OK so massive apology for me being a dingbat on updating this one. Mostly because both me AND my beta managed to somehow forget that I had a chapter written and sent to her for betaing back …oh.. beginning of November I think? *headdesk* Yeah this is me being made of fail.

Sorry guys!

Chapter 8 Allies

I return to my hidden away little corner of the ship by feel and memory, tracing the railings and walls to the crates I'd tucked myself into before. There, I allow myself a few swallows of the water I've shared with the Riddick below, and chuckle at my fancy as I almost imagine the taste of his lips on the bottle.

It is safe to say he intrigues me, and were I not in mortal peril, I think that alone would frighten me. Were the circumstances different and we not crash landed on a desert planet, I would likely be calling for my father's security team as we speak.

But I am here in this place, and I only seem to think of his mouth against my hand a moment before, of his skin beneath my fingers, and of his scent lingering in air of the ship. He has been closer to me than any man before, though at my age I am embarrassed to admit that, even in the privacy of my own thoughts. He is the only man so far to look past the glasses that advertise my condition to see that there is a woman below.

I wonder what that says about me that the first man who seems to find me attractive is a convict and a murder. An animal, a monster even, if Johns is to be believed. And yet…

Yes, I daresay I find Riddick at least as attractive as he finds me. At least for now anyway. I know adrenaline can alter such emotions even if I've never experienced it before. My fear may very well be was sets my pulse racing, as much or more than the man. I suppose I will have to wait and see. Once we're safe… if we're safe, it may well be a different story.

A sudden crash below has me coming to my feet all at once, instinct drawing me on guard. A second pair of crashes call me to the stairs like a siren, and they are followed by a three more and then four. It takes the last set for me to recognize the sound of chains in the cacophony, and I wonder for a moment if the Riddick thinks to escape again or is merely testing his bonds. Or if something else has set the caged beast on edge.

I am about to call out to him with the faintest echo of a scream reaches my ears from outside the ship toward where the others have gone searching. A second scream breaks the silence, and I step away from the stairs.

"You hear it," he calls up to me from below, and I half turn to answer.

"Yes. Sounds like Frye, I think."

"I'd get ready. I bet she met what got Zeke." He lets out a low predatory chuckle at the thought, and I shiver at the sound of it. He's probably right – Frye seemed rather determined to prove her courage before she left. It would have been safer to stay away, or so the trembling of the ground seems to tell me, to speak to something deep within my skin. No, Frye would know now that Riddick was innocent, of this murder, at least. And one more able body, one more extremely able body like the one I'd felt beneath my fingertips… That could be an asset as I'd already discovered. It would not be a stretch to think the other survivors might catch on to that idea. I hmm thoughtfully to myself, considering the idea before I call back to answer Riddick.

"I bet you're right. And if so, they should be back soon, and then," I turn my head towards the stairs and the bay were he waits, "Then I have a feeling you'll be joining us."

"I look forward to it." The low rumble of his voice seems to caress my skin even from this distance, and I shiver at the feel of it.

"So do I," I whisper, almost hoping he won't hear it, though I know he likely does.

I pull myself away from the railing, surprisingly reluctant to do so. I tread the steps back to my corner again, and gather up my effects of satchel, breather, and water bottle and move up to the front of the ship, following the wall and the heat to the entrance where I wait silently for the group I know will arrive any moment.

Their voices precede them, near frantic explosions of curse words and recriminations flying from one adult to the other, with Jack piping up with worried cries for assurance and inclusion in their plans. Only the holy man seems to radiate calm, his words flowing forth from his lips like the water we all needed out here in the desert. To my surprise and interest, it is he who speaks first of letting the beast off its chain. Of the need to band together as a species if nothing else.

"Interesting," I muse quietly, then deliberately shut my mouth before the others reach the ship and my position. It would be better to keep my silence. Still I can't help but lean out slightly and toss in one single and admittedly catty question. "Found something, I take it?"

Johns' reaction is expectedly vicious and to the point, though really I doubt even I after years of yoga and Pilates am quite flexible enough to take his suggestion seriously. Even if I cared to in the first place, which of course, I do not. I can't help but grin a little at his obvious disquiet, which I doubt helps my case, but I am so bloody tired of being treated like an imbecile simply because I cannot see.

