Darren Wearmouth - Critical Path

The thick wooden door creaked open and Augustus strode in, flanked by two men dressed in faded blue jeans and brown leather jackets. Both held rifles. Augustus pointed to the alien. “This one’s first. Take it down and get it ready.”

One of the men slung his rifle and pulled out a wrench while the other provided cover, aiming his weapon at the alien. The guard unscrewed the croatoan’s left manacle. It aimed a weak kick. The man punched it in the stomach.

“Save it for outside. You’re going to need everything you’ve got,” the other guard said with a sneer.

The alien wheezed and shook. It dropped to its feet and scampered into a corner after its right wrist was freed. Both men grabbed an arm each and dragged it out of the cell.

Augustus turned to Charlie and placed his hand in a flap down the side of his purple robe, briefly fumbled and produced a dried piece of root. “This might help you. Your only way out of here is to keep winning.”

Charlie turned his head and looked away. “Fuck you. Like I’m going to accept your help after all this. You take me for a fool? Have you learned nothing about humanity in your time?”

Augustus just shrugged as a faint buzz echoed along the corridor: the noise of a crowd, hundreds of chanting voices. Charlie only saw the outside of the arena when being led at gunpoint from Augustus’ ludus to the attached cells. A four-yard-high stone wall surrounded the fighting area with staircases cut in at regular intervals.

An escape plan would have to be winged—if it were at all possible.

Augustus reached forward and pressed the root into Charlie’s hand. “Hate me all you want; the feeling is mutual. But you need to make the crowd love you. They don’t possess the logic of you or me. Most were born in Unity, and this is a normal state of affairs.”

Charlie refused to give Augustus the satisfaction of conversation and gazed at a cockroach scuttling across the floor. He expected the decrepit old fool to strike him, but no blows came.

“Have it your way,” Augustus said. Outside, the crowd roared. “I’m guessing the croatoan didn’t last long. They’ll be coming for you in a minute. Time to show what you’re capable of, little wasp.”

Augustus disappeared from Charlie’s peripheral vision. The cell door slammed shut.

Shifting his manacles up, he stuffed the piece of root into his mouth and chewed. It had the texture of beef jerky, but the effects were as immediate as eating it fresh, like the sudden adrenaline rush of white-water rafting or that moment when you go over the edge while abseiling.

The cell door opened again. A blond-haired man crouched in the corridor and aimed his rifle at Charlie. The other entered and started unscrewing his right manacle. “You try any bullshit and your brains will be decorating the wall. Got it?”

Charlie ignored him, just stared right into his eyes, trying to get the measure of the man, but the other wouldn’t hold his gaze and unfastened the left manacle. He stepped back and gestured toward the corridor. “Move, grandpa. Unless you want to be dragged out like that freak?”

Charlie rubbed his wrists and eyed both men. Emotionless faces. Born and raised as traitors—perfect underlings for the likes of Augustus. He didn’t want anyone around who would think for themselves. It made his stomach turn. “One day I’ll come back for both of you,” he said, pointing at the two men. “You’re a disgrace to humanity.”

The man crouching outside laughed. He jerked his rifle to the left, gesturing along the corridor. “You won’t even see the night. Get moving, fuck-face.”

Charlie shook his head and left his cell, heading toward the light streaming through a low-barred one-meter-tall gate at the end. He felt nimble on his feet. The full invigorating effect of the root had taken hold.

The footsteps behind didn’t get too close.

No chance to take them by surprise. They knew what they were doing.

The noise of the crowd grew louder. Men and women catcalled, croatoans clicked and many spoke in English too. Five meters from the gate, the sandy surface of the fighting arena stretched out, parts of it stained with blood.

He passed a stack of four crudely assembled plywood coffins. One of the men said, “That’s going to be your bed… forever, old man.”

Just before the gate, a number of weapons hung on a wooden rack: short swords, a mace, three battered metal shields. Charlie stooped and looked through the gate’s bars. A shirtless man stood over the little croatoan. He looked upwards for a moment before smashing his mace through the alien’s visor.

The crowd roared with approval and delight. Two more croatoans appeared shortly after with a stretcher and carried the dead remains of the little one away. It didn’t stand a chance. Were Charlie’s odds going to be as short?

“These are your weapons,” the closest man said.

He threw a trident and net at Charlie’s feet.

“You’ve got to be kidding me?” Charlie said.

The man snorted. “Does it look like I am? You don’t get to choose.”

Charlie picked up the trident. It had a wooden pole, three barbed prongs, and felt lighter than it looked. The net had weights around its edge. He remembered seeing films of gladiators waving it around their head, and dismissed trying the technique. Without experience, the thing might prove cumbersome. Charlie wanted to be quick on his feet if he faced the brute he’d seen behind Aimee.

A disheveled woman ducked in front of the gate, twisted a key in the lock, and pulled it open. “Out you come. Just walk to the center and turn to face the dignitaries. Try anything and the armed guards will take you down before you can take a breath.”

“Nice setup you have here.” Charlie didn’t move. The situation seemed bizarre. A foot thrust into the small of his back, and he stumbled into a running crouch and stood in bright sunshine at the edge of the arena.

The gate locked behind him, trapping him inside.

A couple of coughs punctuated the silence inside the arena.

The acre-sized surface was soft under his boots. Dark yellow and purple stains of battle were all over the sand. He wondered how many fights had taken place. Human and croatoan blood spattered the high concrete wall that enclosed the fighting area. On top of the wall, spectators stood on four steps that ran around the full perimeter. The two species mixed together. Although the aliens outnumbered the humans by a ratio of around four to one.

There were only two entrances: his and a larger gate at the opposite end. Winning would be his only way out, he realized. He walked to the middle of the arena and turned to face Aimee. She sat beneath a veranda, probably salvaged from an old house in the local area. She wore a blue dress and wafted a fan in front of her face. Augustus perched to her left; he adjusted his mask and leaned forward. Two other people he didn’t recognize sat either side of them.

Augustus stood and raised an arm. “People of Unity. This is today’s main event. The man standing before you brought down the two croatoan ships, single-handedly. He might look like a pathetic old man, but don’t let his appearance deceive you.”

Raised chatter and clicking filled the arena. A half-eaten apple bounced past Charlie’s feet. Augustus held his finger to his lips and waited for silence. He pointed down. “This man is a threat to Unity. Our Unity. His judgment will come today. I introduce to you, the doom bringer!”

A few people shouted insults, drowning each other out.

Aimee sat expressionless through the Roman’s speech. After Augustus sat down, she leaned over and whispered something to him. He stood again and said, “Please welcome Halkstan. The champion of Unity.”