Critical Path

Crawling forward on his elbows and knees like his dad had shown him, Denver remained deeply hidden within the three-foot-tall root crop.

The smell made his heart pound and sweat pour from him. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to stop his progress to the settlement and dig up and consume a massive chunk of root. The muscles in his arms and legs grew heavy and fatigued with the day’s efforts.

Fighting with Gregor didn’t help either.

He’d have to do something about him at some point. It was becoming an increasingly distracting problem.

And the way he tried to manipulate Denver with the supply of root only made it clear Gregor had no place in this new society.

Once a leech, always a leech.

Still, the thought of finding Charlie alive kept him moving forward, pushing through the alien vegetation. The long purple base to the leafy stem resembled rhubarb, but as the tip continued up, purple changed to orange, making it seem like a stick on fire from a distance.

The leaves had tiny curled hairs that worked like hooks, snagging against his clothes with every movement. It was how the plant attracted and retained microbes and small insects in the air for an energy supply.

He’d make quicker progress trying to swim through sand, but it remained a preferable approach than being obvious about it and walking straight into trouble. He’d leave the reckless bullshit to Gregor.

A further twenty minutes later he dared to lift his head and the riflescope above the crop.

Just a hundred meters away now, he spied on the two closest sentry towers.

They resembled pictures of medieval towers with their wooden tree trunk infrastructure.

From his position he noticed great wide steps cut into what looked like a large canyon. The steps went all the way down, below his vision.

More root and other vegetables thrived growing on these steps, and in among them, with both hand tools and much smaller versions of croatoan harvesters, he spotted a mix of human and alien workers.

The more he panned round, the more he saw a populated township.

Dozens of buildings and dwellings arranged in streets, all made from wood and sheet material, gave the place a rustic look.

Moving in closer, he magnified the scope and started to scan the faces of the various people, human and alien, busying themselves with varied tasks, in the hope of seeing his father.

He couldn’t. If they did have him here, Denver doubted he’d be a free man.

But in the east end of the settlement, he saw a trio of people dressed from head to foot in roughly made brown robes.

The hoods obscured their faces and the length hid their feet, giving them a strange floating quality as they kept to the shadows and moved through the narrow alleyways, disappearing and then reappearing in view.

Something about the way they walked, cautious yet with a steely confidence, caught his imagination.

Who were they? Where were they going?

He tracked them for a minute or so until they came out of one narrow street and headed into an alley where he couldn’t see them. He panned to where he thought they may come out and didn’t see them.

On that side, though, leaning up against the wall of a dwelling of some kind, was a small band of thuggish-looking humans. They wore tatty clothes and carried rudimentary weapons: clubs and what looked like handmade knives.

For a moment he felt like shouting out to the robed people in warning, but as he lifted his scope again, he heard a heavy, solid footstep behind him, quickly followed by an urgent click and then a blinding pain on the back of his head as he slumped forward into the dirt, slipping into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Baliska shadowed Charlie, occasionally shoving him in the back as they ascended the vessel’s staircase. Charlie thought about grabbing one of the few rifles still attached below the seats, but dismissed the idea as an unnecessary risk. They were probably left with good reason and would have been taken by now if they still worked. Charlie remembered the strength and weight of Baliska from their previous fight in the forest. Attempting to throw it off the platform might mean him going in the same direction.

Rounding the last three circuits before reaching ground level, Charlie tried to rationalize the guilt gnawing at his mind.

If what Hagellan said was true, it meant that his actions had triggered the deployment of a destroyer, but also put a stop to the terraforming. He caused the current mess, but only by stopping the previous threat. Either way he looked at it, the responsibility to assist was his.

Aimee disappeared through the gap at the top. Charlie followed, exiting the vessel into the midday sun. Aimee’s smaller croatoan guard appeared by his side and nudged his rifle sideways, prompting Charlie to move.

“You need to swallow your pride, Jackson,” Aimee said. “How many people do you think have spoken to Hagellan like that and lived to tell the tale?”

“Do you seriously believe I was motivated by pride? Did you even witness our recent history?”