by Jules

PART FIVE

Twenty-One

Jack stood in front of the mirror and stuck her tongue out at the decidedly un-Jack-like figure it reflected.  She was almost surprised when the girl-who-looked-like-a-girl returned the gesture.  After months of running around in grimy pants, clunky, too-big shoes and two or three shirts at a time to hide her budding breasts, the dress felt all wrong.  It was a plain, light blue number that she'd borrowed from Reggie in the hopes of getting herself noticed.

"Yeah," she said to the girl in the mirror.  "He'll notice you alright.  And then he'll laugh his ass off."

Borrowing from Laila probably would have gotten her something a little slinkier, but the woman made her nervous.  She'd been nice enough, but there was something in the way she looked at the rest of the crew that gave Jack the willies.   Kind of the way her dad used to look at people in lousy neighborhoods; a combination of disdain and pity. 

Then there was the way she looked at Riddick.  Like a dog that's had nothing but a shoe to chew on and suddenly finds itself a big, juicy steak. 

Jack frowned at her reflection.  The hair -- or lack thereof -- was not helping.  

"Skinny and bald, I'm sure that's just how he likes 'em," she sighed.  "This is not gonna work."  

Jack glanced around the room.  Reggie's room, lined with books and charts and too, too neat and clean.   Not a hat person.  She chewed on her lower lip, took a deep breath, bit the bullet and stepped into the hall.  And right into Bender.

"Whoa!" he said, catching her as she stumbled.  Setting her right and promptly letting go, he added, "Ya know, a swift kick in  the kneecaps'll take me out a lot quicker."

She laughed self-consciously and fiddled with the front of her dress.  "Sorry."

He gave her a quick once-over, smiling.  "You look nice."

"Thanks."  Jack blushed despite herself.  She'd gotten over the case of the creeps that Bender had given her down on the planet's surface, though she could still sense an understated menace lurking behind his soft, low voice and easygoing manner.  She watched him looking at her and felt her face grow hotter still.  "I just wish I had a...hat or something."

He held up a finger on one hand and reached behind him with the other, withdrawing a dark blue bandana, still bearing creases where it was folded in four.  "Barely used," he smiled.  

Jack couldn't help but smile in return as she took it from him.   "Thanks, Mr. Be..."

"Marty."

She nodded as she tied it on her head like a scarf.  "So what do you think?"

"You're a doll," he replied.   Jack met his eyes for a moment and blinked.  They were dark, almost black, but when the light caught them from the side the pupils flashed briefly.  She realized that she was staring and quickly broke away.   

"Thanks...Marty."

"No problem, Toots."  He winked at her and headed down the hall, mercifully not in the same direction she was headed.

*                     *                    *

The mess room was packed.  It had once been larger, as evidenced by the welded-in sheet of metal that served as a bulkhead at one end.  Now it held just enough space for two tables side to side, almost meeting at the short ends.  A bench ran along the wall, with chairs on the other side.  

Jack stopped in the doorway to take in the seating arrangements.  Imam and Manny sat across from one another, already absorbed in conversation.  Laila sat between Manny and the captain, her back to the door, and Riddick slid his way between tables, tray in hand, to sit across from her, beside Imam.  He looked up at Jack and made a short, appreciative whistle.

"Damn, Jack," he said with a lopsided smile.  "You really are a girl."

Everyone in the room turned to look at her and Jack blushed, eyes darting for a place to sit.

The only seat left was next to Cappy and across from Jasper.  Jack quickly filled a tray at the counter, then crossed the room and dropped into the empty chair.  She glanced sidelong at Riddick but his attention had turned to his plate.  

Reggie, on his left, had a smile for her.  "You look great."

Imam nodded.  "Indeed," he said.  "Lovely."  Compliments all around, and the warmth in her cheeks told Jack that she was turning red as a beet.

"You guys are trying to embarrass me, right?" 

Laughter and small talk, then, in between bites.   She listened, taking note of how many times Riddick danced around questions while still appearing to answer them.  For the most part it was just friendly conversation and Jack was thankful for that.  She'd lost the taste and the confidence for lying, and the less she had to make up the less there would be to remember later.

More than once she caught the glint of Riddick's eyes as they flicked across the table at Laila, and when the woman excused herself, Jack couldn't help but notice the way his gaze lingered on her slender form.

