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Sight Unseen	By : ehiltebe Category: M through R > Pitch Black Views: 2323 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Riddick, Pitch Black, or any of the characters from that universe, nor am I making any money off this. All I have is Eileen...

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Sight Unseen

A Chronicles of Riddick Alternate Universe

Chapter Four

Morning came, and Rick and I allowed the Necromongers to herd us into a large, open-air amphitheater with much of New Mecca’s remaining population. It seemed like our best chance to find al-Walid’s murderer, and I doubted that even the large complement of soldiers could keep us from leaving when we wanted to. Besides, the old adage of ‘know thy enemy’ definitely applied, if these people were involved, as Aereon had implied, in the massacre that had robbed us of our birthright and our birth families.

A procession of the invaders entered, armored men with gold-traced details gleaming in the sun, some with women on their arms who wore long, close-fitted dresses of scaly-looking fabric. Then black-coated, sliver-ornamented Necromongers followed, very similar to the ones in my dream. And finally, behind them all, came the Lord Marshal in his elaborate, grisly armor.

A pale man stepped forward, metal gleaming on every finger, both shoulders, around his throat, and from the large ribbed ‘cap’ he wore. A hush descended upon the crowd. I thought he looked like the one I’d taken note of in my dream.

“In this ‘Verse, life is antagonistic to the natural state.” His voice rang across the amphitheater. “Here, humans, in all their various races, are a spontaneous outbreak, an unguided mistake.” I felt an eyebrow try to rise as the natives muttered uneasily. “Our purpose is to correct that mistake. Because there is another ‘Verse, a ‘Verse where life is welcomed and cherished. A ravishing, ever-new place called Underverse. But the road to that ‘Verse crosses the Threshold.”

“Threshold! Take us to the Threshold!” The unexpected chant from the Necromonger soldiers caused many to flinch. Personally, I found such fanaticism nauseating.

“What you call… death,” the Lord Marshal added smugly.

“So it is this ‘Verse that must be cleansed of life, that Underverse can populate and prosper.” Irrationally, I wanted to grab the man and give him a good, firm shake. The crowd grew restless, with an edge of anger.

This could easily turn ugly.

(Niklas)

Every time he gave the damn speech, he wanted to wash his mouth out with bleach. Niklas didn’t believe a single word of it, yet he had to sound sincere, lest Zhylaw grew suspicious. The tingling of the mark on his chest made the task more difficult, half-distracting him.

The young Alphas were nearby. How much closer, he couldn’t tell, but their sheer dominance sounded a siren call to the Omega in him. After so many years of dormancy, the force of that part of himself shocked him.

Even without the Lady’s order, he would have helped them in any way he could.

“Look around you. Every Necromonger in this hall, every one of the Legion Vast that swept aside your defenses in just one night, was once like you.” The Lord Marshal’s condescension stuck in his craw, and he realized he’d had to take it too long. “Fought as feebly as you. Every Necromonger that lives today is a convert.”

Not quite. Niklas barely kept the smirk evoked by the thought from showing on his face.

“There’ll be no conversions here!”

He sighed, figuratively putting his nose back to the grindstone.

(Lyra)

“We all began as something else! It was hard for me to accept, too, when I first heard these words.” Something about the pale man’s assertion seemed… off, though I couldn’t say how. “But I changed, I let them take away my pain…”

“You betrayed your faith!” That came from Aereon’s short, stout henchman.

“Just as you will change when you realize that the Threshold to the Underverse will be crossed only by those who have embraced the Necromonger faith.” I scowled, knowing that the ability to feel pain—which conversion apparently eliminated—proved that you were truly alive, whether you liked the sensation or not. “For those of you who will, right now, drop to your knees and ask to be purified.”

To their credit, not a single New Meccan gave in so soon.

“We will not renounce our faith!”

“No one here will do what you ask!” A red-haired man descended along a stepped aisle, headed for the building’s center. “It is unthinkable! This is a world of many peoples, many religions.” In fact, it amazed me that the polyglot citizens coexisted so peacefully. “And we simply cannot, and will not, be converted!” He got close to the slim Necromonger, and then the Lord Marshal strode toward him.

