Three

As I had explained to Luciana, a parole board is not impressed when one prisoner kills another, and I sympathize. It certainly makes "reformation of character" rather difficult to swallow. To the guards, however, it simply means one less mouth to feed, one less cot to fill, and therefore, more tax credits in the treasury. This may not be true for all prisons; I had only occupied this one, and my experience was limited to the underground caverns of Goliath's Global Secure Center, Wing D—otherwise known as Death Alley.

And so it came as little surprise to me when the door opened some time later and I was released back into the common area, replaced by a badly beaten guard-killer who hadn't yet learned the golden rule of Death Alley:

It's not what you do; it's who you do it to.

What did surprise me was that rather than returning me to the cell I shared with Maddie the Hatter with a mild warning not to kill any more people, the guards, whose practiced hands gripped my arms and their guns simultaneously, were leading me past it.

"I'd like to see what happens to the next person brave enough to call you 'Angelface' again!" Maddie called out, pressing her hands against our bullet- and laser-proof polymer cell to catch a glance of me. "Good for you, Alessandra."

"Oh Madeline," I said over my shoulder. "You're embarrassing me." I liked Maddie the Hatter. She was 74 years old, tougher than old shoe leather, and the most honest person in Wing D. She had murdered her husband, embalmed and mummified him herself, dressed him in his best suit, and continued to have breakfast, lunch, afternoon tea, and supper with him for six months before she was caught. Most Death Alley cons would kill you in your sleep as soon as look at you, but Maddie really only missed her husband.

"Roger was a wonderful man," she once told me. "Quiet, kind, and so handsome. But then he had the stroke, and his personality changed. He started punching me around and drinking…. I just wanted my Roger back. I wanted things to be the way they were."

I understood her desperation all too well. She was sentenced to death—fortunately delayed by a never-ending series of appeals—because her crime was seen as more heinous than "ordinary" killing. I have always been struck by the fact that so many people consider death to be more sacred than life. To me, a crime against a corpse is no different than a crime against a doll, and dressing a doll in its Sunday best and talking china patterns with it over tea and biscuits is hardly a crime.

The guards ushered me into the lift, and I realized with a small start that today must be visitation day. It was difficult to measure time in solitary confinement. It seemed strange, however, that I should be taken straight to the visitor cubicle from the isolation cell. In fact, something felt very wrong. The hands gripping my arms were wet with perspiration, but these men were veterans of the force, and they knew they had nothing to fear from me. Yet they were afraid. I could see it in their eyes, in the flare of their nostrils. I silently admonished myself for being so distracted by my thoughts. I had missed information, and now I would be unprepared for whatever waited for me in the room.

Though the lights had been dimmed almost to blackness, I knew the moment I entered that my sister was not there. The guards cuffed me to the chair once more, but this time they left the room and shut the door behind them. I caught a scent of something musky, a masculine cologne of some sort, and then a figure moved in the darkness.

"Alessandra Batista, age 25, birthdate October 30, hair black, eyes grey, 5 feet 10 inches tall, 130 lbs., identification number 24085682212." His voice was high, for a man's, almost effeminate.

I breathed evenly and slowly, feeling myself grow calmer and more collected. What did I know of this man so far? He used a sandalwood and…yes, frankincense essential oil mixture as a cologne. When he moved in the shadows, his steps were just slightly heavy on the right, probably from an old injury or perhaps a new, minor one. He was just over 6 feet tall, very thin, and a nonsmoker who lived either alone or with other nonsmokers. The flash of a watch face caught what little light there was. He was left-handed. No flashes of light from the left hand as he moved—he was either single or simply didn't wear his ring.

"You've taken my sister's place," I said. "Obviously, you want something from me, and you're going to use her as leverage. Hmm. You're going to have me released, aren't you? To do something for you."

"What makes you think that?"

"You won't let me see your face," I said, smiling. "So, either you don't want me to know when you're lying, or you don't want me to know who to look for when I'm free. Perhaps both? Yes, I thought so. But you are laboring under the illusion that I need to see your eyes in order to discern lies from the truth, and that I need to know what you look like in order to find you. You have my records, so you know I don't. So why don't you take your business elsewhere before you get into something you won't have the chance to regret?"

The man began to laugh, first a chuckle, and then loudly, with a definite note of triumph. After a few moments, his laughter gave way to a strained wheezing, and he fumbled with an inhaler. An asthmatic. That was interesting. "I knew you were the right person for the job, Alessandra," he gasped. "I didn't know how right until now. You aren't afraid of me, and that's good, because I do have Luciana, and I didn't want to have to hurt her. She is so lovely, after all. Lovely and sad, wasting away to nothing without her older sister to care for her. She has no one, now, and soon she'll have nothing."

"Unless I…?"

"There's someone I'd like you to speak to. I have some questions for him, and I'd like you to bring him to me. He is well-protected, so this will be dangerous. But if you die in the attempt, Luciana will be taken care of financially for the rest of her life—if your body is returned to me. If you succeed, then both of you will enjoy total and complete freedom with permanent immunity from the laws of this quadrant. You'll be treated as…ambassadors. All I require from you is that you try."

I studied his silhouette and noticed the way he frequently shook his hair out of his eyes. He sounded quite young, but she understood on an almost animal level that this was not a man who could be intimidated. As such, he was not to be underestimated. He deserved a certain proper respect.

"Mr…?"

"Call me Mr. X, for now, Alessandra."

"Yes, Mr. X, you are wise not to trust me. May I ask who it is I'm supposed to find?"

"His name is Richard Riddick. He is the newly-appointed Lord of the Necromongers."

My insides did a little jump. I had heard of him, snuck his psychological files from the back room of the library. I had had never imagined I might get an opportunity to study him face-to-face.

"Mr. X, I don't think you'll find he's with the Necromongers any longer. There have been no reports of any Necromonger presence at all, anywhere in the known 'verse. I've read his profile. He would never have stayed with them for long. He needs to be free."

"Precisely my point, darling. I want to know what has happened to the Necromongers. He is the only man who can tell us. Do whatever it takes to make him do that, and things will go well for your sister no matter what the outcome is. In the meantime, I'll take care of her."

"If you ever think of harming her in any way, remember the photos in my file. Think of those, and of the past's tendency to repeat itself."

"You'll need a new name, a code."

"What do you suggest?"

"I've given it a lot of thought. Welcome to the Family, Angelface."