Twenty-two

Two weeks on board, three days on his feet, and Riddick was feeling itchy.  He roamed the decks of his new cage -- big as it was it felt painfully finite --  getting a handle on the layout, sizing up the other fish in the sardine can.  It was a huge stroke of luck that their rescuers had almost as much of a desire to avoid the authorities as he did, but he didn't expect that honor among thieves would amount to shit if they found out who he was and how much he was worth.  

No one was asking too many questions; just the basic stuff, and it was easy enough for him to rehash old lies and keep his story straight.  The Captain didn't seem to give a shit who they were, so long as there was something in it for him if he brought them along, and the others seemed inclined to follow suit.   There was only one hink in his lucky streak.  There was someone on board he'd met before.  Of all the piece-of-shit, junk jockey freighters...

But there was no sign of recognition.  It was possible he'd been forgotten, but it was also likely that once the ship reached Port Safi, someone would blow the whistle and try to cash him in.  He'd do what he could to not give them the chance.

The enclosed spaces and fear of capture weren't the only things making him itch.  But this itch was one he wanted scratched with someone else's fingernails.  Five years was a long time for a guy to be dreaming about it and cranking his own shaft after lights out.  He'd gotten himself a quick piece during his last brief period of freedom, but it wasn't much better than doing the job himself.   It was too fast and he was too busy looking over his shoulder to enjoy it.  Didn't help that that was how Johns had caught him the first time -- with his pants down.  Or rather slung over the back of a stained, white plastic chair in a hotel that he'd paid for by-the-hour with money from a dead man's wallet.

Riddick thought of Fry and immediately kicked himself for it.  He'd bullshitted himself to no end; playing the tough guy in his own head and telling himself that he was just pissed off because of the great, big None For You, Dickey! that he'd heard when she was snatched away from him.  He wondered if she would have turned him in, figured he didn't know her any better than she'd known him and that it was a toss-up, just like it was, now.  

Admitting he'd been sweet on her didn't rankle too much, but he was hardly inspired to teary-eyed regret by her loss.  He thanked her, he'd remember her, but he wouldn't mourn her.  He laughed uneasily and muttered, "Insensitive prick."

Lights all over the ship were dimmed in order to save power, but the lower decks were like mine shafts, illuminated only by tiny, round lights fixed to the walls shoulder high.  Not much to see, but it was easy on his eyes.  Pipes and bundles of cable ran along the ceiling and he followed them, curious.  Trotting along beneath them in time to a rhythmic pounding from the deck above, he followed them as they split, taking the hall to the left to where they terminated at a wide, red door marked with three interlocking, simplified snowflakes in triangular formation.  

Cryo-freeze cabin.  He peered through the small slit window at eye-level.  Eight cryo-lockers along one wall, and where there probably used to be more, a large freezer with a broad window, frosted over.  Riddick tested the door, surprised when it moved.  He stepped inside, leaving it open behind him.   

The air was stale.  The room probably hadn't been used for awhile.  These guys were used to picking up junk close to home.  And why not?  The Romer Corridor was probably good pickings, though they'd end up mostly with crap from low-rent freighters and passenger ships.  It followed.  Salvage in the well-cleared corridors was not only scarce, but the contracts were held by big name salvage experts retained by the big companies.   At least that's how it had been some time ago.  Not much changed out here, though.  Especially where money was concerned.

He paced the row of pods, reading the names off of the small, red plaques above them.  Saeger; Aldous; Rasco; Bender; Jai; Pierson...

Two more at the end, the plates removed, leaving discolored rectangles in their place.  The first two nameplates were worn, the engraved letters filled with dust and grime.  All were fitted with wake-up alarms in case of emergency.  Tech stuff -- military issue -- but it had been around awhile.  

"Is that how you'd prefer to spend the rest of the trip?  Stiff as a board?"

Riddick didn't turn but he could hear the smile in her voice.  Laila's voice, a human purr with a hint of huskiness and a hard-to-peg  accent.  He put on a lop-sided smile and turned to look at her.  Parts of him immediately stood up and began to applaud.

"Off to a good start," he smirked. 