“Then I’ll take your soul.” As he growled at the man, ghostly images of his arms sank into the protester’s midriff. A colorless, transparent version of the man pulled free as the senior-most person in the strangers’ fleet walked by, the victim’s body turning to look on it as he shook.

One yank dispersed the spectral form like mist in sunlight, and its physical counterpart fell. Dead, and not a single mark on him.

“Join him, or join me.” The demonstration worked in the Necromongers’ favor. One by one, every New Meccan sank to their knees. But my mate and I stood firm, shoulder to shoulder on the highest tier.

And armored man strode toward us, the small skull on his helmet flashing gold.

“This is your one chance,” he told us in a voice like silk-wrapped steel. “Take the Lord Marshal’s offer and bow.” I barked a laugh that seemed to surprise him.

“We bow to no man.” Rick’s statement generated a ripple of murmurs. The Necro removed his helm, revealing a handsome, yet cold and bloodlessly pale face. The sides of his scalp had been shorn, leaving a thick stripe of black hair at the top and back.

“He is not a man.” I cocked an eyebrow, arms folded over my breasts. “He’s the holy Half-Dead who has seen the Underverse.”

“Look, we’re not with everyone here.” I waved my hand at the cowed crowd. Then my lover perked up from his usual ‘you bore me’ stance.

“But I will take a piece of him.” He pointed, and my eyes followed. The officer in the scarred armor had arrived, now bearing two axes. The man in front of us smirked.

“A piece you will have.” A small hand motion brought the bastard toward us, along with some other soldiers. I palmed a broad, double-edged blade as the spares closed in on me.

We both moved in the same instant, letting the cloaks fall.

(Niklas)

He watched the small knot of activity as Irgun crossed the amphitheater, quickly realizing that the Alphas, of course, were having none of the conversion talk. The confrontation began with the young Veruna—he doubted she knew the name of her own House—drawing first blood, slashing one reaching arm from shoulder to wrist, under the edge of the armor on it. Nearly black blood gushed from the wound.

Young Riddick leaned back to avoid Irgun’s horizontal double swing. Oh, yes, he displayed the distinct phenotypes of his line. The veteran Necromonger tried to get him with a diagonal slash, only to have the young man roll forward, popping to his feet just behind him. A strong yank wrenched out the ornate dagger stuck in the captain’s armor. Riddick dodged another swing, now face-to-face with his foe. Only a handful of centimeters separating them, the blade struck beneath the soldier’s breastplate three times.

Given a shove by the Furyan male, the corpse rolled down the stairs, the fatal weapon still lodged in its ribs. At the same time, the young Veruna backed away from another soldier now bleeding out. She bent to retrieve one of the tattered shrouds they’d worn, cleaning the blade and then dropping the cloth as the dagger vanished into some hidden sheath. As one, they turned to leave.

“Stop them!” Niklas’ heart jumped into his throat. Zhylaw couldn’t be allowed to find out who and what they were! But a wall of soldiers formed between them and an arched exit.

The Lord Marshal bent over Irgun’s body, planting a boot against the gouged cuirass and pulling the pierce-work knife out with a grunt. Then he climbed the stairs to face the Alphas.

“Irgun. One of my best.”

“If you say so,” the young man replied as he glanced at the body. Even his laconic voice sounded like his father, who’d been Chief Alpha of the Pack Council for a decade before his death during the massacre. Then Zhylaw held out the dagger, laid across his armored palm.

“What do you think of this blade?” It was snatched up quickly, then spun on and around Riddick’s larger hand.

“Back end’s heavy,” the young woman remarked. She’d stepped close to her mate, probably enough for their bodies to touch. Pairs who hadn’t made their mating public knowledge had done the same sort of thing on Furya.

“Half gram heavy.” The male tried to hand the knife back, but the Lord Marshal’s fist wrapped around his.

“In our faith, you keep what you kill.” Many of the nearest soldiers drew surprised breaths.

