Critical Path

Gregor sat on a bench opposite his desk and fumbled with the manacles attached around his wrists. Augustus squatted in a chair behind his maple desk and tipped a terracotta jug filled with root wine into his metal cup.

His need for it had become greater since losing the ability to take the root intravenously. He took a large mouthful and gazed at his useless former employee, who pointlessly struggled with the secured bolt.

“You’re wasting your time,” Augustus said. “Stop messing around and let me concentrate for a minute.”

He sliced the end of a pencil with his dagger, shaving off thin strips of wood until he produced a sharp point of lead, and began sketching a map of Unity on a mottled piece of paper.

Gregor’s chains continued to clink.

Augustus applied more pressure as he drew Aimee’s residence.

The pencil lead snapped.

“Jupiter’s cock! Be still, you fucking cretin,” Augustus shouted.

“If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with,” Gregor said with a stern expression of defiance that made Augustus remember why he’d recruited him all those years ago in Vladikavkaz.

Gregor’s gang had put up stiff resistance against the croatoan onslaught, and he’d run a section of the city like his own little empire. He’d proved effective at keeping discipline on a farm, but ended up being useless with anything more complicated, like managing harvester quotas or attempting to crush Jackson.

However, Gregor hated Jackson even more so than Augustus. He would use that—channel the imbecilic oaf to do his bidding.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Augustus said. “That evil bitch wants you to fight in the arena, but I can spare you. How do you feel about joining my team again?”

Gregor sniffed, cleared his throat, and spat on the floor. “You’re forgetting that you ordered my execution, you mutated freak.”

Augustus winced at the jibe, now suddenly self-conscious about the burns and scars on his face. At least he had a spare mask in his cabin.

Despite his desire to not care, he thought about getting the mask later. “There’s no need to get personal. I didn’t give the order.”

“Bullshit,” Gregor said. He looked around the sparse, whitewashed walls of the ludus office and cackled. “How the mighty have fallen. From running over two thousand farms to being stuck in a shitty little office, under the thumb of a woman in a frilly dress.”

Augustus clenched his dagger and stood up before relaxing back in his chair. There was no need for a giant stag to lock horns with an insect like Gregor. “I am under no thumb, especially not Aimee Rivery’s, or whatever she calls herself nowadays. I can make you or break you. The decision is yours. Do you want to work for me or fight a monster in the arena?”

Gregor narrowed his eyes. “Why don’t you just go fu—”

The guard knocked on the office door four times, slow and deliberate—the signal that one of his spies had news.

“One moment,” Augustus said.

He sprang up and shuffled to the door. He opened it ajar, peeping out of the gap. The barwoman stood next to Augustus’ guard. He nodded at him, and she handed him a rolled-up piece of paper. “Your report on the cult. You might want to read it straight away.”

“Thank you. Have a guard give you a leg of ham. You can also choose an item from my storeroom.”

He closed the door and returned to his chair. Every time he’d visited Unity before Jackson wrecked the ships, Augustus would bring items along with him and stockpile them in the storeroom.

Things like shampoo, knives, cutlery sets and coffee. Usually confiscated from workers on farms. Normal items in the previous world, but now few and far between in Unity and excellent for bribing purposes.

“You have people delivering reports?” Gregor said.

Augustus sat back and unrolled the paper. “I’m a lot more powerful than you probably realize. A house arrest won’t stop me. Unity owes its very existence…”

He leaned toward the paper. Read through the text again. Squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. He took a deep breath and mentally counted to five.

Hagellan was alive! Hiding underground and conspiring with Aimee! She kept it all a secret. They were both probably planning against him.

Augustus screwed the paper into a tight ball and crushed it in his fist.

“The backstabbing whore,” he muttered under his breath.

“Not good news I take it?” Gregor said.

Augustus roared, reached under the desk, and flipped it over. Root wine splashed over the floor. The jug smashed on the stone surface, shattering into pieces. His cup bounced with a clink and rolled, stopping by Gregor’s feet. The spiteful gangster kicked it away.

“I’m going to watch vultures feed on Aimee’s rotting corpse!”

He kicked his chair with the bottom of his sandal. It slammed against the wall.

Gregor’s eyes shot to the dagger. Augustus leapt around the table and picked it up. He pressed it to the gangster’s cheek with just enough force to draw blood. “Thinking of using this against me? Do not mock me or I’ll slice your throat from ear to ear.”