She stepped in and closed the door behind her and leaned on it, posing.  He gave her a lingering once-over.  Tight black shorts and a small gray t-shirt that didn't go down far enough to meet them.  Running shoes, a sheen of sweat.  Pounding on the deck above.  She'd been running, common exercise for folks stuck on long hauls like this one.  He pictured it and his smirk broadened into a smile.

Her brown eyes dropped below his waist and then rose to meet his darkly shining ones.  "I noticed that."

He took in her stance, the casual pose she'd adopted.  But he could smell from where he stood, even past the scent of perspiration...she'd been thinking about him awhile before she got the guts to follow him down here.  Maybe she just wanted to make sure she had him cornered.

Laila leaned away from the door and started toward him, slowly, running her fingers over the glossy, plastic fronts of the pods as she passed them, ticking at  them with her nails.  Riddick waited for her, self-control straining into the red until she came to a stop in front of him.  Their eyes locked for less than a heartbeat.  He took her by the shoulder and shoved her against the wall between pods.  She gasped as her back hit cold metal, but her look urged him on.  He kissed her roughly and she responded, biting his lower lip so hard he tasted blood.

He didn't give a damn about looking desperate and threw himself into it, letting her suck his tongue into her own mouth, raising her shirt and handling her breasts roughly as she ground her hips against him.  He reached down with both hands and the shiny, black pants fell to the deck, then he tore away her pale blue undergarment with two fingers and dropped it, too.   Laila tugged at his zipper and slipped a hand inside, scratching not-so-softly.   His big hands slid under her and lifted, hooking her legs over his hips.  She locked her ankles behind him and let the pressure of his body on hers hold her to the wall.  

No words and no warning.  He covered her mouth with his and guided himself into her, pushing until their stomachs slapped together.  Her gasp drew the breath out of him and he pulled away, breathing hoarsely.  Twisting a hand in her hair, he pulled her head back, exposing her throat and running his teeth along it, enough to welt but not break the skin.  He felt her racing pulse with his lips, smiled against her ear as she matched his rhythm and gouged at his back with her short nails.   

It didn't last long; he hadn't expected it to.  Riddick covered her mouth with one hand as she bucked and trembled, clenched almost painfully tight around him.   He moved the hand and kissed her hard as he followed her body-wracking spasm with his own.  For a long while they stayed pressed together, gasping and reeling.  Laila pulled him to her with her legs one last time, squirming against him.  They laughed for a long moment, then he held her by the waist and set her feet on the deck.   

He put himself back together quickly and leaned against the wall, watching as she gathered her clothing.  Laila shot him a chiding glance when she picked up the torn panties and Riddick flashed her a toothy grin in response.  She balled them up, tossed them and nailed him square in the chest.  He caught them before they fell, turning them over in his hands.

"You're an animal, Stroud," she said, stepping into her pants.   "Don't you get caught with those."

Riddick cocked his head to the side and raised them to his nose, inhaling deeply.  "How many guys on board'll recognize 'em?"

"Asshole," she scowled at him in mock anger.  "Just one, and if he does, you'll be walking the rest of the way to port."

Twenty-three

He let Laila go first, breathlessly jogging her way back upstairs and pounding her way over the room in which he sat, unable to wipe the shit-eating grin from his face.  His head was spinning and he steadied himself against the wall.  Being flat on his back for two weeks and then putting someone else on theirs had left him breathless and sore.   Still-knitting wounds complained loudly as the adrenaline began to subside.  Riddick ignored them, made his way upstairs, nose open for anyone passing by.

Great thing about a big ship with only nine passengers was that there were plenty of places where people weren't.  He made his way to the showers, banging a knuckle along the row of yellow lockers that divided "MEN" from "LADIES" as he passed and snatching a towel from beside the door.  Sound from within made him stop short.  The erratic spray of the antique shower-heads the ship was sporting.  Riddick considered waiting until he had the place to himself, but the scent on him was unmistakable and the sooner he got rid of it the better.

On a bench across from the doorway there was a pile of neatly folded clothing.  He approached it, towel over his shoulder, hoping to discern his shower mate's identity.  In large, faded gold capital letters on a worn blue t-shirt he made out the word NEBULA, and below it, smaller, FSMC.   Free Space Marine Corps, he mouthed the words to himself.  No doubt the property of Bender, Martin I.

