Metallic

4
***

Polite questions asked of barkeeps and boarding house proprietors might have worked wonders elsewhere in the galaxy, but it was a skill lost on the good citizens of Centauri. In three days it had got Johns precisely nowhere, and as he walked into the forty-third bar on his list, it was beginning to piss him off.

He was well aware that asking questions could get him into trouble. It had done on more than one occasion, but it was still the fastest way to get information and hell, Riddick obviously already knew he was looking for him. Riddick could’ve taken him out if he’d wanted. Riddick could have let him die and done nothing at all. And what had Riddick been doing in that alley anyway? Had he been following him? Was he following him nFuckFuck. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out what the fuck was going on inside that psycho’s head.

Still, all he needed to do was hit the right guy, flash a smile and little of that vaunted Southern charm, and his paycheck could be right around the corner. Of course, it was never quite that simple. And he had a sneaking suspicion that it was going to take more than a couple of well-placed questions to take Richard B. Riddick alive. Fuck it then, he’d take him dead. Fuck his perfect record. He was past caring.

The floor was covered in new, thick rubber, and the soles of Johns’ boots started to stick to it in a way he wasn’t sure he liked. He almost tripped as he took a seat at the bar. The place was old, larger than it looked from the outside, and looked even larger thanks to the distinct lack of custom.

Johns took a look around. Three drunken, grey-haired Centaurans were sitting in the back corner, eyes glued to a vid-screen as they squabbled over some race with creatures Johns had never seen before. A short balding guy, glasses, mid-forties, with the look of an accountant, was sitting at the centre table, talking loudly with his arms around two ugly hookers. And apart from the barkeep and himself, that was everyone in the whole joint.

“Somethin’ I can get you?” asked the barkeep, a glimmer of hope in his eye. He was human, as far as Johns could tell. Still, some Centaurans had the inhuman forehead ridge that distinguished their features from that of your regular Earthling removed, and with modern surgical techniques, that kind of cosmetic deal wouldn’t necessarily leave a scar. The guy’s greying brown hair was lank and tied up roughly behind his head, a dirty blue apron covering his beer gut. Typical barkeep. It could’ve been any bar anywhere in the galaxy, except for the giveaway rubber floor.

Johns nodded. “Beer, thanks”, he said. The barkeep set it down in front of him on the worn bar top. Johns popped the cap and took a sip of the beer he had no intention of finishing.

“Can I get you somethin’ else? Somethin’ to eat maybe. Chef’s special’s…”

“You the chef?”

The barkeep nodded. “Yeah. So what if I am?”

Johns smiled, briefly. “I’m looking for someone”. He took another sip, set the bottle down on the bar with a loud glassy thud. The barkeep cocked an eyebrow. “Name of Richard B. Riddick. Big guy, shaved head, wears these cute black goggles to keep the light off of his shiny-ass eyeballs. You ain’t seen him, have ya?”

The barkeep shrugged. “And what if I have? How you gonna… *compensate* me for my time?” He gave Johns a sly smile, leaning down on the bar.

The gun pressed to his forehead took the barkeep by surprise. Obviously this guy was new – most Centauran barkeeps wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. Until, of course, Johns did what he did next; he cocked the gun and slipped his finger onto the trigger.

“I tell you what”, he said, smiling a sly smile of his own. “You tell me what you know and I’ll not cover your stock with the insides of your head”. The barkeep said nothing. Johns brought up his other hand and slammed the bottom of the glass beer bottle into the barkeep’s forehead. He yelped, and a steady trickle of blood sprang from the wound. “You gonna tell me or am I gonna paint the wall with your brain?”

“You wouldn’t”.

Johns moved the gun just long enough to fire a shell into the ceiling, making all six patrons and the barkeep start viciously. He pressed the barrel of the gun back to the barkeep’s forehead.

“Try me”, he said, blue eyes smiling.

The barkeep swallowed, hard, as the accountant and his lady-friends scuttled out of the front door. The Centaurans returned to their race, completely unfazed. Some planet, Johns couldn’t help but think. “R...R…Riddick, you say?”

“Riddick, Richard B.”.

“Big guy, ‘bout so tall?” The barkeep gestured in the air, maybe two inches above Riddick’s height. Johns nodded. “Yeah, I seen ‘im. Maybe three days ago”.

“He say anythin’? Maybe you know where he’s stayin’?”

“My, my sister-in-law, Stacey – that’s my sister-in-law – she has this boardin’ house down on seventy-third. You might try there”.

“And what makes you think I’ll find him there?”

The barkeep shrugged. “Maybe ‘cause I recommended it to him”, he said.

Johns stood and took the gun from the barkeep’s head. “Sorry ‘bout the ceilin’”, he said.

“Not me you need to apologise to, it’s Kay and those whore who live up there”. The barkeep smirked. “Let’s hope you didn’t hit none of ‘em. Cryin’ shame that’d be”.

Johns nodded, holstering the gun before he turned and stalked toward the door.

“Hey, you gonna pay for that beer?” the barkeep yelled after him.

Johns smiled, tossing twenty credits over his shoulder. He heard the clink of the money on the bar top as the doors opened and he stepped out into the rain.

Seventy-third. Fourteen streets down. Half an hour and he could be face-to-face with Riddick. He wasn’t sure if he liked that idea or not.

***