I suppose it is nice to be proven so very right in my earlier defense of the man chained up in the hold below. Or at least my defense of his innocence in this case. It is also a testament to my senses or so I hope. I certainly can't judge any of the others' reactions to that fact, but at least I know I was right. It is a small comfort, but by God I will cling to it.

As if my thought of the Creator calls his servant to me, I suddenly smell incense and sense a feel of height beside me.

"I realize I had not thanked you for the water. It was generous of you." Imam's voice is like a balm, and his words even more so. One of my fellow survivors is willing to directly address me again, even after Shazza's prior dismissal of my presence. I am embarrassed it is almost enough to make me weep, but I gather myself quickly.

"You're welcome. It's the least I could do." He hmms in agreement and then rests a hand on my shoulder.

"It is enough, child. It is enough." Johns suddenly brushes past both of us with enough force to nearly send me falling if not for Imam's hand. He asks if I'm alright and I nod and shrug. Johns will not change his opinion of me anytime soon. I don't expect him to. I thank Imam, and he leaves my side after another light pat of my shoulder.

The others have gathered just slightly to my left around Frye who seems to be calling out orders again, this time for our departure or so I gather. Then the group is scattering, looking for anything they can carry that might be of use. There's no telling when we will be back to the ship for the rest of the power cells, and I silently wonder at the intelligence of the decision to leave so many behind. Seems a waste of precious energy in this heat, to make the trip more than once. But again, it is not as if my input has any value. I stay by the entrance and out of the way. Even if I could see to search, I can't think of anything of mine that I need now that I've changed into more sensible clothing and found the water as I'd promised. I do have the satchel, though, and I mention as such to Jack when she scampers by – that if she needs me to carry something, I am certainly able.

Both she and Imam take me up on my offer, and the holy man's water bottle joins mine in my bag, and Jack tucks away several other smaller items that likely only I or Shazza of the survivors could guess at. Otherwise I am unhindered by anything else in the way of weight. It's almost aggravating to be so less than useful, but there's little I can do about it. I almost make the offer to Shazza, but she has yet to speak to me since returning, and I am somehow determined that she should make the first gesture. It's petty of me, but her dismissal still stings.

In any case, before I can discover if I'll be tempted to approach Shazza despite myself, the slightest sound of a boot tread has me turning sharply to face the ship itself. The wild scent of him tells me who approaches even before Paris's snide remarks about the dog getting off its leash. I do my best not to show any interest beyond my attention to his approach, but I don't know if I am quite successful.

"Looks like the freaks all get along," Johns mutters from a little distance off, and now I know one of us was too obvious, though it might have been Riddick instead of me. He might be silent, but he's large enough I somehow doubt he'd be exactly subtle when out in the open. Why should he be? I doubt he has ever had to pretend to be anything but exactly what he is, and you would think the other survivors would realize that. It would be worse, I think, though the others likely would disagree. At least they know him and the danger he represents. He's a known factor, for all that he might be unpredictable and threatening. Still, it doesn't seem that anyone else sees that fact that way I do. Well besides Jack who clearly has a bit of hero worship for the convict, or so Paris reveals with a disbelieving mention of the 'boy's' changing appearance to match Riddick's. In any case, the anxious whispers and shaky muttering make it clear that Jack and I are likely the only two who aren't worried about the new face among us.

I hear Johns order Riddick into some kind of a harness, and I guess they must be forcing him into the role of beast of burden. It doesn't surprise me, but I am surprised it irks me a bit. I know what they think of him, but damned if anyone deserves to carry and haul in this heat – especially the only person who (as far as Johns knows) hasn't had access to water or a breather so far. It's cruel and callous, and only re-affirms my dislike of the other man.

There's no point in arguing though, and Riddick shows no sign of discontent, at least not that I can sense. I am distracted before I can really focus on him, though. Imam returns and presses something into my hand gently.

"Here, child. See if this will be of any use to you." I slide my fingers along the item, finding a long thin length of cool metal beneath the sensitive pads. One end is rough as if it was broken off from somewhere in the wreckage, but the other end is smooth and fits my hand fairly well.

"A cane?" I ask, surprised and delighted someone has thought to find such a thing for me.

"Indeed, if it fits your height properly," he says, seeming as delighted by the gift as I am. I run my hands down the full stretch of it again, mentally gauging the overall length.

