Chapter Text
Chapter 1.
None of them ever knew what I was. I never could tell them. How would you tell someone, “you’re a wonderful person, and I’d love to get to know you better, but you only have three more hours to live”? You can’t. You don’t. You just… try to survive it all yourself.
I spent hours with Shazza, talking, asking her questions about her life and all of the amazing things she’d seen and done. But it didn’t help and couldn’t save her. I thought, at least, someone would still know her stories after she died. I did that, to greater or lesser degrees, with all of them. It was the only salvation I thought I could give them on that grim and hideous world.
Of course that whole planet reeked of death. No matter which direction I tried to cast my senses, there wasn’t anything else. I’d never been out of an urban environment before. Despite the muck that crawls through a city — and there is a lot — there’s no comparison to what exists in nature. Beneath us were a thousand waking beasts, preying upon each other, and I had to hear every single death rattle. It got hard to pick them apart.
Maybe that’s why I drifted, the way I did, for years afterwards. It was peaceful back in my liquid cage, deep inside PreCrime. And it was easy. Too easy…
But PreCrime isn’t an issue anymore. The crash is.
I really blundered a few times, not realizing that the man with the aura of mortal violence around him wasn’t Riddick at all; the aura came from what was about to happen to him. And I wasn’t able to pick Zeke’s death out of the chaos at all until it was too late.
I still believed in fate at that point. That was part of the problem. I didn’t think people could choose their futures. Choose whether or not to kill; even choose whether or not to die. Maybe I could have done something different if I’d known. Told Paris when to duck? Ha. I tried that with Shazza and she still got torn in half.
People think that when Anderton stole me from the lab, it was the first time PreCrime went offline. It wasn’t. They don’t realize that the place was supposed to go online two years earlier than it did. Only I ran away.
I felt guilty about doing it. I was being selfish and I knew it… or anyway, that was what I thought. That was what they wanted me to think. I was supposed to put aside trying to be a normal girl, and spend the rest of my life in a pool. Instead of trying to shut out the mortal screams I kept hearing, I was supposed to open my ears to them. Instead of playing the piano, I was supposed to play the alarm system. I was supposed to become a cog, a tool. They wanted me to give up my humanity.
I didn’t want to do it. Who would? How noble can you be when you’re thirteen years old?
I ran away.
It wasn’t as hard as it ought to have been, either. I knew what was going on in the heads of everybody around me. It was easy to make sure I was standing in the exact spot where nobody was looking. I sashayed right into the spaceport and stowed away on the Hunter-Gratzner and nobody batted an eyelash — their eyes were all turned in the wrong directions. I even managed to get myself into the ship’s mainframe after launch, and picked the brains of the crew, while they slept and dreamed the dreams of those descending into cryo-sleep, for the information I needed to operate a cryo-tube.
So a girl named Agatha disappeared. And, for a little while, a boy named Jack B. Badd was born.
If only my abilities had let me see far enough ahead, I might have known what was going to happen to that ship. But the farthest I’ve ever seen is a week or two. Twenty-two weeks was way beyond my capabilities. Still is…
I woke up, trapped in a tube, in a place that reeked of death in a way D.C. never had.
Officially, right after the crash, there were thirteen survivors, counting me, and counting Owens. Actually, it was more like thirty. I felt the rest die in their tubes, while I huddled and shook in my own. I died with them each time. Several burned to death. A few fell into caves we would come to know extremely well later on, and were torn to pieces. One man lived for half an hour while three beasts ate him at a leisurely pace.
It wasn’t just like waking up in Hell; that’s what it was. For an hour, before Zeke and Shazza found my tube and opened it up, I thought I’d died and this was my punishment for deserting the PreCrime program.
I’d never been so close to the people I “saw” before. Johns had to drag me away from Owens; I kept wanting to sink into his mind, and somehow make him hear me the way I could hear him, so that he wouldn’t have to be alone as he died. All he could think about was stopping Fry from jettisoning the rest of us. I shrugged that off. After all, I still believed in fate. If Fry had really meant to jettison us, I wouldn’t have awakened at all, would I?
Acting like a boy was easy. I just followed everybody’s expectations. There were things in their heads I didn’t want to look too hard at, but anytime doubt floated to the surface of their minds, I could read it, and I’d adjust what I was doing until it was allayed again.
But I couldn’t fool Riddick. And I couldn’t stay away from him.