He should have been expecting that, actually. Had the pair known anything about Necromonger rank symbols, the young Riddick might have been tempted by the offer implicit in those words. Niklas had never seen someone newly converted jump rank all the way to senior captain on the spot, let alone someone who had yet to even request purification. And a woman’s status in Necromonger society depended on her man’s position. A brief, strained pause drew him closer to the three.

“Are you familiar to me?” From his new vantage point, the Purifier could see Zhylaw’s hand shaking as he tried to force the stony-faced young man into accepting the knife. “Have we met on some distant field?”

Not unless the place where you killed his mother and tried—and failed— to kill him counts.

“You’d think I’d remember.” Riddick still sounded utterly relaxed and unfazed.

“You’d think I would, too.” The Lord Marshal released his hand and stepped back. Then he glanced at the young Veruna’s handiwork. “Impressive, for a female.” She curled her lip at him as the Necromonger turned away. “Take them before the Quasi-Deads.”

Oh, this situation just kept getting worse.

(Lyra)

The soldiers who had blocked our escape stepped closer, some lifting oddly designed, bulky pistols. Automatically, I turned to put my back against Rick’s hands resting on the hilts of Dextra and Sinistra. Whatever ‘Quasi-Deads’ meant, I was sure it wasn’t good for us; ‘quasi-legal’ was dangerous enough.

“Perhaps the breeders would do it, if somebody just asked them.” Out the corner of my eye, I saw a woman with coffee-colored skin slip through the crowd of Necromongers and put a hand on top of the gun held by the man who’d first spoken to us. Then she touched my mate’s arm, and I growled. “It is a rare honor, a visit inside Necropolis.” Her voice dripped false honey, and I wondered if she’d bleed as black as the men I’d just killed. “Let me show you the way.”

“Ain’t been that long.” His arm moved away from her fingers to rest against my arm, appeasing the beast inside me. “Your web ain’t catchin’ me.” The other woman flashed a poison smile and took the black-haired officer’s elbow.

Encircled by soldiers, we had no choice but to follow the pair to the largest ship that had landed in the vicinity of the amphitheater. The wide, dusty promenade was lined with towering vessels, each with a massive face staring down at us. And as we neared our destination, I recognized the entrance from my dream.

The doors closed behind us with a boom, cutting off a great deal of light. After a shared glance and a tiny shrug from Rick, I lifted my shades. The snaky bitch peered up at the silvery gleam of his eyes as they were revealed.

“Beautiful eyes,” she murmured. But before I could strike the damned would-be poacher, the pale Necromonger who’d spoken to the crowd appeared. He firmly moved her away, placing himself between her and my lover.

“Come,” she ordered, raising her chin. I gritted my teeth, hating being treated like a fucking dog. “The last six Lord Marshals have called this home. Magnificent, isn’t it?”

I didn’t know about ‘magnificent,’ but ‘monumental’ sure fit the bill. Humanoid statues seemed to be a part of every structure, with colossi supporting upper levels. Every pose glorified torment and pain. A vessel of some sort crossed the gap high above, with the odd visuals and sounds I’d noticed in the vision more than a month before.

“I might have gone a different way.” The backs of our hands brushed as our ‘escort’ dispersed.

“True of us all.”

What appeared to be a large window caught my attention, and I meandered in its direction. On the other side of the glass, a seemingly endless line of people in close-fitting jumpsuits hung from well-designed restraints and harnesses. The framework supported them while a pair of large spikes pressed into either side of their necks. I shivered.

“Converts, receiving the mark of the Necromonger.” The slim blond glided toward me, hands clasped at the small of his back. “They learn how one pain can lessen another.”

That… makes absolutely no sense. But I didn’t argue with his statement. The Necromonger led us around a dais which held a throne bracketed by twisting, blade-studded cones. A pair of gold-burnished pierce-work doors opened, the man’s pointed glare keeping the woman outside. His brisk instructions positioned Rick in the center of a raised pad, and as he left, our eyes locked. The skin at the outer corners of his eyes crinkled slightly in the subtlest smile I’d ever seen, even more than my partner’s. Before I could do more than blink, the doors closed behind him.

