Critical Path

The kid’s hands trembled, and Gregor knew it wasn’t just through anger. He’d seen those trembles before in his own hands—the tremble of anticipation.

“You want this, don’t you?” Gregor said, holding the syringe toward Denver, but not giving it up completely.

Denver looked away, rubbing his neck. His eyes flickered to gaze upon the complex over Gregor’s shoulder before focusing back on the root.

“What do you want from me?” Denver asked, his voice raspy, but with the edge of desperation that Gregor had heard so many times before from junkies.

“I want you to remember who you are and what you do. You’re a killer, Denver. The aliens’ worst nightmare. You promised to kill every single one in your path, remember? And here you are letting one lead us into God knows what. Listen to me. I’ll give you all the root you need to be who you are again, but first you’ve got to work with me to take out Venrick. Once we know the location of the battle and your old man’s pod, you and I will… dispose of her services.”

Denver reached for the root, but Gregor pulled it away. “Are you clear on what you have to do for this?”

He wanted the kid to say it.

After a moment of thought, the trembles now more visible in his hands, Denver nodded once. “I got it. Give me the root and I’ll kill the damned alien myself.”

He only had to sow the seed and offer the promise of the drug, and junkies would do almost anything. For Denver, this was just the start; he didn’t have a clue as to what Gregor would lead him to do for more root.

Smiling a satisfied grin, Gregor handed Denver the syringe and leaned back, watching him shoot the root into a vein in his wrist.

You’re mine now, son.

“Look smart,” Gregor said as he hid the leather wallet in his jacket. Khan, along with Maria, Layla, and the soon-to-be-dead Venrick, approached with their gear, ready to head north into Canada.

Denver’s eyelids drooped for a few moments as the root took effect.

When the others turned up, he was back to his old self, helping out with the packs, being the go-to guy, but Gregor noticed the way he looked at Venrick as the alien approached on her back-to-front legs.

Her greenish-brown scales shimmered in the sun, and her tubes made a sucking sound as she breathed in the root-enriched air from the tanks on her back.

Gregor noticed that Denver eyed them, no doubt wondering how to get to the root inside.

But the kid wouldn’t have a chance.

Not if Gregor could help it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Augustus peered into the gloomy cell, checking on his two most valuable inmates. Jackson sat cross-legged opposite Baliska, who quietly clicked.

They would meet in the arena. The Doombringer versus the hunter.

Another fight to boost Augustus’ personal popularity. He would be observing as Unity’s sole ruler. No stupid council, no lying prostitute, just him on a single chair.

A new Earth-uniting emperor.

Augustus clinked a dagger across the window’s thin iron bars.

“Shame about your champion. Is that the best you’ve got?” Jackson said.

“You did me a favor. But you won’t last forever. I’ll certainly not be awarding you a rudis.”

“A what?”

“A wooden freedom sword. My Doctore owns one. They’re given to a gladiator who wins his freedom. Didn’t you learn anything from your studies?”

“I specialized in American history. Unlike you, we were not a group of barbarians before the invasion.”

Augustus jabbed his dagger between the bars, in Charlie’s direction. “The Roman Empire had great buildings, baths and villas with heated rooms and tiled floors while people on this continent lived in tipis. Don’t you dare lecture me about history. Save your venom for your next fight.”

He gestured to the guard to open the gates and headed out, concealing his dagger under his robe. An essential weapon for nighttime excursions around Unity.

Moonlight radiated through the wispy clouds, illuminating with streaks of silver the rooftops of the tatty buildings that lined the twisting dirt roads.

Weak light from lanterns and candles shone from windows and doorframes.

Raised voices came from the tavern at the end of the road. The destination for his meeting. Augustus hated mixing with these low-ranking people. Although he knew he required the respect of the bottom-feeders in order to manipulate them.

A small price to pay to satisfy his ambitions. A crucifixion or two would bring them in line later.

A painted white plank with black lettering hung above the door, saying No Croatoans. The perfect attitude for him to exploit. Divide and conquer. Augustus checked the straightness of his mask and pushed open the door.

Conversations immediately stopped as patrons turned to identify the new arrival. Augustus glanced at the ten tables spread around the plain rectangular room.

“Good evening,” he said.

He received a murmured response. The patrons resumed their conversations. The place stank with a mixture of stale, beer-soaked floorboards and root smoke—the latter clouding the room. Augustus headed to the bar at the far end of the tavern.