Darren Wearmouth - Critical Path

Finally, Hagellan let go and Charlie took the pad.

“We’ll be in touch,” Charlie said, leading Denver out of the tunnel as Hagellan stared on impassively. When they got into the tunnels Denver noticed one of the emissaries in their robes skulking away into the shadows as though they had been just outside, listening in.

Something about the way they moved bothered Denver. It was familiar, and not at all like how he’d seen the other robed figures moving, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He put it down to the effects of root-withdrawal and followed his father up through the tunnels as they headed back to their chalet.

Gregor, wearing a long robe to disguise himself, dashed along a muddy street, following Augustus’ directions to the croatoans’ underground entrance.

He was to scout out the area and make sure that Hagellan was indeed where the spy’s report suggested. Once located, Gregor could plan for his assassination.

An attack ship poked out of a sinkhole on the edge of town.

Two peasant men approached in the opposite direction. He pulled the robe’s hood further over his face, looked down, and squeezed the handle of his concealed dagger. People in town didn’t know him yet, and an unfamiliar face might arouse suspicion.

Looking at the houses and dirty workshops, he realized the potential of Unity. It had the feel of his village just outside Yerevan, where he was raised on a pig farm.

From there, he rose to lead his gang in the city from nothing. They called him Pig Boy when he first arrived.

A few severed tongues put an end to that nickname. Here, he already had an advantage in the form of Augustus. As much as Gregor hated the man, he had given him a chance to run something again, and to get revenge on the croatoans.

“Morning,” one of the men said, his breath vapor visible in the chilly morning air. Gregor grunted a response and stepped to the other side of the road.

“One of the weird cultists,” he heard the other one say as they continued past without issue.

Once clear of the cluttered, dung-filled urban area, Gregor stopped and stared through the increasing dawn light at the root growing along the lower steps of the basin.

There was tons of the stuff, half of it ready to harvest.

He’d need twenty men to police an area that size. They would have to start growing it in a smaller protected space and keep the seeds locked away.

Create more demand and control the supply. Back to the good old days.

No more running around, putting up with Denver and his smug ideals. Once powerful enough, Augustus wouldn’t control him either. Others had made the mistake of thinking Gregor would be satisfied with scraps off the table.

He smiled to himself and headed for the sinkhole.

Gregor ducked behind a small sheep pen after hearing faint voices. He squinted through a gap in the planks. People headed to the entrance of the croatoan ship. Three of them: two tall and one small.

One had the recognizable strut of Charlie Jackson. Denver walked by his side. The other was dressed in a robe. Possibly Maria. They must be in cahoots with the croatoans.

This was too good to be true.

It seemed everything had come full circle, and it played perfectly into Gregor’s hands. He would lead the resistance and end up owning a town for his troubles.

They slipped through a small door in the side of the vessel.

Gregor waited, needing to give them a head start before following and finding out exactly what those shit-rats were up to.

A hundred feet above him, a hover-bike sliced through the air. Probably an early morning patrol. He watched it slow and drift down into the main building in town. The home of Aimee. Her time was coming.

He checked his watch again. Three minutes. Enough of a head start.

Gregor tried to move carefully through the squelching mud. Augustus told him that his disguise would work like a charm. He’d find out soon enough.

The interior of the vessel appeared pitch black from outside. A few wisps of smoke curled out of the entrance. Gregor poked his head in the gap and looked down.

Light radiated from the bottom. A fire. Gregor smelled burning wood and heard a faint crackle. The footsteps were louder, clanking down a spiral ramp. Three dark shapes appeared around the light and disappeared off to one side.

He followed, creeping down the circular structure. Soft footsteps. Not the carefree stomping of the Jacksons. Gregor wondered just how comfortable they were with the croatoans.

The last three feet required a small jump, away from the fire. Gregor landed with a soft crunch onto the gravelly surface and swiftly moved into the shadows.

Pressing his back against the cold stone wall, he inched his way along.

Whispers echoed around the cave. Distant voices. Weak light shone through the main tunnel. He sneaked in that direction, not quite seeing the end.

Footsteps approached and they came around a sharp turn. Like him, they were dressed in a robe. Gregor decided to change tactics and act natural. No point in trying to stay hidden now. He bent down to tie his bootlace.

The person, a male, shuffled past him. Gregor watched him turn left through a smaller side tunnel. He could be a source of information if Gregor couldn’t establish what the Jacksons were planning with the aliens.

Moving on, Gregor reached the end of the cave. It opened up into a larger cavern. Two flaming torches lit up his target: the bloated figure of Hagellan sitting on a throne. The Jacksons stood in front of it. They may as well have gotten down and licked its boots.

Gregor strained to hear their words.

The alien spoke English with surprising skill and articulation. They talked about a mission. Blowing up a jump gate. Fixing a craft, taking a mixed crew, and some shit about peace and harmony. Also saying that they just had a few days left. It seems things were on a tight deadline.

After a few more minutes, the conversation abruptly stopped and the Jacksons turned in unison. Gregor dashed back into the main tunnel and started walking.

The last thing he wanted was for them to see him before he delivered his information to Augustus. He would demand proper weapons—guns, grenades, and men.

He continued to stalk the shadows. The Jacksons were behind him, their boots thumping against the ground only a few meters to his rear. They must have been moving quickly for some reason.

Gregor remembered the robed man and found the side entrance. He decided to move out of the Jacksons’ path and go get himself some more information on Hagellan and the operation going on down here.

He ducked through the gap and scraped his shoulder against a sharp piece of overhanging rock. He winced and sucked a breath through his teeth. The Jacksons didn’t follow.

The tunnel led to a small chamber. In the middle, a chunky candle sat burning on a three-legged stool. The robed man sat on a wooden bed to the left, thumbing through a book.

Gregor entered the chamber. The man glanced up. “Welcome, brother. What can I do for you?”

Ben. The Judas from the harvester! The others told Gregor he had died at the farm during their attack before Charlie detonated his bomb. They must have sneaked him here—the treacherous pig. Which also meant they probably already knew about this place. That’s why the Jacksons were so comfortable with the alien. They were double agents and in on all of this from the start!

Gregor grabbed the candle from the stool and lurched forward.

Ben dropped his book and flinched away. “What are you doing?”

Gregor pushed him back on the bed and knelt on his chest, pinning him to the mattress. “Well, well, well. Look who has risen from the dead…” Ben struggled against Gregor’s leg. He increased the downward force. “It’s time you and me had another chat.”