men have their price,” he murmured to the screen. It did not reply. The lack of a response did not trouble him. He was tired and in no mood to talk to anyone. Not even a machine.
    The compact ship boosted effortlessly from the surface of a world Riddick would just as soon forget as quickly as possible. Once clear of atmosphere