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

turn. I then ask, ‘Do you have Mr Peterson’s data stick?’ If the player answers no, then unfortunately they are no longer in the game. If they answer, ‘Yes, I have Mr Peterson’s data stick,’ then congratulations, they are through to round two.”

Callum frowned. “What data stick?”

“I cannot tell whether you are bluffing, Doctor Ross.” Volkov paused, eyeing Callum coldly. “The data stick in question belonged to Mr Peterson, and it is now of considerable value to myself and my associates.”

“So what happens in round two?” Ava asked.

“Round two is where the game starts to get interesting. In round two, I say, ‘Give me Mr Peterson’s data stick.’ The remaining player then has only to hand me the data stick and they win the game. If the player is unwilling to hand it over immediately, then unfortunately they are also out of the game.” He sat back in his chair. “Are we all clear on the rules?”

Callum went to speak, but he was drowned out by the pilot yelling back into the cabin. Volkov’s expression soured and he rushed over to peer through the side window.

Heart racing, Callum also stole a glance. By now the mist had largely disappeared. Through the glass he could see back towards south-western Harmsworth. The moraine rose from the centre of the basin, the abandoned hovercraft glinting at its base. To the east, there was now a smoking scatter of rubble where the bunker had once stood.

His gaze moved to the top of the moraine. A dark blotch was spread across the rock where Marchenko and his team had fallen. From this distance, their individual bodies had merged into a single, lifeless heap that brought the image of their massacre flashing back through Callum’s mind.

As he looked on, something else caught his attention. Movement. Next to the bodies, something was moving around, subtle but unmistakable. Was it one of the creatures? Could one of the soldiers really have survived?

His face cut with a sudden rage, Volkov bellowed something through to the pilot, and the helicopter began to turn.

“Bind their hands!” he ordered, leaping through into the co-pilot seat.

Confused, Callum looked across at Ava. Who the hell was he talking to?

His heart skipped a beat.

With one hand clamped around her wrist and the other brandishing a pistol, Lungkaju met his gaze. “I am sorry, my friends. But you must put your hands behind your back.”

3

Callum could hardly believe his eyes as Lungkaju uncoiled a length of rope and began coolly binding Ava’s wrist.

“What are you doing?”

“I am doing what I have to do, my friend.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Doctor Ross—”

“How could you? How could you help that… that murderer? Did you even see what he just did?”

“Yes, I saw, and I am very sorry that this had to happen. I hoped that nobody else would have to die.”

“Nobody else?”

Ava offered no resistance as Lungkaju pulled her other arm gently but firmly behind her back and secured her hands together. He then approached Callum and took hold of his wrist.

Callum wrenched his arm away.

“Please do not make this more difficult, Doctor Ross,” Lungkaju said. His tone was soft, apologetic. It was also accompanied by a metallic snap as he cocked the pistol. “I have no choice.”

Callum stared into the face of the man he had considered a friend, the gentle Nganasan who had dressed and redressed his leg wound and grieved so hard at the death of his pet dog. His eyes moved back to the gun aimed at his chest, and he turned and put his hands behind his back.

“Do you remember when I told you about my daughter, Doctor Ross?”

Callum did remember, but he made no reply. All he could think was: Marchenko had a daughter too, and a son. And thanks to your boss they’ll never see each other again. But he said nothing. As the rope snaked around his skin, he felt numb with betrayal.

“She is everything to me. Like your son, Jamie, is to you.”

The name was like a kick to the stomach. “Don’t you dare talk about my son!”

Lungkaju steadied himself as the helicopter banked. Then he sat down opposite Callum. “We are very different people.”

“You can say that again.”

Lungkaju sighed. He lacked the poise with which Volkov wielded his own pistol. His movements were controlled but pensive, his eyes heavy with conflict.

“In Russia, the Nganasan, my people, are…” he searched for the right words, “…not equal. Life is hard for them, Doctor Ross, harder than I have ever seen it before. The melting ice makes hunting less predictable and more dangerous for those who try to live the old way. Because of this there are less and less of them, and it is harder for them to support their families.”

He leant forward. “The old way is dying, and for those who move into the towns to find work, there are other problems. Education and healthcare are very poor. Unemployment, crime, and drug and alcohol addiction are high. I have friends who have drunk themselves to death, others who have tried to kill themselves because they see no future. This is not unusual now, and it is very sad when I go back and see what is happening to my people.” He paused, a look of resolution in his eyes. “I do not want this for my daughter.”

“I can sympathise with the plight of your people,” Callum said. “But poverty and social deprivation are not an excuse to go around pointing guns in people’s faces. You must know that?”

“It is okay for you to say this, Doctor Ross. You are a good man, but you are also very fortunate. You do not know what it is like to be unequal. You do not know hopelessness.”

“I know right from wrong,” Callum replied. “I know that I wouldn’t want my son to grow up knowing that his father was a criminal. That he’d stood there and watched as innocent men were murdered and others taken hostage, and all for the sake of money.”

“It is