Colony by Benjamin Cross (best way to read books .TXT) 📕

at various parts of the interior and launched into a tirade. Despite it being in Russian, Peterson got the gist of it loud and clear: I’m the richest most powerful asshole in the world and I AM PISSED!

Two gunshots rang out. No doubt the crazy sonofabitch was trying to disable the sub’s operating systems. With a final enraged growl, he pounded his way up the ladder and slammed the exit hatch behind him. The impact vibrated throughout the craft’s framework and Peterson found himself shuddering, not with the sensation, but with anger.

There was another sound, this time a low rumble. It was an engine and it wasn’t the Centaur’s. Volkov must have been leaving in his own sub. Peterson listened to the noise increase and then peter out, as the craft submerged and passed towards the cavern’s exit. Then silence.

He remained where he was. Having somehow kept alive this long, he didn’t want to blow it all by risking a move too soon. He was smart, but so far Volkov had proven himself a hell of a lot smarter. What if the sound of him leaving was all just a ploy designed to flush him out? What if he left the safety of the specimen chamber now and resurfaced in the inlet only to see the white sub anchored up next to the exit tunnel and the end of Volkov’s pistol pointed at his face once again?

And what if his injury was worse than he realised? For all he knew, he might not even have the energy to pull himself up out of the damn water. Say he did. What then? From the sounds of it the Centaur was going nowhere fast, and without it neither was he.

He looked at his watch. The pale glow of the twelve increments and two hands was the only source of illumination in the whole chamber. One hour. An hour from then, and whether or not he’d managed to formulate a plan, if there was still breath in his body then he would make his move. Sure, it was a gamble. He’d have more chance of treating his wound with the first aid equipment in the cabin. But he was still conscious, wasn’t he? And the bleeding had seemed to be under control. It was a gamble he’d been willing to take.

The inside of the Centaur was as he’d expected. Her storage compartments had been turned out and several of the doors had been ripped from their hinges, their contents spread around the cabin floor. He could also make out the two bullet holes, one in the heart of the instrument panel, the other in the centre of the navigation screen.

He set about dressing his wound properly. It was the first time he’d been able to see it and it was clear just what a lucky sonofabitch he’d been. Having dressed it as best he could, he bolted a double dose of painkillers and turned his attention to patching up the Centaur.

“Your turn, old girl,” he whispered, unscrewing the top of the console. “Here’s hoping you’re in a better way than yours truly.”

The sight that greeted him was bittersweet. Volkov had obviously known what he was doing. The bullet had scored a direct hit on the primary control system. But Peterson could also see that the damage was far from irreparable. He checked for the emergency repair kit in the narrow compartment beneath the console, and found it unmolested. Having been drilled in the finer points of emergency sub surgery, he was confident that the console would be no problem. A few replacement parts here, a touch of solder there, and he’d have her up and running again in no time.

The navigation screen was a different matter. On inspection, the circuitry was ruined beyond repair, and that was a genuine handicap. He would have no instrumentation readouts, no GPS or mapping capabilities, no proximity sensor or statistical information display. Yet as lousy as it was, none of those things were show-stoppers. As long as the Centaur was up and running, he would just have to handle her the old-fashioned way. Instinct.

He set to work. Time ticked by as he focussed himself on the task at hand, stripping out the damaged components, fixing in the replacements, rewiring and testing his connections, just as he’d been taught. Just as he’d practised, again and again and again…

When he next checked his watch he could see that nearly two hours had passed. Another half an hour and he had reaffixed the top of the console and seated himself back in the operator’s chair. It was the moment of truth. With a cursory prayer, he flicked the primary control switch.

The standby lights on the instrument panel lit up as one, accompanied by a soft whirr. It was music to Peterson’s ears. Not even the blank navigation screen could dampen his sense of achievement. He was one step closer to catching up with Volkov and then… well, then he’d have to improvise. The asshole was armed, dangerous and clearly insane. What he planned to do next, Peterson had no idea. But one thing was clear as piss in snow. He would be after the data stick. And that landed the surviving EIA team members in a whole world of shit. Why the hell had he left the damn thing with Ava in the first place? The answer was there, somewhere between his stomach and his brain, but it was beyond his ability to articulate. All he knew now was that the thought of her in danger because of his foolishness, left him sub-zero.

He turned the dial to prime the engine. The little semi-circle of LED striations lit up a vibrant green one after another, indicating a full charge. He reached out, grabbed the power-up handle and slid it forward until the engine burst into life. The cabin shook with the sudden power surge. Then it stilled, leaving only the familiar hum of the electrical systems as the power switched from