Darren Wearmouth - Critical Dawn

Augustus closed his eyes, the fatigue of post-root injection making him tired. Though it was nothing like the fatigue of his escape; this was more of a spaced-out bliss. His body rejuvenated, growing young and vital again.

His senses sharpened during this state. The soft, cyclical vibrations of the mother ship’s engines synchronized with his heartbeats so that he was one with the ship, a part of the larger system, a part of the Croatoan Empire.

An empire that made his Roman Empire look like a backwater village.

That revelation came to him within days of settling in Greece. The croatoans never did explain how they knew who he was, but one night, while he was working alone on a fishing jangada, hauling in the evening’s nets, he was approached on the beach. At first, he thought he was sick, hallucinating.

The first impression he got of the croatoan was that of a large, helmeted turtle, standing on two reverse-joined legs in a strange suit. The eyes were large and held intelligence within them, but the overriding feeling he got was that it was ancient.

For two weeks, the croatoan would visit him during the night, talking to him in broken Greek, but enough for Augustus, or Valens as he was then, to understand. The promises seemed unreal to begin with: eternity, a life without pain, which appealed greatly due to the wounds he’d suffered at the hands of the Goths.

Even back then, he required the wearing of a leather mask or a deep-brimmed hat to hide the disfigurement. When he saw the creature’s pod, he knew the promises were real, that they had substance. He thought the Romans were advanced in their use of materials and technology, but the stasis pod, half-buried within a deep cave, told him that humanity hadn’t even started yet.

And then came the first taste of the root. Within the pod, a system of root compound within a slow-feed drip ensured that the aliens could live indefinitely once in a stasis mode. It was like a voluntary coma but one that with some thought could be come out of at will or at specified times.

For the first time in decades, he felt young and powerful again. The compound stitched his wounds, made him stronger. Even his thoughts sped up. It brought him out of the self-imposed prison where he’d placed himself, and now he could see the world of opportunity in front of him. He had a chance to build a new empire, to rule again, but this time without the limits of humanity and politics.

Hagellen, the croatoan that approached Augustus, explained many historical incidents of how the aliens had intervened or taken candidates to work with them when the Earth’s conditions were right.

When Hagellen said that he’d be in stasis for more than fifteen hundred years, the period of time needed to make the Earth’s ecological balance suitable for growing the root, Augustus laughed, but Hagellen had shown him relics from the Egyptians and further back still.

It’d be like waking from a dream, Hagellen said. Within the stasis pod, the compound would keep him alive, compress time, so that when he woke and the croatoans rose from deep within the Earth, it would feel like no time at all.

And he was right.

Augustus sat up as the tingling sensation began to wear off. The compound was almost finished with him for this month. He shook his head. The memories of being Valens dissipated. It was always strange how this procedure would send him back to his former life. But despite the time-compression, it was a long a time ago. He wasn’t that cowardly emperor any longer.

He was Lord Augustus. Earth’s first post-alien leader. Or at least he soon would be.

“On screen,” he said, leaning his elbows against the glass desk in his office. They’d decorated it to look like a Roman court. This part of the ship, one of the lowest levels, was designed to support him as a human, but soon, he wouldn’t need a special atmosphere to suit him. Soon, he’d have the procedure that would make him more croatoan than human, and he would take his rightful place at the top of Earth’s new hierarchy.

The wide screen, embedded into the curved white walls of his office, switched on and glowed the familiar blue briefly before it patched into the communications network. Thousands of smaller squares in a grid showed him all the channels to the farms down on the surface.

“Message to all farms,” he said, and waited for each square to gain a white border to indicate the communication connection established. The screen beeped after a few moments, confirming the connection.

Within each square, he saw the faces of the farm workers looking at him expectantly, the requisite level of fear in their eyes. It made him smile beneath his mask. As Valens and now Augustus, he could always draw that level of fear from his fellow humans, though he wasn’t so conceited to believe it was at him directly.

No, it was due to his position. He’d always known that. It was why he’d ducked out of the battle of Adrianople. It was clear the Goths would win. He’d seen the winds of change and knew the Romans’ time was up. He would no longer have the position to instill that fear, so he left to cast fear upon the fish in Greece.

Some men would feel they took a step down, but not Augustus. Even back then, he knew the order of things. Dominion over fish was no different than dominion over man.

“Farmhands, this is Lord Augustus; we’re coming to a new stage of our development, and you are placed at the forefront of this transformation. Your actions next will determine not only your individual fate but also the fate of humankind. Fear not; your action is a simple one. I want you all to activate the pressurization protocols on all breeding facilities. The time has come to seal those precious breeding units from the harm of the atmosphere.”

As though perfectly orchestrated, he saw three thousand pairs of eyes widen in fear and realization. By pressurizing the breeding facilities, it was clear that all those outside of the buildings would perish when the atmosphere changed. But they knew better than to question him.

“Atmospheric metrics are being downloaded to your systems now,” Augustus added. “Once complete, activate the protocols. As for yourselves, I want to thank you personally for your work and tireless dedication. Without you, humanity would not be able to continue. Your sacrifice has ensured the continuing survival of our noble race.

“Each and every one of you will be remembered in the records. I will see to it personally. In its current state, Earth has but a few more days left. Say your goodbyes and perform any last rituals you need. The end has come. Thank you, and good luck in the journey of your afterlife.”

One by one, the individual video links to the farms glowed yellow as the data packs downloaded. The ones that turned green indicated they had activated the pressurization process, sealing off the breeding facilities and, so doing, sealing their own fates.

Augustus took a great deal of joy from watching his orders being executed as the large screen became a sea of green squares. Hundreds activated at once, and within a few seconds, the entire farm network had activated the protocol although… He leaned forward and noticed that there was one that was still yellow.

Of course. It had to be that one. He’d expected as much.

“Engage Farm 1038.”

The sickly image of Vlad, one of Gregor’s old gang members, came up on screen. The revolting man’s face was grey and puffy. His eyes were rimmed with red sores, and his brown hair lay lank and greasy against his scalp. He reminded Augustus of the street peasants back in Rome. Even then, they never looked after themselves. Some things never change. Some humans are just not as worthy as others.

“Mr. Augustus, sir, I…” Vlad began to say. A girl appeared behind him, the one he remembered as Alex. She was barely more capable than Vlad.