His intimacy with violent death was like a dark mirror of mine. He was the one who dealt it; I was the one who felt it. I know he liberated something inside of me. After PreCrime recovered me, I was better than I’d ever been before.
You live beside and within the head of a violent killer for a month, and you come to know how to read the real signs of incipient violence. Maybe that’s why I was so much stronger than the Twins from then on.
I acted like I was more fascinated with him than I really was… I think. Sometimes I think I was rather obsessed with him. But it did seem to be exactly what everybody expected a young teenage boy might do. Apparently everybody looks back on being a teen and decides that all adolescents are maladjusted lunatics who are inclined to “key” cars and idolize serial killers. Maybe they’re even right. I hardly have any basis for comparison. I spent most of my adolescence in a dream tank, living out other people’s deaths. So who knows?
It gave me a good excuse to get rid of the wig, anyway. Dumb thing itched like crazy. The abrasions when I peeled it off even kind of looked like razor burn. Hair doesn’t grow in cryo, and they’d almost finished grooming me for the tank when I made my break, so I only had a little bit of stubble. I’m sure the missing notices specified “bald female.” So not just being a boy, but a boy with hair, was useful in throwing people off the track. But in a broiling desert, when you already have your breasts squashed against your ribs and two shirts on so nobody will notice your true gender… a wig has got to go.
Everybody thought I’d shaved my head to look like Riddick. I finished off the deception with a pair of broken swimming goggles and suddenly I was “the winner of the lookalike contest.” I think even Riddick started to believe the act.
It didn’t stop him from almost killing me, though.
I saw it in his head, right after Paris was taken. Again, the beasts were feeding before their prey had finished dying. I was staring out at them, feeling every bit of the pain coursing through his failing body… when I felt Riddick have his epiphany. He knew I was menstruating. He knew that it was my blood that was drawing the beasts along. And he was very seriously considering killing me right there and then.
If I’d been hooked into PreCrime at that moment, a ball red enough to rival Rudolph’s mythical nose would have popped out.
I wonder what name would have been on it — Jack B. Badd, or Agatha Lively?
He decided not to, though. It was, at the time, a purely unemotional choice. If he killed me, Johns would have him. It’d be easy for Johns to “arrest” him again when they got to the skiff; nobody would object after seeing him take down one of their friends. And nobody would trust him enough, for the rest of the journey, to let him near enough to “deal with them” if they became problems, too.
So I was spared. But I was also on my own. No matter how much of a fawning, fannish act I put on, he wasn’t going to help me. I was monster fodder to him. Mostly.
The funny thing was, he kept thinking about me with this sense of hurt. Like he’d finally met someone who actually liked him and treated him like a person, and it was in a place, and in a way, where he couldn’t enjoy it and would have to let it be sacrificed.
He had strange assessments of everybody. They still don’t make too much sense to me.
But he came back. My fascination for him bloomed all over again. He was home free, surging ahead… and I knew he wasn’t going to help me… but he turned around and came back.
Being under that bone was one of the most frightening things I’d ever experienced. The worst part was that my mind was screaming how come I didn’t see this coming? It was only after he came back and saved me — and yes, Fry, whom he kept having the most disturbing sexual fantasies about — that I realized I hadn’t precoged my death because my number was nowhere near up.
He didn’t know why he’d done it, either.
I remember being shocked by the utter despair that flooded through him right before he said “we can’t make it.” Right before Suleiman was grabbed. At that point his was the only mind I was tuned into anymore. I didn’t dare with anyone or anything else; it all stank of death. Suleiman, Fry… Imam stank of it too because he was so deep in his grief. Comparatively speaking, the mayhem inside Riddick’s head was comforting.
But why on Earth did it upset him that he couldn’t rescue us? There was a contradiction there. One I still don’t understand. But it gives me hope, especially now that…
Especially now.
Imam believed that Riddick killed Fry for more than a week. I knew he hadn’t. But it took me several days to figure out a way to get Imam to believe me without tipping my hand.
After all, having gone through all of that, I deserved to be a normal girl, right?
The month on the skiff was heaven. It was cold, most of the equipment didn’t work right, and we were on short rations, but it was the closest thing to true peace I’d ever felt. With just the three of us, out in the middle of space, I didn’t have to feel any impending deaths of any kind. And after a while I even got used to the things I did have to feel and hear. I even learned how to tune most of them out.
