Riddick

Well, well, well, what have we here? I thought I was alone on this rock, nothing but me, the rocks and the long-ass days. But the cloudless skies are broken by a vapor trail: a transport, careening through the atmosphere. But what's it doing here, on a planet that had been dead for decades? I've seen no outpost, no sign of habitation; not that the Necromongers would leave any traces behind. I watch, for as long as I can see the trail, but instead of making full planet-fall, the ship jettisons something. An escape pod, perhaps? Or maybe not. The transport doesn't crash; it corrects course, and leaves atmosphere almost as quickly as it appeared.

At this distance, I can only pick out shapes, vague directions. It never takes me long to come to a decision; before the capsule is even visible as a separate thing from the ship, I'm already running down the slope. Running is calming, focusing. It makes me stop thinking; it makes me act.

The planetary landscape left behind by the Necromonger empire is tell-tale. Not only do they leave the Icons behind, but a wasteland of ash and dust, and a trail of extinct societies. I only know that this isn't what I'm looking for, and the crap merc ship that Johns stuck me with won't make it off planet. So wherever that thing lands, I'll have a better chance getting off this rock than if I stayed put.

This planet was decimated maybe ten years ago, just long enough for invasive and hardy creatures to start making a comeback. Even as I run, I spot the scurrying signs of life, the sand rippled in serpentine paths, dotted with tiny holes here and there. I'm careful to stagger the rhythm of my feet, taking care to have as much of a randomized pattern as I can across the ground. The same things that leave the holes, you see, they like to home in on vibrations, and can eat your foot before you get it off the ground.

I find a ridge, a couple of rocks, just big enough to crouch down behind. The capsule is smoking in the furrow of earth it's kicked up. It just sits there, like it's waiting to be opened. But I know better than to venture down and see what's what. I'll just let this play out without my participation. I really don't have to wait long, because the enviro-locks hiss, equalizing the pressure between the compartment, and the rest of the world. After a moment or two more, the hatch slides open, and a figure steps out.

I'm surprised that it's a woman, alone on this rock. She's unsteady on her feet, a sure sign of weakness, that tells me she's not fit to be here. She uses the capsule as a seat; her shoulders occasionally convulsing. Cryo-sick, I realize. She's refusing to be cryo-sick; she knows how precious bodily fluids are in an arid environment like this one. From this distance, I feel myself willing her to keep it together. It will pass, girl; it will.

Finally, I watch her take a long slow breath, and slide off the top of the capsule. Almost instantly, she goes to work. Pipes break with screaming metal, entire bundles of wire are yanked from housings and thrown to one side. I'm fascinated as she works, stripping the capsule of anything useful. Eventually, she climbs can into the cockpit, and I see the seat cover get tossed out. When she emerges again, her eyes scan the ridge I'm crouched on, then the plains extending far out to her west. It's the only moment of rest that I witness, before she's back to work.

She has the tan of someone who works outside a lot, and the physical strength in her hands and arms necessary to rip bolts and shear casings off. I watch as she turns the seat cover into a makeshift backpack. Okay, that was an impressive feat of ingenuity. I figure she's going to come for the ridge, make for higher ground, so I prepare to hide, to make myself invisible. But she doesn't turn my way, instead, she looks to the north, to the multi-faced spire of the Necromonger Icon silhouetted against the horizon.

"Dumb move, girl," I mutter as she turns north, hefting the wire-strapped shuttle-seat backpack. She retrieves one last thing from the shuttle, before striking forward. I wait until she's nothing but a hazy speck on the plain before I start moving after her. She's got me curious, wondering all manner of why, and how, and who.

I follow her all the way to the Icon. I had expected her to flag at some point, to fade and stop, but she never tired, never paused. The Conquest Icon is ground zero for the Ascension Protocol, the final stage in the Necromonger domination cycle. This one still stands, impossibly tall, impossibly black and glossy even after the years have passed. She, this woman, strides into its shadow like it's nothing more than a tree, but I soon figure out what she's after. The orbs needlessly obliterate life in an immense circle, but this close to the base, I realize, some of the buildings have been left at least partially standing. She's here for shelter. She finds one building with a partial roof, a slab of stone that survived the blast, leaning up against a wall. She settles in to make shelter, even as I pad around the perimeter, checking for signs of serpents, or any of the other hostile life still on this rock.

She has no idea I'm here, which is just fine by me. It's not that she's not observant, I'm just better at stealth than she is as detecting it. By the time I finish my circuit, the makeshift backpack and wires have turned into a makeshift hammock. I'm close enough now that I can see the color of her eyes as she glances around the shelter she's perfecting.

They're green. The kind of green that you only find in the jungle, dark and deep and mysterious.

The final object that she retrieved from her capsule seems to be some kind of recorder. She sets it on a pile of rubble, and settles in, sitting on the edge of her hammock.

"Journal of Mnemosyne Grant, Day One."

It's been months since I've heard the voice of another human being. Months since Dahl, and Johns, and the religious kid. I must be getting soft, because it's nice to hear another voice, aside from my own. I settle in a little, listening, eavesdropping, as she records her video journal.

"I'm finally planetside on Cetarian One, fifth out of the seven Ascended planets I've been asked to survive. You know the drill by now, folks, if you're seeing this broadwaved before thirty standard solars have passed, the planet was too much for me."

She reaches out, picking up the recorder, and panning it around the ruins. Then she pans it upward, toward the Conquest Icon.

"A little history for you folks... ten years ago, Cetarian One was a thriving shipping planet. Until the comet showed up. The rest is written. The Necro-douche's fucked the people, and then fucked the planet. And this is what's left, ten years later." She scoops up a handful of dirt, letting it sift through her fingers. "Arid. Desolate. All that survived is probably microbes, and cockroaches." She turns, then, back to her camp, reorienting the recorder back upon herself. I see her smile. She has dimples.

"But, I set out to prove that we can repopulate these places five years ago, and I'm going to show you again. These planets aren't dead. They aren't cursed. They just need some hardy folks, willing to put a little effort into life. Until tomorrow... Mnemosyne Grant, signing out."

I scrub my jaw as she packs away the little recorder. I see her set something on her watch, and she turns back to her camp. A soft sound rises this time as she works, moving rubble and brushing away dust from the floor. I listen intently, as her warm, mellow voice raises in song.