Riddick thought again of waiting, part of him hoping that if he dicked around long enough Bender would finish and leave.  Another part, however, said Balls To That!  and he kicked off his shoes and stripped quickly, tossing his clothes in the corner and heading into the steam. 

Bender had his back to the door, his face into the water.  Riddick put on his "jail-house shower" eyes, where nothing existed below the waist.  It was hard to miss the dark, ugly scars on the man's back.  Exit wounds; count 'em, one, two, three, four.  Bastard was lucky all he came away with was a limp.

The water came on ice cold and Riddick forced himself to stand in it until the temperature had adjusted to something that didn't make his nuts want to crawl up to his throat.  

"Only two temperatures; cold as fuck or hot as fuck," said Bender, blinking the water out of his eyes.  Riddick forced a laugh and Bender chuckled.  "Hey, worry not, man.  If you drop the soap you don't have to kick it into the hall before you bend over to pick it up."

Riddick laughed for real this time, taking the clear, suds-covered bar from Marty when he offered it.  As it dropped into his hand, Riddick spotted a row of numbers tattooed in black on the side of the other man's ribcage, just beneath his armpit.  Nine digits, starting with 7-8-7.  The number they put on registered killers when they were released into 'polite society'.  Not let out of jail, but discharged from service in the Free Space military.  He would've had one, too, to wear almost-proudly as someone to be feared -- legally.

He relaxed beneath the water,  enjoying the feel of it despite the constantly changing pressure.  The two men stood silently for a long time, something he'd come to expect in a life filled with community showers.  Women talked; men tried to pretend all the other guys weren't there.   Nevertheless, he was not surprised when Bender finally broke the silence.  

"That was some fucking dust ball you hit," he said, rinsing bubbles from skin turned bright red by the near-scalding water.  

Nodding, Riddick put his head under the water.  "No shit," he replied.   

"Saw some of your friends down there.  They said 'hi'."

"Bet they did."  He chuckled with an ease he didn't feel.  He'd done enough sizing up to know when he was on the receiving end and his confidence that the man had forgotten him began to swirl down the drain with the suds and the too-hot water.  He reached to adjust the temperature, recalling too late the patch of marred skin on the inside of his arm where he'd once worn the "Reaper" that Bender still had, bold and black, on his left shoulder.

Marty looked  too long and Riddick caught him at it.  Their eyes locked and Riddick's vision caught the unnatural spark of white at the center of the too-dark irises.  They remained fixed on one another for a long moment, the only sound the sputtering and splashing of the water.  Just as Riddick felt his gaze beginning to falter, Bender flashed a lopsided smirk and shut off the tap, then turned and stepped up to the towel rack, shaking water out of his hair.

He dried off as he limped wordlessly from the room, nodding his goodbye.  When he was gone, Riddick put his head against the cool ceramic wall and let the water run down his back.  Two choices presented themselves right away -- kill him or wait it out and see what he did next.  Bender was older, and looked to have lost a little since Riddick had seen him last.  But then, he'd seen the guy take a bottle to the temple and still beat another man half to death.  Besides, what if he was wrong?

The hair on the back of his neck stood up and he turned to see Bender outlined in the doorway.  "Semper Fi, Dickey," he said.  "Don't make me do anything you don't want me to."  Then he turned and disappeared from sight.

*                    *                    *

Riddick's mind flew into overdrive, ticking off scenarios one by one.  The possible results:  he was fucked, or he wasn't.  Could he trust Bender to keep his mouth shut?  Instinct said "yes" but that didn't stop him from rapidly searching for a way to deal with "no".  Five million green was a damn lot of money; enough to blow away loyalties, especially ones that had had time and good reason to fade.

He made his way back to his room in a threadbare white towel, his shower-washed and wrung-out clothes hanging over one arm and leaving a trail of tiny, round drops behind him.  Past humility long ago, he made no effort to avoid the others, answering Reggie's shocked look with a wink when she passed him in the hall.

Leaving the lights off, he closed the door behind him and opened his eyes wide. They relaxed into a darkness so thorough that even he could only make out the vaguest of shapes.  Stretching out on his narrow bed, he thought of time in a ten by ten cell, lying awake and listening for the sound of his cellmate shifting out of the bunk above, or his door sliding open after lights out.   

