The Orphaned Worlds (71 page)

They did get him after all, Greg thought brokenly, just as the entire dirigible lurched downwards.

Everyone cried out while Varstrand, wrestling with the control column, shrieked, ‘Cut the rope! Cut it!’

Bessonov snatched a hatchet from clips over the hatch but before he could chop the hawser, a thing like a segmented silver snake lunged up from outside and fastened its jaws on his shoulder. Next to him, Vashutkin grabbed his Brolt rifle, swung it round to press the muzzle against the thing’s head, and fired off a short burst. Instead of the expected explosion of deadly shrapnel, the machine slackened its jaws and fell limply to the floor where it was kicked out of the hatch by Maclean. As he did so he looked down.

‘My God, the place is alive with them!’

But Greg had tossed aside the headset and dived for the hatchet, with which he attacked the rope. There was a loud bang as it gave way, the severed end whiplashing against the side of the hatch. At once, the dirigible surged upwards. Varstrand gave a triumphant bellow as he gunned the engines, and for a second it seemed that they were in the clear. Then something struck the rear of the gondola and it swung drunkenly, tilting up. Knocked off his feet, Greg slid towards the rear, halting himself by grabbing at a seat rest. There was the slam of an impact against the stern, and another. The wood-and-composite hull cracked and split and a taloned metal hand punched through then ripped a ragged gap across.

Then some major seams just parted like cardboard and most of the stern was torn aside, exposing the interior and everyone to the horrifying machine that was weighing down the aft.

In the meagre cabin light, framed against the night-shadowed forest, it resembled some grotesque machine-hybrid of tiger and gorilla, serrated talons, armoured limbs and chest, back and shoulders sprouting clusters of black vanes. Greg could feel the heat on his face. And there was a faint, strange aura, a flickering layer of hexagonal patterning.

FASCINATING

As the beastlike droid tossed away the wrecked chunk of hull, the others were yelling at Greg to hit the deck and give them a clear shot. Instead Greg’s glowing hands came up, seemingly of their own accord, stretched out towards the brutal machine as it dragged itself further inside and in his direction.

‘What … what are you doing?’ he gasped.

YOU SHOULD THROW YOURSELF TO THE FLOOR IN ABOUT THREE SECONDS

Tiny glittering points burst from his outflung hands and splashed across the front of the oncoming monster.

NOW