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

second creature streaked into the carcass and stripped away another ribbon of flesh. Then came two, three, four more, one after another, each performing exactly the same action: strike-tear-away, strike-tear-away.

Peterson watched them, wide-eyed, silent. Over the next few minutes, both the number of animals and the frequency of the strikes increased dramatically. It was as if the first few mouthfuls had just been testers, clearing the way for an all-out feeding frenzy. Soon virtually the whole of the narwhal’s ribcage lay exposed, arcs of off-white bone clamped around a sausage bag of internal organs. Then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, the creatures faded back into the gloom. What remained of the carcass lay unmolested, bobbing on the current.

Peterson had seen enough. He began to back the Centaur away. This close to the seabed, the lack of a guidance system forced him to focus all of his attention on the controls. He needed eyes in the back of his head.

There was a subtle thump. Had he hit something? He looked back up.

One of the creatures had its face pressed up against the screen.

Peterson cried out as fear clenched like a giant fist inside his chest. The creature didn’t move, didn’t react. It stared in at him, eyes wide, each covered over with a fine milky membrane. Its claws were steadying its face against the glass. A chain of bubbles leaked from its nostrils, and its blue-black feathers rustled in the undertow. It seemed to hang, motionless, in the water, just studying him. Then it broke away and disappeared beneath the sub.

Peterson sat frozen in his chair as silence gave way to a faint tapping noise, then to the unmistakable sound of claws raking across the hull and a series of much louder, more concerted bangs.

Peterson accelerated suddenly, forcefully, skidding over the top of the narwhal carcass. In his panic he almost lost control of the Centaur as it veered and plunged towards the seabed. At the last moment he managed to regain control and bring it back level. Maintaining his bearing north, he scoured ahead. In all probability the creatures would choose to stay and finish off the carcass. Wouldn’t they? It wasn’t like the Centaur was edible. They were just curious. Surely they didn’t see him as prey?

There was a crash as something collided with the sub’s flank. Glancing through the porthole, Peterson could make out one of the creatures clinging to the right pelvic fin. Its hind claws were tearing at the slit into which the fin retracted, and already he could see thin slivers of the Kevlar-reinforced epoxy resin being shredded away. Bad news. Just like a fish, the sub’s manoeuvrability relied on the integrity of its fins. Without them, it would flounder.

He secured his seat restraint and reached for the throttle. “Okay, old gal, time to move out.”

The engine roared, and the Centaur careered upwards. The force of the acceleration crushed Peterson back into his chair. As the sub’s nose broke the surface, he turned hard right, trying to fling the creature off. Loose items shot from one side of the cabin to the other as the sub arced sharply around on its side, before righting once more.

Peterson glanced through the porthole. It had worked. No more parasite. But as he scanned ahead, he could make out two more of the creatures in front of the craft, one either side, like spectral wingmen in the murk. And there were more. At least another half dozen stalked just beyond either flank. He supposed that there would be a similar number to his rear, leaving the Centaur surrounded.

Realisation dawned, and dawned hard.

Hell yeah these things saw him as prey.

He was being hunted.

3

On top of the moraine, drenched in mist, Voronkov wiped the sweat from his brow. The rifle scope creaked into his LVV as he peered towards the compound.

Private Zyryonov, Voronkov’s junior by ten years, was lying prone next to him. “Anything?” His high-pitched voice was croaky with exhaustion.

“Nothing,” Voronkov replied, his own tone as deep and as smooth as ever, despite his fear. “Only Gergiev.”

“Gergiev? What the hell’s he doing out there?”

“Still dropping barrels along the perimeter.”

From the vantage of high ground, Voronkov had watched the mist roll down from the ridge, flooding the coastal basin. Koikov and the others had quickly retreated into the bunker, their outlines vanishing from sight. For a time the top of the moraine had pierced through the mist, like an island in a vast white swell. But soon it too had fallen under the cloak.

“This is fucked up!” Zyryonov whined.

The man’s continual bitching had quickly neutralised Voronkov’s sympathy for him. “Which bit?”

“The bit where everybody else gets to hide out in the shelter and we get to sit up here just waiting to get killed.”

“Shelter? Have you even seen it in there?”

“Yes, and it beats the shit out of being up here.”

“I’m not so sure it’s gonna make any difference,” Voronkov answered coolly. He adjusted his sight. “Personally I’d rather be up here than trapped inside that concrete coffin.”

“It’s okay for you, you’ve got the LVV. I can’t see shit!”

“Shut up!” Voronkov ordered. “I think I might have something.”

Zyryonov’s rifle clanked as he pulled it tight into his shoulder. “What is it?”

“Shh!”

Something was flitting down the slope from the foot of Hjalmar. It was heading in Gergiev’s direction.

“What is it?” Zyryonov demanded.

Voronkov ignored him and engaged his tactical radio. “This is Corporal Voronkov. Starshyna, come in.”

Static, then, “What is it, Voronkov?”

“I’ve got movement. Half a kilometre from your position, up on the ridge. Heading for Gergiev’s machine.”

“Can you make it out?”

“Negative. Definition is limited at this range. Whatever it is it looks like a red blur. It’s fast, though. Moves in bursts. Outcrop to outcrop.”

“It’s one of them,” Koikov said, without hesitation. “Maintain visual. If it gets to the perimeter, light it up. I’ll contact Gergiev. Out.”

By now the red blur had made its way to within fifty metres or so of Gergiev’s machine. As it ducked behind another outcrop,