Three raps on the thick, metal door, quick and unevenly spaced.  He guessed at the knocker.  Small set of knuckles; a woman.  He rolled out of bed and re-adjusted the towel, taking all of three steps to reach the handle.  Feet shifting outside the door.  Jack.

He pulled it open and stood back, out of the light from the hall.  Jack, who'd been staring at the floor, raised her eyes to look at him, her breath hitching a bit when they reached the towel.  Her cheeks turned dark red and for a moment her mouth worked but no sound came out.  Riddick hoisted an eyebrow and leaned on the wall inside, looking from her to the rolled bundle of clothes she held under her arm.  He nodded toward them.

"Uh, here," she said, thrusting the clothes at him.  Jack fixed her eyes on his face as he took them, swallowing hard when their fingers brushed.  He watched the pulse in her throat pound out a silent rhythm, saw her eyes begin to wander.  "They're from Marty," she said, shrugging.  "He said yours were dirty."

He paused with his hand halfway between them and uttered a short laugh.  "Marty?"

"Ben--"

"I know who you're talking about," he said sharply.  Shaking his head, he added, "What are you, sweet on the guy?"

Her brows knit and her jaw dropped.  "No!" 

"You sure?"  

"Yes," she replied, scowling.  "I'm sure.  He's nice and all, but he's not..." She stopped, flustered.  "You're fucking with me aren't you?"

"Yeah, I'm fucking with you," he said.  He reached out and nudged her shoulder with the back of his hand, teasing.  "He's not what?"

"Stop being a jerk," she laughed.  

"Didn't get all that practice just to give it up now," he muttered.  Riddick tossed the shirt on the bed and unrolled the pants, a pair of faded red sweatpants that fell just short of his ankles.  He stepped into them, tugging them up underneath the towel as Jack pretended to look down the hall, shifting her feet and crossing and uncrossing her arms.

He thought of Bender talking to her alone, telling her things she shouldn't know, then glanced at her and wondered if she'd believe it.   How well would her crush stand up in the face of what he'd done?  He felt a familiar heat well up in his chest and spread over his skin.  Anger, apprehension.  He wanted to break something.  Bender's face in particular, if he kept fucking around.

"I want you to watch your ass around that guy, Jack," he said suddenly, startled by a voice that sounded nothing like his own.  "In fact, just stay away from him."  

Jack sensed the change in him and tensed up.  "Why?"

"Just because you're tired of not trusting people doesn't mean you can change your mind and start all of a sudden."

Riddick stretched for a way to make her understand without doing just that.  She spoke first, stepping inside the room and whispering angrily.  "You're afraid I'll say something stupid, aren't you?  That I'll blow it for you.  I wouldn't do that!"

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her all the way inside, turning on the lights and shutting the door behind her.  He let go and Jack backed away, but her fear of him wasn't enough to overwhelm her anger at his implication.  

"I'm not stupid, ya know!"

He set his hands on her shoulders and felt her trembling.  "I know you're not stupid, Jack," he said, voice low.  "I'm asking you to be careful, that's all.  Can you do that for me?"

She blinked at him a moment, all trace of anger gone.  Swallowing, she nodded mutely.

"Thank you," he said softly, and damned if he didn't mean it.

Releasing her, he started to step away, but froze when Jack came suddenly forward and threw her arms around him.  Squeezing tightly, she said, "I'm sorry."

A right hook couldn't have caught him more off-guard.  Riddick stiffened, arms hovering with no place to go until he relaxed and let them settle around her.  They stood for a moment, her cheek, soft and warm, pressed against his bare skin, then he shifted and she pulled away, looking sheepish.  

"I should..." she began, shuffling her feet.

"Yeah," he nodded.

Jack opened the door and slipped out into the hall, closing it softly behind her.  Riddick stared at the door for a long moment, brow furrowed.   

"Shit."

Twenty-four

The last six hour watch had consisted of empty star fields, silent monitors and the worst romance novel Reggie had ever read.   When Jasper came to relieve her, she took one look at the broad, pleasant smile he had for her and burst out laughing.  He responded with a raised eyebrow, which made her laugh harder still.

"Sorry, Jas," she chuckled.  "Just punchy."

He reached down and took the book from her, frowning at the bare-chested hero and the improbable cleavage of the woman swooning in his arms.   "Reading this tripe is like submitting yourself to a voluntary lobotomy," he said.  He started to hand it back, then paused, holding it up instead.  "Do you mind?"