I looked around the hexagonal room, noting the carved, arched panels on each free wall and the gaps between them and the surrounding surfaces. The pad, too, was sectioned into six teardrop shapes, glowing a faint purple. I glanced at the panels again, warily.

Then the pale man lifted a switch just outside the doors. The platform’s luminescence brightened with a zooming noise, and the intricate blade held loosely in my lover’s hand dropped abruptly. He followed a moment later, as though hit with several times the normal force of gravity. Catching himself with one knee up and both hands braced against the pad, he stared at me in pure startlement.

“A new one.” My head whipped around as I tried to locate the voice and its stereo effect. “You’ve brought us a new one.” Satisfaction and anticipation tinged the speaker’s words, and the carved panels began tilting into the room. Pods, not panels, each holding a writhing, shrouded form and two suspended bowls of black fluid.

The tips of the pods touched the platform and stopped, leaving me trapped in front of the door.

“Making entry.” The black liquid rippled with every word. “This won’t take long.” Rick flinched, a pained grunt forced out of him as my worry escalated. “We’ve entered his neo-cortex.”

Neo— They’re rooting around in his brain?!

“Ahhh, the Riddick.”

“Regress.” I looked up, finding the Lord Marshal standing in a gallery overhead. The poacher and her chew toy had made their way up there, too.

“Scanning fresh memories… Thoughts of someone called Lyra.” Ghostly echoes of my own voice teased my ears. “Thoughts of Kyra.” Now my adopted sister joined the whispers. “And now we find thoughts of an Elemental…”

“The one race that would slow the spread of Necromongers.” This was bizarre; Aereon hadn’t said anything like that to us. “Furyans.”

“Furyans.” My mouth went dry as the things—probably the ‘Quasi-Deads’ the head bastard had spoken of—echoed the word.

“Where does he come from?” The Lord Marshal began to pace as he demanded answers. “Who are his people? These are the things I need to know!”

“We find energy…”

“You must settle your past.” The woman from my dreams must have appeared to my mate at some point, for these creatures to find her voice in his mind.

Oh, fuck. I tensed, waiting for the shit to hit the fan.

“We find Furyan energy. He’s Furyan… Furyan… Furyan survivor!”

“Look at our world, at the graves of those who didn’t escape thirty years ago.” Suddenly, I could see the woman, standing among the headstones under a pink-red sky. “There is no future until we settle our past… for all of us who bear the mark.”

“Kill the Furyan!” One of the glass bowls of black fluid shattered, its contents splashing onto the pod and floor beneath it. The faces in the gallery vanished, replaced by armed and armored soldiers ready to jump down on us. “Kill the Riddick!”

“Kill the Riddick,” the leader of the Necromongers commanded. His minions went on the attack. But so did I.

The first Necromonger to enter the fray had the abysmal luck to land right in front of me. Adrenaline pumping, I kicked his knee, my steel-toed boot shattering the joint. He had barely begun falling before I wrenched his head around and snapped his neck like a twig. A flash of silver briefly drew my eyes to the door.

The blond man’s gaze met mine again. He grinned openly and winked, then turned off the gravitic pad. As the things, the Quasi-Deads, chanted their demand for Rick’s life and more bowls broke, the slim Necromonger vanished from sight.

Surging to his feet with a roar, my beloved began showing the Necros just why people feared his name. A soldier found himself slung across broad shoulders, the panicked fire from his own gun mowing down his comrades. Then, just as easily, Rick tore the weapon from his hand and threw him to the floor head first. I heard vertebrae crunch, and the man didn’t move again.

I’d dealt with two more assailants in the meantime, barely even paying attention to dispatching them. The pods began to rise, and I scrambled over one to get out of the room that might otherwise have become a death trap. A half-dozen throwing knives—sharp but cheap, as we could fabricate them easily in the Den’s machine shop—kept the Necromonger warriors off my lover’s back long enough for him to join me.

Drably-attired men and women nearby in the room behind the Quasi-Deads scattered. Not knowing quite which way to go, we headed into the bowels of Necropolis at a run.
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Sight Unseen