Metallic

7
***

Johns felt a little woozy as he walked down Main Street in the rain. He couldn’t remember the Centauri name for Main Street and though it didn’t matter, it was bugging him. It bugged him even more when he caught himself thinking about it, as he knew he should be focussing. But he couldn’t focus. He was too damn hyped and jammed the heel of his left hand into his rain-slicked eye, rubbing hard. He hoped maybe it’d help get him back on track. It didn’t.

He simultaneously wanted to sleep for three days, shoot up another amp, drink half a bottle of Centauri whiskey and strip naked and dance in the rain. He guessed the morphine hadn’t quite worn off. He was grateful that he managed to keep on walking and did none of the above.

His hair was slicked down against his scalp. He was tired of that feeling. He was tired of his clothes being soaked. He was tired of the incessant beat of the rain against the sidewalk, the way his soles stuck to the rubber, the way he’d only ever be dry for maybe five hours at the most before he’d set foot outside and be soaked to the skin again in five minutes. He was surprised his clothes hadn’t shrunk. And all he really wanted to do was capture Riddick then get the fuck off of that goddamned rock.

Aureanaz Thiriz. That was it. The Centauran for Main Street. He grinned dumbly for a second, caught the odd look that the hooker on the nearest corner gave him and smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. If he’d been thinking straight he would’ve turned back and waited in a bar ‘til the edge wore off the morphine. But he wasn’t thinking straight. He kept on going.

Seventy-third. He stopped and peered down the street. It had to be at least forty blocks long, at least. He took a deep breath and started down it.

Lurid lights in every colour shone down Seventy-Third Street, advertising bars and clubs, hotels, restaurants, sex shops, the works. Overheard roared the standard eighteen tiers of traffic, no break visible in the seemingly endless stream. Pedestrians wandered, collars turned up, many wearing waterproofs. Johns wished he had waterproofs, but all he had were three of those goddamned blue uniforms and two vests, both shot up pretty badly. He was already soaked again, his boots squelching. Four days on Centauri and he had to grudgingly admit that he was beginning to get used to it.

When he looked up, through the traffic, he could see the tall spires of the city. They rose three miles into the sky in places, so high that the buildings had oxygen pumped through their ventilation systems to keep the inhabitants from passing out. And between the high towers there were no stars. Johns wished he could see stars, but they weren’t even visible from the top of the highest building. The Centauri atmosphere was too dense. It was a truly alien world. Johns couldn’t imagine living on a world so completely sheathed in darkness. It turned his stomach just to think about it. Of course, that could have been the morphine.

There it was. Just off to his left, on the opposite side of the street, was the first boarding house he’d seen. Okay so maybe it wasn’t it, but it was a start, and he had to start somewhere. He shook his head, hard. That felt better. He laid his hand on the butt of his gun and walked up to the door.

His hand slipped on the metal doorknob. Every other place he’d seen had rubber handles. He frowned and unzipped his jacket, rubbing his hand on his relatively dry undershirt before trying again. He pushed open the door.

Inside the place was pretty bleak. The lobby was a short hall, maybe six feet across and twelve feet long. To the right, under the only light in the room, was an old wooden counter. There was a guest book sitting on top of it, and a bell gleaming tarnished gold.

As he stepped closer, Johns could see there was a woman behind the counter, sitting in a low chair, reading a book with the title ‘Sense and Sensibility’. Johns smiled to himself. Maybe that good ol’ Southern charm would be some use to him after all.

“Good… day, ma’am”, he said, leaning on the counter, smiling down at the woman. “Are you Stacey?”

She looked up, quickly pulling the glasses from her face. She looked maybe twenty-five, a little overweight, long brown hair done in two long braids. She dropped her book on the floor, cursed under her breath, stooped to pick it up, and when she laid it on the counter and looked at Johns she was blushing a furious red.

“Uh, yes, yes, I’m Stacey. Is there, uh, is there something I can, err, do for you, Sir?” she asked, wiping her hands down the front of her long black dress.

Johns smiled a little broader, leaning a little closer. “Well, I was kinda hopin’ you could help me, yeah”, he said. “I’m lookin’ for a friend o’ mine, Miss, and I’d sure appreciate any help you could give me. Your brother-in-law at the bar on Eighty-Seventh told me I might find him here. Name o’ Richard B. Riddick, though he mightn’t be usin’ that name… big guy, wearin’ black goggles”. He made circles around his eyes, indicating the goggles; the woman smiled. “Do you think you might’ve seen him, Miss? It sure would be a help to me”.