"Knock yourself out," she laughed.  

Jasper nodded his thanks and dropped into the seat she'd just left, opening the book and making faces at the blurbs on the first few pages.  He snorted and held it up with the pages spread to show several glowing reviews.  "Do you really suppose this many people read the book?" he smirked.  

He settled into reading and Reggie headed for the mess room, stopping to pour herself a cup of too-strong coffee before returning to her quarters.  She shoved at the door, reminding herself again to have Bender fix it.  It opened with a jerk, spilling her into the room.  Reggie caught herself before she fell, but the cup jolted sharply, sloshing coffee all over her hand and the floor.  

Cursing, she held on to it long enough to set it on the desk, then glanced around for something to wipe the scalding coffee off of her hand.  She spotted the laundry bag in the corner and grabbed the first thing off the top.   

"Smooth," she muttered, cleaning herself up and turning her attention to the puddle on the floor.  As she spread her makeshift rag on the floor to soak it up, she realized that the garment wasn't hers.  The pants Jack had left behind when she borrowed the dress.  "Crap."  

Sighing, Reggie checked the pockets before tossing it back into the bag, coming up with a single sheet of thick paper, folded several times.  She unfolded it, feeling a twinge of guilt at her intrusion, but too curious to stop.  It was wrinkled, and stained with something dark that flaked off when she touched it.  When her fingers brushed the raised lettering of an official seal, she shuddered involuntarily, and turning over the last fold, she almost dropped the form entirely.

"Port Authority," she read, scowling at the seal pressed into the paper.  "...hereby authorized to transport on civilian conveyance one Riddick, Richard B...Alliance Shipping and subsidiary Gans Transportation have been apprised of the risks inherent in the transportation of...my God,"  she muttered.  A list of charges followed and as Reggie's eyes passed over them the trembling of her hands made the words begin to blur.  

The document held no description of its subject and she found herself thinking of their passengers and trying to imagine either of the men performing the acts listed.  It wasn't as hard as she'd hoped it would be.  

She could send a message ahead to the Port Authority in Safi, asking for a photo or description, but it could take days, maybe even weeks for their reply  to get back to her.  The idea of telling Cappy and the others what she'd found crossed her mind, but she decided to wait until she had something solid before causing a panic.   Forcing herself to calm, she folded the paper and tucked it in her pocket, then snatched up the laundry bag and headed out of the room.  

*                    *                    *

A row of cryo pods -- scratched and dented by their ordeal -- were held against the wall by large, metal brackets, their outer displays slowly flickering to life.  Cappy encouraged them, tapping on the coverings and muttering.  Three out of five blinked to life and stayed lit.  The others continued to flicker, showing at least a hint of promise.  

"Come on you bloody great pieces of crap."

He labeled the stragglers with a large question mark on the glass and switched them off.    Rows of junk surrounded him, crammed in beside the rescued emergency skiff and looking like a smaller version of the wreck it had all once been a part of.  Crates, trunks and suitcases lined the wall, the orphaned belongings of faceless owners.  They waited to be examined, their contents catalogued or incinerated.    

Atop the first stack of crates was a scuffed, red plastic bin used to collect personal belongings worn or carried by the deceased.  It was primarily Bender's job, since he was the only one able to go about it quickly.  No timid, hesitant handling of bodies, but a fast and efficient search with no more reservation than if he were walking among the drunk or the sleeping.  He envied the man his fearlessness and focus.

Pulling the bin toward him, Cappy peered inside and shook it to shuffle the contents.  Not a bad haul for the passengers of a cut-rate line.  Watches, chains and charms in gold and silver, a large roll of cash held together with a rubber band, several rings linked together on a plastic band.  He picked up the rings and examined them, lowering himself onto a crate and dropping the bin beside him.  There were seventeen in all, from plain silver bands to a gaudy setting with several carats worth of stones.  Most were scuffed and in need of polishing.  Like me, he chuckled to himself. 

He paused at an ornate band of rose-tinted gold.  It held a single, round red stone at the center of a setting made to look like a bed of diminutive  roses.  Petals rained down the sides of the ring, first in bunches and then in tiny, individual works of excruciating detail that his eyes could barely pick out.   Roses for his Desert Rose.  Laila resented the nickname regardless of the affection with which it was uttered.  She said the only reason he'd given her the name in the first place was that when they'd met at the club that shared it, he'd been too drunk to remember hers.   Cappy laughed, wondering if she would think it was romantic or that he was making fun of her.   

