Critical Path

From the elevated position of the third step, he could see the whole town: the arena where he fought, the ludus, Aimee’s imposing residence, and the maze of scruffy houses and workshops crowding around the main dirt road.

Charlie gazed at the croatoan vessel poking out of the sinkhole between the steps and the town and thought about the plan. He felt responsible. Not for this vile hybrid place, but for the remaining human survivors and the planet destroyer perhaps already on course for Earth with orders for its destruction.

He had sacrificed himself once and felt this was a kind of a blessing. He had another chance to help his people, his planet.

Denver leaned on a wooden fence surrounding the porch. He stared toward the crops and root on the opposite steps with a look of disbelief.

“Where are the others? Are they okay?” Charlie said.

“They should be at a safe distance. I might slip away tonight to warn them off, and yeah, Gregor survived.”

“That’s a shame about Gregor, but they’ll figure something out. We need to stay here for now. If we try to leave, we’ll have to fight our way out. We can’t destabilize things as they are right now.”

“I know,” Denver said with resignation in his voice. Charlie could tell he was holding something back. Growing up, Charlie hadn’t really taught him how to express his emotions—mostly because Charlie couldn’t do that either. When he found Pippa’s body, her head smashed with a rock, he retreated within himself because if he let out what he felt, he knew he would crumble, and he had to be strong, for Denver, Mike, Mai, and the other survivors from that time.

It didn’t stop him from hurting inside, though. Didn’t stop him from wanting to confide in someone that even he, the great survivor Charlie Jackson, was tired and scared.

Charlie sidled up to his side and gripped his shoulder, squeezing understanding and love into him, knowing the kid was hurting and scared but too stubborn to show it.

Denver gave Charlie a quick nod and a smile, and suddenly the hurt on his face was no longer buried deep somewhere inside. “I still can’t believe we’re going in one of their ships. Are you sure Aimee’s telling the truth?” Denver said, changing the unspoken subject.

“I’m almost certain. Hagellan, the creature who ran the Earth program, gave her the information—”

Denver’s features twisted into a grimace. “Seriously? We should kill him for what he’s done. Why are you even considering helping?”

Charlie sighed. “Don’t think I haven’t been tempted, son. But bigger things are at stake. It appears that the croatoan standard mode of operation for troublesome planets is to annihilate them. If the alien bastard is lying and tries to contact its fleet or whatever, remember, we’ll be the ones with the bomb. We just watch our backs. I don’t trust them, but we can’t risk not doing it.”

“You’re right. There’s no way we can trust them alone with a working craft and a bomb,” Denver said. “We have to go—even if it is some kind of trap.”

Denver’s quick logic impressed Charlie. Charlie had wrestled with the decision, letting history cloud his own judgment, but Denver saw it as instantly black or white. Charlie wondered if complacency had slipped into his own thinking. Stripping all emotion out of the decision made the choice obvious. Den had a knack of doing that—but was that healthy? Sometimes decisions needed that nuance, the third choice from the gray area. Although in this situation, he and his son were on the same page. He just hoped the others, wherever they were, would understand.

The rain pelted down, drumming loudly against the porch roof and forming puddles on the muddy ground outside. The guard who accompanied them dropped his root cigarette and twisted it into the mud with his boot. He turned and approached the cabin.

Charlie lowered his voice. “Don’t talk about this to anyone. Not even the guard. There’s division in this town, and we don’t know who might take an exception.”

The guard thumped up the three wooden steps leading to the porch and stood facing Charlie. He ruffled his mousy hair and wiped his hands on his dark blue woolly sweater. “I saw your fight in the arena. Nice move. He wasn’t expecting that.”

“Fight in the arena?” Denver said, looking slightly confused.

“Long story, son. I’ll tell you later,” Charlie replied. He turned to the guard. “You mean it wasn’t expecting that?”

The guard gripped his rifle, still slung, as if in warning. “Listen, old man. We’re an integrated community. If you know of anything better out there, with food, water and security, why don’t you tell me? Because I sure as shit haven’t seen anything else. In this town the aliens are he and she, not it. There’s mutual respect here.”

Charlie stepped forward. “If you call me old man again, you’ll be picking up your teeth with a broken arm. Now, let’s do this the civil way, shall we, since you’re all about respect. I’m Charlie Jackson, and this is my son, Denver. What’s your name, boy?”