Occasionally Riddick would fantasize about killing one or both of us. Occasionally he even came close to acting on the fantasies. It’s hard to live with two other people in such cramped quarters. Imam had a few murderous fantasies of his own, too. I spent my time trying to head those off, when they began to bubble up… but there were a few times that I had killing fantasies of my own, when those two great big dorks got on my last nerve.
Their sexual fantasies were very enlightening, too. I think Imam had a lot more experience with women than Riddick did. He imagined them in great detail, creatures and characters out of the Arabian Nights, almost. Laughing, slanted eyes, delicate hands, warm mouths… it was interesting. Riddick… he imagined very different things. There was no intercourse in his perception of sex. He imagined pliant bodies under his firm control while he used them in ways that were not about reciprocity. I try not to blame him for that. I think I was the first girl he ever got to know all that well.
Once or twice he even fantasized about me. But he would stop himself almost the second it started, like he couldn’t stand to read his mind. He’d deliberately conjure another body, another face, into my place, and he’d act awkward with me for a few hours after it happened. Apparently, to him, having a sexual fantasy about me was a worse crime than disemboweling me would be.
We really did become kind-of friends, though. As near as he ever let himself have friends. It was… nice. Not that either one of us had ever had normal friendships to draw from, but there were times that were fun. Once or twice we even flirted.
Half a week before we were found, my precog began to kick back in again, although I didn’t know or understand it until much later. We were flirting and he muttered something I only just puzzled out a few weeks ago:
“Kid, you keep giving me blue balls like this and you’d better hope we get picked up soon.”
My reply shot out before I could hold it back. “Ha. Given all the red balls guys like you are gonna give me, I think it’s an even trade.”
He gave me a funny look and we both decided that we had no idea what that conversation had just been about.
But yes, PreCrime was waiting for me when we were towed into the nearest station. That’s what I’d felt. That’s why that thing about the red balls — which I hadn’t known anything about yet — popped out of my mouth.
Riddick had already slipped off when they came. Most people might call it luck, but as we’d approached the station I’d begun to have a very bad feeling, and I’d suggested he get away fast. He was out of the hangar before the team arrived to take me into custody.
And that was when I first realized that there was more than just fate in play. That maybe… people could choose.
The team came in. Imam argued with them over who and what I was and whether or not a runaway should be returned “home” without some kind of hearing to make sure she wasn’t being taken somewhere unsafe. I could barely hear it, though. I was seeing two — two — futures in my head.
In the first one, I surrendered to them. I went back to Earth and took up my burden like a good little girl. Imam and Riddick never saw each other again, going their separate ways on the station. The lie we’d agreed on remained intact — Richard B. Riddick was dead and his bones were lying, broken and gnawed, on a barren planet that circled three suns.
In the second, I ran. I tried to get away again. My path crossed with Riddick’s and, for some inexplicable reason, he decided to help me. But the team was implacable. They closed in on us, cornering us in the bowels of the station. And, realizing who I was with…
They killed him. Richard B. Riddick died, for real.
But I could choose my fate, I realized… and I could choose his.
I surrendered.
They took me back to Earth, and back to D.C., and the program was put back on track. And I was… stronger. Better. Somehow, my time with Riddick had made me able to see deep into the real nature of killings. When the PreCrime Unit first tested out the system, they’d had to wade through a lot of accidental deaths. The technicians had despaired of filtering them out completely. But when I came back, I was that filter. The only precognitions that came through, anymore, were homicides.
I’m glad all those deaths were prevented. Ironically, every man and woman who wasn’t murdered might have Richard B. Riddick to thank for their lives. But…
…nobody else got to choose their fate. Men and women who approached that choice — to kill or not to kill — had it taken away from them and were punished for crimes that maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t have committed after all.
At least it’s over.
PreCrime has been shut down. The Twins and I live out in a very nice part of the middle of nowhere, where the worst premeditated murders I have to hear involve farm cats and voles.
Except that I can feel him. Riddick. He’s coming. He’s coming here.
Death is on its way to me again… and I have no idea what our dance will be like this time. He wants something; I know that. But I don’t know what.
Will I know in time?
I’m excited. And I’m scared. And for the first time in my life, I don’t have a clue what I ought to be doing. So I’m just waiting… waiting to see what my fate will be… waiting to see if I still have a choice in it.
Come on, Riddick. Hurry up and get here. The suspense is…
Murder.