Three times in the past two months, she'd threatened to leave him; to stay in port next time they landed and find herself a younger man.  He'd responded angrily, in part an attempt to cover up the fear that struck him when he considered that she might really do it, and part in the hope that if she were afraid of him, it might somehow hold her to him.

Cappy whipped the pliers from his belt and cut the plastic, removing the ring and returning the rest to the bin.  He gave it a quick rub with a rag and held it up to the light to admire the shine, then dropped it into his breast pocket, giving it a pat before turning back to his work.

Twenty-five

In the dark, again.  Banished to the nightmare version of the corner he'd
occupied in grammar school.  Rough cement walls, wet and cold and close enough together that he could put his back to one and touch the other with his fingertips.  He didn't.  Curled into himself, he sat dead center of the small space, the presence of the prison levels above pressing down on him in the blackness.  The seat of his pants was soaked through with moisture from the floor and the soles of his bare feet were cracked and sore from scratching.  There was no time; no hint of light to remind him that anything existed but his tiny, black box.

He'd tried to keep track by counting how many times trays of cold food were slid through the narrow slit at the base of the door, but he'd lost count and the guard that brought his meals did so in complete silence.  His stomach lurched and complained constantly, and he wondered how long it was between meals.  When he could no longer stand the cramps and the pangs brought on by roiling acid he took to waiting in the silence, listening for the sound of tiny legs scrabbling on the cement and snatching up their owners when he could.

They were going to leave him here, this time.  Until  the walls started
talking to him and his flesh started to rot on the bone; until he tore off
his own ears to stop the ringing like Carl Miller, or wore his fingers down
to the second knuckle trying to claw his way out like Art Berube.  Maybe
until they had to wash him out of here with a hose.

Worth it?  His cracked lips moved but his voice had dried up,
yesterday? --last week?-- and made no sound.  No, he hadn't started it.  No, he hadn't encouraged it.  No, no one had forced him to tear out Coleman Waters' throat with his teeth, either.  A fucking vampire, they called him, and cast him into darkness.

A squeal of hinges as the low door swung open without warning, flooding the tiny cell with light.  Throwing an arm across his eyes, he pressed against the back wall, rough cement scraping through the worn fabric of his prison uniform.  He tested his muscles.  Legs asleep, arms cramped from hugging his knees for hours on end.

"Out!" The warden's voice, a high-pitched tone forced down an octave or two by its owner.  When his frozen legs didn't obey quickly enough, a violent spray of water assaulted him, like cold needles piercing his skin.  "Get the fuck out, inmate!  Move!"

The water stopped and he crawled out on his hands and knees, slipping on the filthy cell floor and landing hard on his left elbow.  Pain shot up to his shoulder and sparks danced in front of his eyes as he was hauled the rest of the way out and set on his feet.  Locking his knees, he  managed to stay upright as they dragged him to the showers and ordered him to strip.

Cleaned and dressed in a spanking-new version of the rags he'd just
discarded, he was chained wrists to ankles and a cold metal bit was shoved into his mouth and strapped in place.  They led him to a small room that held only two chairs and a stainless steel table with rounded corners, all bolted to the floor.   The chains were run through metal rings in the floor beneath one chair, forcing him to sit feet together with hands drawn down between his legs.

They left, then, closing the door behind them.  Unable to straighten his
back, he developed a fiery ache between his shoulders in moments.  Trying to relax the muscles only made it worse and the table was just far enough away that it would be uncomfortable for him to lay his head on it.  But the pain that took the prize was the cramp in his jaw from trying not to bite down on the foul-tasting chunk of steel in his mouth.

The guards didn't return.  Instead the door opened to admit a single man, tall and narrow in a dark blue uniform with several rows of ribbons on his chest.  He held his uniform hat under one arm and a thick manila-colored folder beneath the other.  His hair was a brown buzz-cut graying at the temples, and his face was weathered, with pale, severe eyes that locked on his and stared with an intensity he knew was meant to make him look away.

He refused, and held them without blinking for a long moment before the
other man broke contact and spoke.

