Critical Path

“That’s a fair point,” Denver said. “But on the other hand, Maria is a clone—what if she has the croatoan knowledge hidden away that could be activated. Wouldn’t that be of great importance to us? Imagine the advantage we would have.”

“But we don’t know what we’re flying into on this gate world of theirs—and this activation thing might not be something we can do, if Maria would be at all happy to even contemplate it.”

Denver sighed and realized he was viewing Maria in the same way as the croatoans viewed most of humanity—as tools and resources. “Okay, Layla it is—if she wants to go.”

He didn’t really like the idea. He would have preferred for her to stay behind where it was safer. But it would be her choice, not his.

Turning to face Hagellan, Charlie said, “We’ve someone in mind for our third choice. What about you? Who are you taking along on this merry little jaunt of ours?”

“I will decide in due time. For now, though, I wanted to share with you information given to me by my junior engineers about the state of the ship and what is required to repair it. They have given me a list of parts needed. When your engineer friend arrives, I’d like for you to present him with this. We don’t have the skills here to complete the project. If we’re to get to the gate world, we’re going to need to work—”

“Peace and cooperation,” Denver said, cutting him off. “We get it.”

Charlie took the datapad of information from the alien. For a blink of an eye with each of them holding one end of the pad, Denver expected a confrontation to take place, as they paused, each not willing to give in to the other.

Finally, Hagellan let go and Charlie took the pad.

“We’ll be in touch,” Charlie said, leading Denver out of the tunnel as Hagellan stared on impassively. When they got into the tunnels Denver noticed one of the emissaries in their robes skulking away into the shadows as though they had been just outside, listening in.

Something about the way they moved bothered Denver. It was familiar, and not at all like how he’d seen the other robed figures moving, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He put it down to the effects of root-withdrawal and followed his father up through the tunnels as they headed back to their chalet.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Gregor, wearing a long robe to disguise himself, dashed along a muddy street, following Augustus’ directions to the croatoans’ underground entrance.

He was to scout out the area and make sure that Hagellan was indeed where the spy’s report suggested. Once located, Gregor could plan for his assassination.

An attack ship poked out of a sinkhole on the edge of town.

Two peasant men approached in the opposite direction. He pulled the robe’s hood further over his face, looked down, and squeezed the handle of his concealed dagger. People in town didn’t know him yet, and an unfamiliar face might arouse suspicion.

Looking at the houses and dirty workshops, he realized the potential of Unity. It had the feel of his village just outside Yerevan, where he was raised on a pig farm.

From there, he rose to lead his gang in the city from nothing. They called him Pig Boy when he first arrived.

A few severed tongues put an end to that nickname. Here, he already had an advantage in the form of Augustus. As much as Gregor hated the man, he had given him a chance to run something again, and to get revenge on the croatoans.

“Morning,” one of the men said, his breath vapor visible in the chilly morning air. Gregor grunted a response and stepped to the other side of the road.

“One of the weird cultists,” he heard the other one say as they continued past without issue.

Once clear of the cluttered, dung-filled urban area, Gregor stopped and stared through the increasing dawn light at the root growing along the lower steps of the basin.

There was tons of the stuff, half of it ready to harvest.

He’d need twenty men to police an area that size. They would have to start growing it in a smaller protected space and keep the seeds locked away.

Create more demand and control the supply. Back to the good old days.

No more running around, putting up with Denver and his smug ideals. Once powerful enough, Augustus wouldn’t control him either. Others had made the mistake of thinking Gregor would be satisfied with scraps off the table.

He smiled to himself and headed for the sinkhole.

Gregor ducked behind a small sheep pen after hearing faint voices. He squinted through a gap in the planks. People headed to the entrance of the croatoan ship. Three of them: two tall and one small.

One had the recognizable strut of Charlie Jackson. Denver walked by his side. The other was dressed in a robe. Possibly Maria. They must be in cahoots with the croatoans.

This was too good to be true.

It seemed everything had come full circle, and it played perfectly into Gregor’s hands. He would lead the resistance and end up owning a town for his troubles.

They slipped through a small door in the side of the vessel.