The woman frowned, the frown conflicting with the smile already on her face. She drummed her fingers on the edge of the counter, looking down. She brushed her hair behind her ear, rubbed her bottom lip with her thumb, wiped her hands on the front of her dress again then looked back up. She wasn’t smiling.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I recognise the name”, she said quietly, not quite meeting Johns’ eyes.

“Then perhaps you’d recognise him? I’m sure I have a picture of him somewhere…” He started to pat himself down, searching for an imaginary picture. “He’s a real big guy. All muscles, y’know? Silvery eyes when he ain’t wearin’ those goggles. Prob’ly dressed all in black. Where’s that picture? Are you sure you haven’t seen him? It’s kinda important. His sister’s real sick and I kinda think he’d wanna be there for her, y’know?”

The woman sighed, spreading her fingers on the counter. Finally, she nodded.

“Yes, I’ve seen him”, she said. “Mr. Riddick. About so high?” She gestured a couple of inches below Riddick’s height. Johns nodded. “Big guy. Wearing a black leather jacket and a pair of funny black goggles. He’s in room twelve. Would you like me to call the room for you?”

Johns smiled and shook his head. “No, no thank you. You’ve been real kind, Miss. I’ll just see myself up. Which floor?”

“Two”.

“Thank you again. Really”.

She shrugged, smiling, blushing again. “No problem”, she said, picking up her book. Johns left the lobby and headed for the stairs. When he glanced back at her, she looked down at the book quickly. He smiled. He still had it. Hyped-up mercenary ex-MMP or not, he was still damn good.

He climbed the stairs quickly, pulling his gun and checking the shells. He was good to go. He stepped off the stairwell on the second floor and checked the room numbers. Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen. He was there, standing outside the room. Cautiously, he reached out and knocked with the grazed knuckles of his right hand. Then he held the gun tight.

No answer. Not that that meant he wasn’t there. He knocked again, waited. No answer. Silently he put his ear to the door. And he was sure that he could hear something, some sort of quiet movement, like squeaky bedsprings. He was in there. Riddick was in there. He stepped back.

So he’d alerted him to his presence. What now? Wait for him to come to the door? He’d probably be out the window in no time. So what, then? Break down the door and chance it. Anything to get off that fucking planet with its fucking rain and its fucking never-ending night. Anything.

One swift kick to the door handle and it swung open. Fuck. The lights were off. The blinds were closed. Apart from the shaft of light coming in through the doorway, the room was in complete darkness. He couldn’t hear anything now, except maybe the sound of a couple fucking in the whorehouse next door. It was unnerving.

He took a step forward, patted down the inside wall of the room and couldn’t find a light switch. He started to panic. It was one thing facing Riddick in the light, but in complete darkness? Those were Riddick’s terms, with those shined eyes. And Riddick’s terms were no good. Johns would be dead in seconds.

His fingers brushed something smooth and raised on the wall. He hit the lights and strode into the room.

Riddick wasn’t there. Not in the bedroom at least.

He checked under the bed, in the wardrobe, the tiny balcony outside the window, then the bathroom, with increasing consternation. Riddick wasn’t there, period. Fuck. Riddick wasn’t there. What the fuck was he supposed to do now?

He sat down on the bed. The springs squeaked and it jarred him. Had he heard someone in the room or had he heard next door, or the floor above? He didn’t honestly know. But he was pretty sure he was screwed.

He checked the drawers. Riddick’s stuff was still here, such as it was. Three pairs of pants, two black tank tops, socks, underwear, shaving gel, toothbrush, all in a bag on the chair. He knew Riddick travelled light, but this was ridiculous. Maybe he’d left already and just wanted to make it look like he was still there. Or maybe that was all he owned. After all, he hadn’t exactly had much time to go shopping for new clothes.

Johns turned on the two bedside lamps and the bathroom lights, leaving the bathroom door open. The room was bright enough to make his own eyes hurt, never mind Riddick’s. He’d stay and wait, hope the girl at the desk didn’t give him away, and maybe he’d come back. And if he did, he’d be blind the second he stepped through the door there was so much light. If not, well, Johns guessed he’d just have to start over.

***