14

In the sealed box the ambient pressure was constant, but in the electromagnetic field nearby, there was a change.  It sensed this.  There was life nearby, life of size and substance.

And then a sound — though it did not recognize sound as sound but only as a miniscule compression of the tympanic membranes on either side of its head.

Then the sound stopped.

It was ravenous with hunger.  When all the nourishment it had derived from the meal it had had in the alien and threatening surroundings above had been used up, it had left its box and hunted.

It had found that there was no food here.  It had emerged and sought to feed on some of the countless tiny animals to which it had become accustomed, but had found nothing.  Confused, it had swum up and down the water column, seeking life — any life — that would give it sustenance.

It had seen living things, but they had been too swift, too wary, too elusive.  It had struck one or two, but been unable to catch them.

Increasingly desperate, driven by signals that it knew only as need, it had swum further afield.

It had found food —some, not much, barely enough to maintain life.

There had been a small thing that had suddenly appeared above, thrashing in panic, and it had grabbed the thing and taken it down and consumed it, collecting indigestibles — fur and gristle — in the side of its mouth, like a cud, and then spitting them out.

There had been a larger thing, almost as large as itself, also above, not at home here, and it had seized it form below and dragged it down and tried to consume it.  But it had been too big to consume at once, and the uneaten part had drifted away.  It had followed the body until a wave had carried it out of the water, out of range.

Then another living thing, slow and clumsy, had fallen into the water, almost within its grasp, but had escaped.

Its programming told it that it must hunt soon, and successfully, or surely it would cease to exist.

It knew there was a living thing nearby now.

It would eat it.