Darren Wearmouth - Critical Path

Charlie had a new issue with them. They stank of a mix between rotten fish and cat shit. Hardly a crime, but it was the first time he had been in an enclosed space with them for any extended period of time and received a strong blast of the odor. More than once he searched for a button that might be an electric window. Wishful thinking.

The croatoan co-driver caught his attention. It swished a glove across a shiny panel. A bright blue screen burst into life.

It extended a finger toward a cluster of red dots. “Signals.”

“You mean more croatoans?” Mike asked.

“Yes.”

Charlie leaned forward for a closer look. “Are they at the ship? How many?”

“Twenty. Yes.”

The Unity-raised driver spoke better English. One of the reasons it came along. It also knew croatoan tactics and culture. “They will have sentries in circular formation. Outer defense ring. Not many. We proceed on foot.”

“Why have they returned to the wreck?” Mike said.

“Familiar,” the co-driver said.

Charlie glanced out of the window again. A faint shape appeared on the horizon, unclear through the haze. The harvester juddered to a halt.

Doors on both sides of the harvester’s cabin punched open with a pneumatic hiss. “Looks like you’ve made the choice for us,” Charlie said.

“On foot,” the driver said.

Charlie clambered down the ladder and watched Mike unsteadily grunt his way after him. “You’re getting a bit old for this.”

Mike looked over his shoulder. “My body is a naturally created temple, Charlie. It’ll all catch up with you one day.”

Charlie didn’t want to imagine what kind of state he would be in without a supply of root. He’d suffered for a short period after his capture, and Mike was right. He’d felt every twinge of a body that had been worked hard for three decades way beyond its natural ability. Packing the repaired ship with a healthy supply would be a priority. He had no idea of how long they’d be away, or what trouble would be waiting for them.

The rest of the squad exited the back. They walked around the side and circled the group at the front. They numbered seven oddly dressed croatoans, Charlie, Mike, Denver and both Marias.

Denver wandered up with his rifle over his shoulder. “What’s the plan, Dad?”

“It’s over there.” Charlie pointed over the trees, no longer able to see the shape from their current position. “We proceed on foot. There’s twenty croatoans around it.”

“Twenty against twelve,” Denver said. “I like those odds.”

Mike stepped between them. “We’re outnumbered. Are you sure about this?”

“We’ve been outnumbered for years,” Charlie said. “Besides, we’ve come to fight. They might be a bunch of those little surveyors or drivers. Stay behind me and you’ll be fine.”

Clone-Maria tugged at Denver’s arm. “I didn’t come to fight.”

Denver whispered to her, giving her assurances. Charlie felt sure she would be in good hands with Denver looking out for the newbies.

The croatoans grabbed alien rifles from a side compartment of the harvester. The driver approached Charlie. “I will lead. When the ship crashed, it left a wake of debris and destruction. We will—”

At first Charlie put the pause down to the croatoan trying to think of the right word to use, until he heard a distant whine.

It grew louder. Closer. An approaching hover-bike.

Trees rustled ahead of them with the downdraft.

“Take cover,” Charlie shouted.

The group split, humans and aliens scattering in all directions. Charlie shouldered his rifle, aimed skyward, and noticed two aliens in his peripheral vision doing the same.

A hover-bike thrust over them. Charlie fired. Croatoan rifles snapped to his side. A shot thumped into the forest floor, just to his right, creating a spray of mud and pine needles.

He peered through a gap in the trees. The hover-bike banked around and approached for a second run, approaching at pace, ridden by two croatoan riders.

The forest filled with the bangs and snaps of hybrid gunfire. A tracer round slammed into the rear rider and it gripped its chest. Great shot by Denver.

Charlie repositioned himself around the trunk, aimed and fired.

The bike slowed. Its engine cut in and out. It plunged nose first toward their general location, plowing through branches above Charlie’s head.

Red engine coolant spilled around him.

Somebody screamed. Human.

Charlie spun at the same time as the bike crashed into the forest, smashing between trees and dropping around forty meters away.

Two Unity croatoans bounced from their locations to the downed bike and fired at the other aliens from point-blank range.

Denver jumped through the undergrowth. Six Unity croatoans surrounded the bike, excitedly clicking.

Charlie turned to Mike. “You okay?”

“I’ll be fine. You realize this means they can probably track our group, as we located them?”

“Good point,” Charlie said, patting him on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

He weaved through the trees, bounding toward the group. Maria backed away from the wreckage with her hand over her mouth. She propped against a tree and vomited. Denver looked at Charlie and shook his head.

“What is it?” Charlie said.

A croatoan pointed to the front of the wreckage.

Charlie barged between two aliens to get a better view. Mike pounded up behind them and said, “Oh my God.”

The front half of Clone-Maria, dressed in her brown robe, protruded from beneath the hover-bike wreckage. A Unity croatoan lay next to her, tubes snapped from its face, skin shriveled.

Charlie knelt down and closed Clone-Maria’s eyes. He shut his eyes for a few seconds and swallowed hard. A life spent under oppression had ended.

Behind him, real Maria sobbed. Denver put his arm around her. The croatoans stood in a line, clutching their rifles against their chests. The driver, who seemed to assume the role of their leader, said, “Kill them all.”

Mike sighed. “They don’t waste any time.”

“They’re right,” Charlie said. “If they know we’re here, others might come. We can’t give them a chance to properly organize.”

“Approach through debris field,” the driver said. “Change angle of attack.”

“Will they be expecting us to approach from here?” Mike said.

“Croatoans like to take threats head-on,” the driver croaked. “Will be lining up forces in this direction.”

That gave Charlie an idea. “If they funnel toward the perceived threat, and it makes sense thinking about previous skirmishes, let’s flank them by heading in that direction and double back.”

The aliens didn’t reply.

Denver led Maria back to the group and said, “I’ll move in from here. Draw them in this direction. You attack from the side when they’re not expecting it.”

The driver turned to his group and clicked. One replied, “Will work if you see a sentry first and he communicates to the others.”

“Cunning human,” an alien in a tatty croatoan uniform said.

Denver rolled his eyes and reloaded his magazine. Maria knelt next to her body double and attempted to cover her face, using pine needles scooped from the ground.

Charlie said to the driver, “Which way to the debris field?”

It pointed to the right.

“Okay, let’s move out.” He turned to Denver. “We’ll be on your right flank and will stay back until we hear gunfire. Don’t get too close.”

Maria sniffed and wiped her cheeks. “We should give her some dignity.”

Charlie lowered his rifle and stooped next to Maria. “Dignity left us in 2014. Remember the human casualties from the initial invasion, piled into a sinkhole?”