"It should be just about right," I muse and take hold of the broken end carefully to reach out until the rod just barely brushed the ground ahead of me. It's a little longer than the one I'd used at home, but not by much, and not enough to make too much of a difference. I test it out, taking a few careful steps down the corridor and am pleased to find the cane does wonders for my confidence and my coordination. I may still bump into things in such unfamiliar surroundings, but it will be far less with the cane in hand. "This will work beautifully, Imam. Thank you!"

I can't help the broad smile creeping across my face, but I do not think Imam will mock me for it. He brushes off my thanks with some comment or other. By that point, I am distracted enough by my gift not to pay that much attention. It is only when Imam directs me to follow him back outside where the others are gathering that I realize all must be ready to go or nearly.

I head towards the heat of the outdoors, make-shift cane tapping away, the sound more comforting then I would have guessed. With it to guide me, I maneuver past the various obstacles in the corridor and reach the lip of the grating, the sudden dip of my cane warning me that I would need to step down. I carefully step up to the edge, and then tested the height of the step with the cane. It isn't far, but it will still be a bit exciting without a better aid. Oh well.

I am preparing to step down when I catch the barest hint of an identifying scent and then a large calloused hand is grasping mine. Riddick doesn't bother to speak; he just stands there waiting. I bury a smile, mindful of those around us, but I still allow him to support my weight as I ease down to the sand and gravel. I keep hold of his hand, clinging to the thought of that veiled alliance between us, until I have the cane ready in my hand and back in front of me. Only then, do I let go, though even I would have to admit my hand lingers as it slipped through his fingers.

"Thank you, Mr. Riddick." Johns scoffs from a few feet to my left, but I ignore him. Never mind that it had been rather kind of Riddick to help me, even with his not-so-subtle interest, but I have been raised up in polite society after all. If some one helps you, you thank them. It's basic courtesy, no matter who your helper might be or what motives they might have had for helping you. Even a bastard like Johns should be able to appreciate that mindset, shouldn't he? Well possibly not. I daresay he didn't have anything like my upbringing, though he probably would get along with some of my dear father's less than savory business associates. He certainly has similar… habits, shall we say. Bastard.

I shake off the thought of my father up on his high horse so far away, and bring myself back to the present as Johns orders us all to get moving. Riddick has moved away from me, and as I make my careful way along in the wake of the other survivors' clattering footsteps, I hear the scrape of something sliding over rocks and sand to the rear of the group. He's taking up the rear behind the group, and I find myself glad that we have a guard at our backs.

He might not see himself that way, of course, but I think the description might prove somewhat accurate if whatever took Zeke decides to attack our little convoy. Maybe only if it attacks from Riddick's direction, but still, it is better than no guard at all. I doubt Johns will do much more than cover his own ass, despite the gun he's been oh-so-subtly loading and cocking off and on at every possible opportunity. It strikes me that he might be compensating a wee bit with the big gauge. That might just be petty of me, however amusing the thought.

Jack returns to my side at some point along our trek, her exuberant strides seeming to be unhindered by the low oxygen levels and dehydration. I offer her water before she can even begin to speak to me, and I make her take a drink and then a hit off her breather. Only then do I allow her to chatter away as she so clearly wants to. She keeps her voice relatively low as she gives me a running commentary on the political games that have continued while we all walked, and I smother a chuckle as she manages fairly accurate imitations of each survivor. She's a feisty little thing and far, far more observant that I had quite realized. I continue to listen as she talks, and the pleasant company helps the time to pass much more easily than if I was walking in the relative solitude I'd found myself in prior to her joining me.

Other than Jack's bubbly conversation, the only minor moment of amusement was Paris's first face-to-face conversation with the convict among us. I had to admit, for a weasely little rat of a man, Paris proved to have a spine after all, daring to introduce himself to Riddick as if without a care in the world. I might have to re-think my earlier opinion of the man as a feckless self-absorbed coward if this keeps up. It probably won't. And really, now that I think of it, as an 'antiquities dealer and entrepreneur,' Paris might well have come across other men of dubious legal standing. It seems likely to me that the only kind of dealer I can imagine traveling a freighter like the one we'd crashed in would be a smuggler. Perhaps the weasel is not so above the rest of us as he has pretended so far.

That makes me wonder what else my fellow survivors might be hiding. I already know Frye's dark truth and Jack's secret identity, and now Paris's, as well. The thought that the others might have kept information back as well?

Well, that thought is just… interesting.