Darren Wearmouth - Critical Path

“They… did things to them. Once they were taken to Roanoke Island,” Maria said, gathering her composure. “The tribespeople known as the Croatoans were just simple Indians. They didn’t understand what was happening. They thought the aliens were gods.”

“At least we now know what happened to all those poor colonists,” Denver said. “My dad will want to know this.”

“Of course,” Maria said, “I want him to know all this. There were a dozen of us colonists strapped to their operating tables, their engineers prodding and testing us, pumping us full of drugs.”

Maria leaned into Denver, resting her face against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her. “I promise,” he said. “They’ll pay for everything they’ve done.”

“You can’t trust them,” Maria said. “No matter what they say or try to prove, they cannot be trusted. They’re evil, Den, truly.”

“Which is all the more reason I have to see this through.”

He had the bomb and he had his dad. Whatever plan Hagellan had in mind, they were two factors that would be beyond his reckoning.

Maria looked up at him. “Promise me you’ll come back. Somehow… just come back.”

He couldn’t mean it, as he didn’t believe he would be coming back, but he promised anyway, wanting to give her something to believe in. They sat there together in each other’s arms as they waited for Charlie’s return and the start of the end.

Aimee walked by Charlie’s side. She moved gracefully along the main dirt road through Unity, her green silk dress gently flapping in the cool breeze.

Two miserable-looking men guarded their flanks, carrying bolt-action rifles with wooden stocks.

The stalls lining the main route were a hive of activity, just like when he was first dragged through by his neck.

Aimee gently grabbed his arm and pulled him to the left. “We’re going to the arena. This way.”

She led him around the thick stone wall that surrounded and protected her residence, toward the concrete-constructed stadium.

A few people and croatoans stood around a stall outside, trading items for cooked meat. The faint buzz of a crowd noise drifted over.

Charlie frowned. “What the hell’s going on? I’m not interested in seeing your entertainment.” He had other things to worry about, like the ship’s preparation. All this was just getting in the way of the plans, but at least Mike was there handling things.

“You might be when you see who’s fighting.”

“And who might that be?”

“Your treacherous friend Gregor. He came to attack me and killed Baliska. He’s also the reason Augustus escaped.”

Charlie stopped.

Unity had its own strange laws and practices, but he wouldn’t be a party to them. As much as he hated Gregor, and still suspected him of killing Pippa, he did help bring down the mother and terraform ships and was one of only a few pre-apocalypse survivors left on the ground.

“Let me talk to him. I’ll tell him to leave and never return,” Charlie said, not quite believing that he was standing up for Gregor. “He deserves a chance.”

Aimee let out a deep breath. “How many chances does that man need? I have already given him one that he didn’t deserve, and look how he repaid me? He has fallen foul of our laws and will be judged in the arena.”

“Just do this favor for me, please?”

“You can’t stop it, Charlie. This is one of the most serious offences we have seen in Unity. People have been put to death for far less. What kind of message do you think I will be sending out if I give him clemency?”

She raised her dress a couple of inches and splashed through a shallow muddy puddle. He leaned against the wall and rubbed his temples.

The gangster’s actions had sealed his fate, and Charlie couldn’t risk his life and compromise the mission by trying anything heroically and pointlessly stupid. He sighed and resigned himself to the fact that this was the world he now lived in, but he wouldn’t be one of the bawling voyeurs on the arena steps.

He just wanted to get it over with and then help with the ship.

A guard jabbed his muzzle into Charlie’s shoulder. “This isn’t an invite you can refuse. Pass on what you see to the other new arrivals. Let them know the price of disloyalty.”

Aimee turned and gestured him forward. “It’s politics. The town will see that you and your friends are with me and not aligned to his actions.”

Charlie slammed his heel into the wall, shook his head, and followed Aimee toward the bloodthirsty congregation.

Gregor’s eyes fluttered open. Cold water dripped from his head, joining the dry specks of his own blood on the stone floor. A guard stood over him, holding a metal bucket. The bastard laughed and threw it into the corner of the cell.

He grabbed a clump of Gregor’s hair and ripped his head back. “Showtime in three minutes. Say your prayers, fuck-face.”

Gregor gathered the little saliva he had and spat. The guard grimaced and wiped his cheek. He leaned forward and swung his fist into Gregor’s ribs.

Inwardly, his whole body bloomed with pain. He sucked in a breath and coughed out spittle and blood. He refused to show signs of pain and smiled. “That the best you’ve got?”

Another guard entered and aimed a double-barreled shotgun at his face. The sound of a crowd cheering echoed along the corridor. He had seen the fighting area while being dragged to the cell.

They would not be entertained at his expense. He refused to go out on the terms of this shitty town.

Bucket guard unfastened his manacles and shoved him against the wall.

The other jerked his shotgun toward the arena. “You fuck around and I’ll blow your head off. This way.”

A sharp pain shot through Gregor’s right thigh as he tried to walk. He dropped to one knee, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. They would not get to see him like this.

He steadily rose, trying to push away the agony, and walked slowly toward the entrance of the fighting area, but couldn’t hide his limp.

Bucket guard followed. “Looks like he’s shit himself.”

The other laughed.

If Gregor got out of this alive, he would mash both of their faces with a jackhammer and have a great deal of pleasure doing it.

He reached the gate and clung to the bars. He didn’t have much energy left, and the effects of his last shot of root had evaporated a couple of hours ago.

One uniformed croatoan lay on the sandy surface outside. Another stood above it, holding a spear. Yellow blood dripped off the pointed head. It thrust the weapon down into its opponent’s chest, sending the crowd into a pleased rapture.

Two men appeared and carried the dead alien away. The winner looked up. Its cobalt blue visor glinted in the sun. The crowd fell silent, and a high-pitched voice addressed the alien before a guard led it away to a ripple of applause.

A broadsword and buckler landed at Gregor’s feet. He shook his head and looked outside.

Something sharp poked in his back. “Pick it up.”

Gregor looked to his side. “Fuck you.”

A boot slammed into his bad leg. He sank to the ground, hissed through his teeth, and clutched his thigh.

“I said, pick it up.”

Gregor grabbed the sword and spun. The blade sliced through the air and clanked against the stone wall to his side.

Both guards had retreated several yards. One aimed the shotgun at his face.

Bucket laughed. “You must think we were born yesterday?”

Gregor jabbed a finger at him. “When I get out of this, I promise you one thing—”

A bolt screeched along its latch. The gate behind him yawned open.

“You’re up next,” a croaky voice said. “Come out nice and slow and face Aimee.”