Critical Path

“Ryan, and I’m not a boy,” he said, eyeing Charlie up and down for a brief moment before his grip relaxed away from his rifle. “Is it true about the alien ships, that they were gonna change Earth’s atmosphere? One of the guys at the tavern reckons Augustus made it up for dramatic effect.”

The mention of Augustus made Charlie’s skin crawl. “It’s true about the ships, and Augustus was well involved, trying to change our planet and kill every human, including you. If your town wants long-term security, you should make killing that bastard your number one priority.”

“Most of the town hates him.” Ryan shrugged. “But he pays people off with stuff that we don’t have access to. Preinvasion alcohol, equipment brought from the south, books, stuff like that.”

“He’s just scavenging on a hover-bike. You can find that stuff in most of the cities,” Denver said. “There’s a lot out there—it’s a big world outside of this place.”

“I’ve never been out of Unity,” Ryan said with a hint of melancholy.

“What about your parents?” Charlie said. “Didn’t they teach you anything?”

Ryan shook his head. “They died when I was young. A cholera outbreak wiped out fifty percent of Unity in its early days when we were first cut off from all the fighting.”

Charlie tried to imagine Ryan’s mentality. Everything here would seem normal. The arena, ghosts from the past, running the town and croatoans. Charlie’s old world would be like an alien world to him. Ryan had never surfed the net, played on a computer, or spoke on a cell. His idea of working technology would be hover-bikes, tracking beads, and that damned alien rifle he slung over his shoulder, rather than the broken old parts of Charlie’s former world.

A metal wind chime attached to the porch’s roof tinkled in the growing wind.

“I’m starving. Are you two coming in?” Charlie said.

“My orders are to stay outside,” Ryan said “You could always bring me something… if that’s okay? We’re on rations these days while the council agrees on new crop yields.”

“Suit yourself,” Denver said. “I’ll see if I can rustle you up a hot drink.”

Denver disappeared inside, and Charlie followed him into the living area. The place smelled like a rabbit hutch.

“There’s a kitchen here,” Denver said, wandering through an open entrance to his right. An old brown leather couch sat in the middle of the room, with a glass table in front of it. On the table, surrounded by dry orange rings, lay an open encyclopedia.

Charlie flicked through the pages covering the Roman Empire.

Entire sections had been crossed out, with revisions neatly written along the margin—no doubt Augustus’ work. Charlie smiled. “What an idiot.”

To his left, a cream mask hung on the wall—Augustus’ spare. Charlie walked over a threadbare Persian rug partially covering the room’s exposed floorboards and took the mask off a nail. Disgusted with it, he moved to the open door and tossed the mask out like a Frisbee. Ryan glanced at him and then at the mask spinning through the air. It shattered after crashing into the back of the house on the first step.

Denver called from the kitchen, “We’re in business in here.”

Ignoring Ryan’s confused expression, Charlie strode back into the house and joined Denver. The kitchen consisted of a stainless steel sink and drainer with cupboards below. Tatty cardboard boxes were stacked at the end of the room, along with five large water cooler tanks. They brought back memories of the ones in his office. Of how he and Pippa used to stand around it, chatting, Charlie trying to keep a cool line between casual work colleagues, good friends, and potential lovers—and failing; Mike laughing at his latest gaff as Pippa ordered him back to work with a smirk on her face.

It didn’t even feel like a lifetime ago. It felt like an eternity. Was he even that person anymore, deep down? He didn’t recognize himself in these memories, the carefree thrill-seeker… there was little joy and humor and excitement in his life now. He had dedicated so much of his time and mental energies to survival that he had forgot who he was.

Denver sat amongst the emptied contents of a box on the floor, surrounded by plastic bags of dried pasta, rusting cans with no labels, and an open box of tea bags. He leaned over a camping stove, heating a pot of water. “See if you can find any mugs, Dad. There’s none here.”

“Will do,” Charlie said. He turned and headed for an entrance on the other side of the living area. Inside, he swelled with pride. Denver survived and got on with the immediate jobs at hand without whining or asking questions. The boy was the toughest son of a gun he’d ever known—including his old Guard buddies.

Which brought him to his current issue: the mission.