"My name is Colonel Nathan Farris, of the Free Space Marine Corps," he said hoarsly.  "No need to reply to anything I have to say until I ask you for a yes or no answer at the end of our meeting, Mr. Riddick."

If not for the bit he would have laughed out loud.  His future as a target
dummy began to loom large.

"I represent the heads of a program called M.A.R.I.  Military Advanced
Rehabilitation Initiative."  The colonel set his hat and file on the table,
then stood behind the chair, hands folded behind his back.  "We take men like yourself and give them a purpose, a direction in which to focus their destructive tendencies.  Each man is required to serve ten missions with the FSMC after which all debts to society are
considered fulfilled and all records will be destroyed."  He paced slowly
from one end of the table to the other as he spoke and Riddick's eyes
followed him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"I'm here to get you out of prison, Mr. Riddick.  For good.  If you complete your tour, you will be assigned a number to be permanently displayed somewhere on your person, identifying you as a dangerous, but completely legal individual.  The average life expectancy of a member of this program is six weeks."

The fuck you say...

"The alternative to accepting reassignment to the program--"

Aw shit, here it comes...

"--is to expire in your cell sometime during the night of self-inflicted
wounds.   I will return in exactly five minutes for your answer."  With
that, he tucked his hat under his left arm, snatched up the file, and left
the room.

He didn't need the five.

*                    *                    *

The Regulars called them Marys.  Basic training would last longer than their life expectancy upon graduating -- eight weeks.  They were expendable but they were also expensive and the corps wanted them to last.  The order was comforting, even if it meant starting a reputation from scratch.  Riddick fell easily into the routine, which offered more freedom than prison but less free time.  He worked like a dog, dedicated, almost overeager.

Forty-one other convicts were admitted with Riddick, less than half of them made it through the training.  The wash-outs weren't put on a bus home; they vanished, leaving behind stripped bunks and empty lockers.  Goaded on by nightmare visions of their fate, Riddick became the most feared man on base.  Until Mad Marty Bender came to pick him up.

Their drop ship looked like a space-faring hot rod, sleek and black, almost invisible until the muted red landing lights came on.  They set down in the inner courtyard, covering the "no aircraft" symbol on the ground.

There were four of them, dressed in black fatigues, their boots silent on
the ramp as they descended.   They wore no indicator of rank or affiliation and carried no visible weapons.  Riddick suspected they didn't need either -- everyone knew who they were and what they were capable of.

Waiting with an armed escort and the base commander at one end of the dusty cement rectangle, he watched them like one predator that smells another, blood rushing in his ears.  The Major who stood beside him straightened, setting his features in a carefully neutral expression.  Riddick could see it was an effort for him to keep it that way.

They walked in a one-two-one formation, the man in front shorter than the others but powerfully built and with an almost visible air of menace that made him seem much larger than he was.  His hair was just longer than regulation and his eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark glasses that he left on as he saluted the Major.

"Major Cavanaugh."

"Captain Bender."  His voice faltered the slightest bit, and as the Captain sharply dropped the salute,  Cavanaugh flinched.  The other man smiled and turned his attention to Riddick, leaving the Major to sag with visible relief.  

Riddick stared straight ahead and didn't make eye contact.   Bender had to look up at him, but he suddenly felt very small.

"Are you a murderer, Private?"

"Yes I am, sir."  Riddick answered without hesitation. He'd already
undergone enough interrogations to know that the man was probably less interested in the correct answers to his questions than how he reacted to the asking of them.

"'Sir' is for fucking civilians.  Every dickhead on the street has been
called 'sir'.  How many people have you murdered, Private?"

"Five, Captain."

"Did they deserve it?"

"Yes they did, Captain," he said quickly.

"Would you have done it if they hadn't deserved it?"

Riddick struggled for a moment, and flailing for the answer that would get him in the least trouble, he accidentally caught hold of the truth.

"No, Captain."

Bender slipped off his glasses, revealing eyes with faded whites and no
irises, only large, dark, flashing pupils.  The light hit them from the side
and they became glowing, blue-white circles that fixed on him.

"You're not a murderer, anymore, Private. You're a killer, and anyone I tell you deserves to die, does.  Am I clear?"

"As crystal, Captain."

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THE CREW of the DEATH MAIDEN

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