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

finger of shaving rash glowed on the side of his neck. He rubbed at it. “You sound like a machine.”

“The voice distortion is for both of our protection.”

“Bullshit! What’s protecting me?”

“I am.”

Ptarmigan snorted into the receiver. They had spoken only once before, but it had been enough to get the measure of the man who called himself Finback. He was an irritating know-it-all, overly fond of the sound of his own voice. But he was also a visionary. He was like some kind of goddamn activist messiah, at least in the circles Ptarmigan moved in. More importantly, he had proven himself to have the money and the resources to make things happen. The rocket launchers the group had used to blow up the new Barranquitas nuclear power plant on Puerto Rico prior to the installation of the reactor, the motorboats and charges used to board the Japanese whaling ship Shonan Maru III and send it to the bottom of the Southern Ocean, the information about Biocorp Research Laboratories personnel in Mexico, all of it, every last scrap, had come from Finback.

“It is okay to be scared.”

“Well, I’m not, it’s just—”

“It is nerves,” came the metered reply. “Remember what you are doing this for.”

“I do remember!”

“Those bastards at G&S can pretend to be as green as they like, toeing the environmental line. But you and I know that they are both about as green as an oil slick. Greed is what they are about. Profiteering and looking after themselves. There is no reasoning with these people and there is certainly no regulating them.”

“Look, Finback, I know all this. Do you think I would’ve come this far if I didn’t hate the way those corporate cocksuckers are raping this planet? I’m with the programme, okay, I just have an issue with the fact that innocent people are going to get killed on this one.”

“The cancer of capitalist ignorance can no longer be restrained by empty words and signatures on bits of paper. If we are to save this planet then blood will need to be spilt, and we must not be afraid to spill it.”

“I said there’s no need to keep feeding me the party line! I already told you I’m on board, literally. It’s the only way to open people’s ears, I know that. But then it’s still me setting the charges and then sneaking away, so cut me some slack, would you?”

Finback cleared his throat loudly. “Let me make this very simple for you. The race for the Arctic has begun. The Russians, the Norwegians, the Danes, the Canadians, the Americans, all of them, they are all poised and waiting to move in on the North Pole. Before the rest of the world has woken up to what is happening, the place will be covered with wellheads and tankers, and any remaining space will be disfigured with pipelines. A few years later and gone will be the wildlife, and one day, of course, gone will be the ice itself.

“We have the chance to try and end the whole ugly little relay. We lose the Arctic and we lose this planet. We save the Arctic and we give the best of humanity time to teach us all how to adapt and survive without the need to extinguish its beauty and exterminate its creatures and lay waste to the whole region. We save the Arctic and your children’s children, and mine, the children of anybody who dies on that ship, will have a shot at a future here.” He paused. “We must all die someday, somehow. I think that those who die for this cause will have died well. B—”

For an instant the line cut out and when it picked back up, Finback’s tone had changed. “…if you are no longer interested then say so now. There is still a chance that I can make alternative arrangements.”

“Look, for the last time, I’m in, okay?” Ptarmigan snarled. “You’re right. It’s just nerves, that’s all. Just tell me what next.”

“You received the plans I sent you?”

Ptarmigan fanned the pages of the book on the desk in front of him. It was called Ship of Fools by a woman he had never heard of. “Right here,” he said, adding, “Interesting choice.”

“You should read it,” Finback replied.

Ptarmigan was damned if he would.

Finback: “On the reverse of the back page, top corner, there are two eight-digit codes written in pencil. The first is the GPS coordinate for your explosive drop. You must collect this as soon as you can before the elements do what the elements do best and make it disappear. The second is the GPS coordinate for the rendezvous point. When it is done, make your way there. You may have to wait, but I will have somebody pick you up. An associate. If you really must contact me again, then of course you must only use this handset.”

“Is that everything?”

“It only remains for me to wish you good luck, Ptarmigan. Remember, you will be a hero to those who count.”

The line went dead.

“Patronising bastard!” Ptarmigan snarled after him. He crammed the wafer-thin handset back into the converted external drive port of his laptop. Now that he knew the secret compartment was there, it seemed to stick out like a sore thumb. But when the on-board security team had carried out their searches, it had been more than effective. They hadn’t suspected a thing.

He sat on the edge of his bed, feet planted squarely, hands clenched around his knees, and took a deep, energising breath. His pulse hammered in the side of his neck. His skin crawled.

“Patronising bastard,” he repeated, lower this time but still pointed. As he exhaled, he closed his eyes and imagined the negativity leaving him, anger and fear gusting out across his lips like toxic smoke, flowing from his fingertips like poison drawn from a wound. Then he began to chant the Buddhist daimoku: “Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, Nam Myoho Renge Kyo…”

As the seconds ticked by, his