Colony by Benjamin Cross (ready player one ebook .TXT) 📗

apt. Another few paces and he felt his foot sink into something soft. He looked down to see the heel of his hiking boot disappearing into a mound of pulp. He bent down to inspect. A second beam of light appeared as the Dolgan knelt beside him.

It was excrement.

“Bear, I presume?”

The Dolgan moved his face revoltingly close. Then he removed his glove and held his hand palm down over the dung. “This was a large carnivore, yes. It was here recently.”

“How recent?”

“One hour.” The Dolgan rose to his feet. “Doctor Sir, we should leave to be safe.”

Doctor Semyonov was tired of the man’s whining. But at the same time he was in no hurry to antagonise a bear, genetically distinct or not. Besides, from what he’d seen already there would be no shortage of other carnivore-free caves to explore in this part of the island.

“Fine,” he replied. “Let’s move on.”

As they picked their way back towards the entrance, Doctor Semyonov panned his headlamp across the floor to either side. What he had thought were scatters of stone he now recognised to be more animal droppings. What’s more, he could see that practically the entire floor of the cave was caked in them. Some were greying, evidently quite old. Some seemed much more recent. The observation was unimportant. It was nothing really, barely worth the brain activity. But it still made him want to pick up the pace. “I think there may be more than one bear—”

Something bolted suddenly across the entranceway. The two men froze.

“What the hell was that?” Semyonov demanded.

The Dolgan held a finger to his lips and crouched down, motioning for Semyonov to do likewise. He did so, watching as the man aimed his rifle towards the entrance.

They waited.

Nothing.

The Dolgan slowly stood back up. “Wait here, please, Doctor,” he whispered.

With not the least intention of moving, Semyonov remained crouched as the Dolgan inched towards the nibbled disc of daylight that formed the cave’s entrance. He drew closer and closer, stopping just beyond the mouth. Steam rose from his silhouetted body, spiralling into the cold as he scanned around.

In an instant something launched itself towards him and knocked him out of sight.

Doctor Semyonov jumped to his feet, but he remained silent, rooted to the spot. He listened as a scuffle took place and a shot rang out from the Dolgan’s rifle.

Then silence.

What the hell had just happened? Semyonov had no idea. All he knew was that he was suddenly alone. On instinct, he bolted from the illumination of the entranceway and made his way into the shadows. Excrement crunched underfoot as he fled. Not that he was really fleeing, of course. His clamber into hiding was strategic. There was nothing cowardly about it. He just needed time to reassess the situation.

He turned off his headlamp and prayed that the Dolgan was okay. There had been no screams and he had fired a shot off, so why wouldn’t he be? They knew their business, these Dolgans. Cannibals or not. No doubt he had killed the bear, felled him with a single bullet, and any second now he would return to the cave ready to carry on as if nothing had happened.

Semyonov waited for him. By now the pounding of his heart drowned out the drip-dripping of moisture from above, and it was suddenly accompanied by twinges of discomfort: not quite pain, but almost.

He reached a hand towards his top pocket, his eyes remaining glued to the cave entrance. As he fingered the zip, he felt his own defencelessness more and more keenly. As well as the rifle, the Dolgan had been carrying everything else of any use in that rucksack: the bear spray, the flares, even the damn survival tin.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden rustling and then movement at the cave entrance. Semyonov’s skin was clammy despite the chill. Discomfort churned in his chest. He held his breath. Please be the Dolgan, please be the Dolgan, please be the Dolgan…

It was not the Dolgan.

5

Callum watched as Lungkaju craned over the mummy’s legs. How would he react? He was proud of his Nganasan heritage and as faithful to his traditional customs as Fenris was to him. But he also piloted a helicopter for a gas company. He had a smartphone and, so he assured Callum, Facebook and Twitter accounts. Would he be upset to see one of his ancestors like this? Or was he more likely to want a selfie with the archaeological find of a lifetime so that he could post it online?

“I know this man.”

Callum stared at Lungkaju. His face was barely illuminated in the torchlight. “He’s carrying a prehistoric flint blade,” he said. “If you know him, then you must be a hell of a lot older than fifty.”

Without taking his eyes off the mummy, Lungkaju pushed his hood back and reached inside the neck of his parka. He withdrew a stone pendant with the image of a man carved into the front. “It is him,” he said in a low voice. “It is Ngana’bta.”

“Ngana’bta?”

“It is a sad name. It means to be forgotten because he was an orphan. But thousands of years ago he was a great Nganasan hunter.”

Callum had a vague memory of being told the story by one of the host families that he and his team had stayed with in the summer chum settlement in Taymyr. But by now it was a distant, vodka-infused memory. “But Ngana’bta is only a myth.”

For the first time that Callum could remember, Lungkaju frowned. “The only difference between myth and history, Doctor Ross, is that we choose to believe history. My grandfather taught me this and he was a very wise man.”

He was right, of course. The fact that a culture’s history was spoken rather than written didn’t make it any less valid. “I’m sorry,” Callum said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“It is funny,” Lungkaju said. “Ngana’bta also did not believe in myth. Would you like to hear?”

“I’d love to.”

Lungkaju settled back onto his haunches