Darren Wearmouth - Critical Path

Fighting with Gregor didn’t help either.

He’d have to do something about him at some point. It was becoming an increasingly distracting problem.

And the way he tried to manipulate Denver with the supply of root only made it clear Gregor had no place in this new society.

Once a leech, always a leech.

Still, the thought of finding Charlie alive kept him moving forward, pushing through the alien vegetation. The long purple base to the leafy stem resembled rhubarb, but as the tip continued up, purple changed to orange, making it seem like a stick on fire from a distance.

The leaves had tiny curled hairs that worked like hooks, snagging against his clothes with every movement. It was how the plant attracted and retained microbes and small insects in the air for an energy supply.

He’d make quicker progress trying to swim through sand, but it remained a preferable approach than being obvious about it and walking straight into trouble. He’d leave the reckless bullshit to Gregor.

A further twenty minutes later he dared to lift his head and the riflescope above the crop.

Just a hundred meters away now, he spied on the two closest sentry towers.

They resembled pictures of medieval towers with their wooden tree trunk infrastructure.

From his position he noticed great wide steps cut into what looked like a large canyon. The steps went all the way down, below his vision.

More root and other vegetables thrived growing on these steps, and in among them, with both hand tools and much smaller versions of croatoan harvesters, he spotted a mix of human and alien workers.

The more he panned round, the more he saw a populated township.

Dozens of buildings and dwellings arranged in streets, all made from wood and sheet material, gave the place a rustic look.

Moving in closer, he magnified the scope and started to scan the faces of the various people, human and alien, busying themselves with varied tasks, in the hope of seeing his father.

He couldn’t. If they did have him here, Denver doubted he’d be a free man.

But in the east end of the settlement, he saw a trio of people dressed from head to foot in roughly made brown robes.

The hoods obscured their faces and the length hid their feet, giving them a strange floating quality as they kept to the shadows and moved through the narrow alleyways, disappearing and then reappearing in view.

Something about the way they walked, cautious yet with a steely confidence, caught his imagination.

Who were they? Where were they going?

He tracked them for a minute or so until they came out of one narrow street and headed into an alley where he couldn’t see them. He panned to where he thought they may come out and didn’t see them.

On that side, though, leaning up against the wall of a dwelling of some kind, was a small band of thuggish-looking humans. They wore tatty clothes and carried rudimentary weapons: clubs and what looked like handmade knives.

For a moment he felt like shouting out to the robed people in warning, but as he lifted his scope again, he heard a heavy, solid footstep behind him, quickly followed by an urgent click and then a blinding pain on the back of his head as he slumped forward into the dirt, slipping into unconsciousness.

Baliska shadowed Charlie, occasionally shoving him in the back as they ascended the vessel’s staircase. Charlie thought about grabbing one of the few rifles still attached below the seats, but dismissed the idea as an unnecessary risk. They were probably left with good reason and would have been taken by now if they still worked. Charlie remembered the strength and weight of Baliska from their previous fight in the forest. Attempting to throw it off the platform might mean him going in the same direction.

Rounding the last three circuits before reaching ground level, Charlie tried to rationalize the guilt gnawing at his mind.

If what Hagellan said was true, it meant that his actions had triggered the deployment of a destroyer, but also put a stop to the terraforming. He caused the current mess, but only by stopping the previous threat. Either way he looked at it, the responsibility to assist was his.

Aimee disappeared through the gap at the top. Charlie followed, exiting the vessel into the midday sun. Aimee’s smaller croatoan guard appeared by his side and nudged his rifle sideways, prompting Charlie to move.

“You need to swallow your pride, Jackson,” Aimee said. “How many people do you think have spoken to Hagellan like that and lived to tell the tale?”

“Do you seriously believe I was motivated by pride? Did you even witness our recent history?”

She walked alongside Charlie and grasped his arm, pulling him away from the thoroughfare. “We need to keep to the back streets and alleys. Remember what I said about protecting Hagellan.”

“How could I forget? You want me to save his ass for the cost of mine. I’ll ask again, did you witness recent history? Because if you did, you should have more understanding.”

Aimee tutted and brushed her long silky brown hair over her shoulder. “I’ve witnessed more history than you’ll ever know. Plantations in the New World, prerevolution France and the Ottoman Empire near the height of its powers. They put me in stasis, then transferred me to the vessel you’ve just seen. Since coming back into the world, I’ve worked hard to form the safe community you see.”

“Very impressive. But I’m more concerned about the future.”

Aimee dug her nails into Charlie’s bicep. “If you are, you’ll help with the plan.”

Charlie sighed. Aimee had no idea about his current mental battle. He knew she spoke the truth, and the right course of action seemed obvious. But she hadn’t spent years fighting aliens or lost loved ones during the attack. He just couldn’t bring himself to agree with their proposal. Not yet.

Aimee dropped back, and the smaller croatoan bounced with a loping gait to his side. Charlie pointed to a painted sign over the entrance of a bar. “No croatoans. Are you living in unity or denial?”

“Fool,” the alien croaked.

The alien prompted Charlie left. They cut down a narrow back alley barely more than a meter wide. Houses backed around the edge, giving the place a dirty claustrophobic feel. A few buckets filled with human waste sat outside rear entrances.

A few animal hides hung across the alley, drying in the sun. Charlie ducked and swiped his way underneath one. Ten meters in front of him, a man with a gray beard sat on the steps outside a property. He glanced at Charlie and straightened.

The man slowly reached by his side. Something about him didn’t seem right. The look in his eye, his cautious movement… Perhaps he wasn’t used to strangers walking down his alley. Behind him, Aimee and Baliska brushed the hide to one side and approached.

Charlie glimpsed movement behind them before the hide dropped. Somebody exited a house and pressed against a wall. He crouched down to get a better look. Two sets of feet coming up the alley.

“What are you doing?” Aimee said.

The croatoan jabbed its rifle into Charlie’s side. “Move.”

“We’re being followed.”

“Now,” an unfamiliar voice shouted.

The hide flew to one side and two men appeared just a few meters away. One with a short sword, the other held a baseball bat with nails hammered through the end.

Footsteps slapped across the dirt behind him. Charlie jumped back against a wall. The man with a gray beard leapt at the smaller croatoan and plunged a hunting knife into its eye before quickly sawing the tubes running from its nose with the serrated edge of his blade.

The alien clutched its throat, wheezed, and sank to its knees.