The Chronicles of Riddick by Alan Dean Foster Page B

undertaking was to prevent that from happening. Each day he survived was another accomplishment. What did it matter where he was from? If he didn’t much care, why should anyone else? Yet there was no mistaking the zeal behind their questioning.
    You want something from me; give me something
first,
he mused. He was not the kind to offer up anything freely—not even information. That he did not have the answers to their questions made it that much easier for him to deny them.
    “Sister, they don’t know what to do with
one
of me.”
    “If you were to try,” Imam persisted, “to think back as far as you can, it’s possible that . . . what is it?”
    Ignoring his host’s entreaties, Riddick had moved to the edge of the veranda and was peering guardedly over the side. The dark street below was no longer empty. Nor did he think the armored and heavily armed figures moving around below were commuters returning from working overtime at their jobs in the commercial sector of the city. Engaged in an active door-to-door search, they were moving swiftly and watchfully. Two would demand attention at a door while their companions covered them with weapons at the ready. Loud, impatient, and insistent, their voices drifted up to him as clearly as he saw them in the dark. A moment later, and they were crowding around the entrance to Imam’s house.
    Lajjun appeared at the entrance to the veranda. Her eyes went first to Riddick, then to her husband. “They look for a man who came here today. They think he might be . . . uh, what is the local word . . . ‘ghesu’?”
    “‘Spy,’” Imam murmured. Clearly distressed, he turned to the big man. “They must think you’re a spy for the—”
    His wife interrupted him, speaking sharply to their guest. “Did someone see you come here? Did they?”
    The sound of fists pounding on door floated up from below. It was a decidedly low-tech way of gaining attention, but it worked. Imam spoke to Riddick as he started toward the balustrade. “I’ll send them away, but please—one minute more of your time. Will you wait just one minute more to help save worlds?”
    Riddick had vaulted onto the railing of the veranda. Now he paused there, like some mythological creature of the night, a muscular gargoyle balancing effortlessly on a narrow perch, ready to depart at his leisure. Though the nearest building was no easy distance away, Imam had no doubt that his guest could leap the gap.
    “Or will you leave us to our fate? Just as you left her?”
    Not much of a word—“her.” In the lexicon of admonitions, a feeble one. But it was sufficient to halt Riddick. He stared long and hard at his host, and then without a word he hopped back down onto the veranda.
    Polite inquiry, knocking, and then verbal demands laced with intimations of authority having failed, the edgy soldiers outside had resorted to plasma knives. Slicing through hinges and seals, they made quick work of the front door. It didn’t matter that a government delegate lived within. Their instructions included no exceptions. If there was a problem, the owner of the house could take it up later with the bureau that had issued the search orders. Certainly he would be in a position to do so. A year ago, every one of those in the search party would have had second thoughts about forcing their way into the home of so esteemed a personage. But much had changed in a year, and a great deal in the past several weeks. They proceeded without hesitation.
    Cut through, the door fell inward and crashed to the floor. The search team swarmed inside, looking for someone to question and, perhaps, to take into custody. Or terminate. Their orders were to take subjects alive if at all possible, but not to take any risks. Fingers tensed on triggers as alert eyes scanned the dim room.
    Above, Imam heard the intruders moving around and turned to face his guest. “My associates and I have some sway. Please, stay and let us try and send them