Critical Path (The Critical Series Book2) (16 page)

Frustrated, he strode across the cell and battered the flats of his fists against the door and bellowed through the bars, “Hey, anyone out there? What the hell is this? You want to just leave me here for nothing? Hey! Answer me, you bastards.”

No response apart from a derisive howl from what sounded like a croatoan somewhere at the end of the passageway. He carried on yelling until, finally, his throat became sore. He turned his back, resigned to rotting in the cell with no answers, when a metallic noise rattled from the darkness.

A screech of a hinge sounded, followed by soft footsteps and the jangle of keys. Weak light glowed in the corridor and grew brighter as it came closer. A silhouette of a heavyset human from behind the light blocked out Denver’s view completely.

“Stand back. Don’t try anything, or it will be your last action,” came the voice, deep and gravelly. Definitely a male human with an accent he couldn’t quite make out due to its almost tonal neutrality.

Denver did as he was asked and stepped back, but bounced on his haunches and balled his fists, ready to attack the person as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

The door opened.

Denver tensed, ready to pounce.

A barrel of a gun pressed against his chest, freezing him in place.

“Turn around,” the voice commanded. “You say a thing and I empty this magazine into you, do you understand?”

“I understand,” Denver said, turning around slowly. “Who are you? Where am I?”

“Shut up,” the voice said. “You’ll know everything later if you don’t do anything stupid. Hands behind your back and get on your knees.”

For a brief moment, Denver considered hitting a crouch and spinning, driving into the guard, but he couldn’t be entirely sure he didn’t have backup. Not wanting to risk anything, he did as he suggested. His time would come; he just needed to be patient and wait it out.

A pair of cold iron shackles bound his wrists. The guard pulled a sack over his head, obscuring his vision. It stank of rotting vegetables and sweat. How many other prisoners had this thing been stuck on? How many people’s last breaths had coated the inside of the material? However many there were, Denver didn’t intend to add his to them.

“Get up. We’re going for a walk. Same rules apply. You do anything stupid, I gun you down. Pretty easy rules to follow unless you’re a suicidal maniac. Are you?”

“I wasn’t,” Denver said. “Can’t guarantee anything now, though. Where are we going?”

No response, just the press of the barrel into the back of his head. He gritted his teeth and leaned forward, imagining the violence he would enact on this asshole if and when he got his chance. He stood up and waited for further instruction. A hand grabbed him by the shoulder and aimed him toward the door.

“You just keep walking. I’ll tell you when to stop,” the voice said.

Denver gingerly stepped forward, trying to get his balance. He initially made to dart away, but he soon realized that his shackles were tethered to a chain. The guard yanked him back as a subtle reminder.

“Go on,” the guard said, and Denver did as he was told, stepping forward, trying to analyze this location from the surface of the ground. So far all he could tell was that he was still in the prison with its soft dirt floor. After a few minutes of doors opening and closing, he felt chilled air on his hands. His clothes flapped against his skin as a gentle wind breezed against him.

Through the sackcloth, the lightness of day bled through, but he couldn’t make out any detail. The surface underfoot had changed to gravel. And then back to dirt, but harder this time, compacted like a well-trodden path.

Probing him in the back with the gun barrel, the guard urged Denver on through a number of twisting, turning roads and pathways until finally they came to a section of stone steps. One by one, Denver climbed. He counted twenty-three steps in total as they reached the top.

“Wait,” the voice said. The chain rattled as the guard moved out from behind him and knocked on a door a few meters away. It creaked open and the sound of hushed voices followed. A tug on the chain made Denver stumble forward, but he managed to regain his balance as he followed the unsubtle direction inside to a larger building. He was pulled further in and made to kneel.

“Take it off,” a female voice said.

The hood came off with a single movement.

Denver found himself kneeling in the middle of a room in front of a raised platform. Sitting on a chair, drinking wine and looking at him as though he were some kind of hunting trophy, a woman smiled at him. She looked up beyond him and nodded an order.

The guard dropped the chain and exited the room. By the time Denver turned his head, the guard had already left and closed the door. Turning back to the woman, Denver stood up and thought about rushing her with a shoulder charge, but her serenity and body language told him she wasn’t a threat—yet.

“Who are you?” Denver asked.

“Call me Aimee,” she responded, turning in her chair to face him directly. “I’m sorry that we’ve had to meet like this. Usually we don’t take outsiders prisoner, but you were spying on us, and quite heavily armed. You have to understand that I take the safety of my people seriously.”

“And who are your people exactly? And where the hell am I?”

Aimee stood and held her arms wide and aloft. “You, my intriguing spy, are in Unity. A safe settlement built by humans and croatoans alike. My people have lived here, quite separately and happily, for generations. When we were cut off from the main fighting before the ice age started, we, that is humans and croatoans, realized we didn’t need to fight each other when we could live together.”

Denver curled his lip in a sneer at the thought of any alien helping humans to survive. He had to admit, though, that she was incredibly sincere in her words, but then he had met many a psycho who truly believed their own bullshit. He rattled the shackles. “Are you going to let me go? What is it you want from me?”

“That depends on you.”

“How so?”

Aimee sat back down and crossed her legs as she sipped from her wineglass. Denver noticed the table had recently hosted a feast of sorts. Plates of bread and vegetables and meat adorned the surface among the candlesticks.

“If you answer my questions truthfully, I’ll let you go—if you want to, that is.”

Denver noticed the sly smile on her face. She was clearly hiding something.

“What does that mean? If I want to?”

“I’ll have an offer for you that you might well take,” Aimee said, placing the wineglass back and standing up from the chair. She paced the room as she continued. “But let’s start with some basics, shall we? What’s your name, and where are you from?”

“Denver, from around.”

“Around, eh? You seem well equipped for coming from ‘around.’ Who’s on the other end of your communication device?”

Denver didn’t answer.

Aimee smiled and inclined her head to him. “I understand. So, Denver, what were you doing spying on us?”

“Just having a look. I’m curious like that.”

“So you didn’t happen to come across a croatoan on your travels?”

“I see them occasionally,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

Aimee sighed and turned to him. “Okay, let’s stop all this nonsense, shall we? Baliska, release him from the shackles.”

From behind him the shadows shifted and a large croatoan figure stepped out and loomed over Denver. It unclasped the shackles and sidestepped away. Denver turned to face it and thought he was looking at a ghost.

Could that be… was that…

“You know him?” Aimee said, but Denver wasn’t sure who she was talking to.

The croatoan leaned forward and snarled.

It was him! The bastard hunter from Manhattan… but Charlie had killed him, how… Denver noticed the healed wound across its body. Somehow, it had survived. Denver balled his fists and took up a defensive stance.

Baliska did the same. The two squared up to each other. Even with Denver’s height he had to look up to see into the creature’s eyes. The stared at each other, both flaring their nostrils, waiting for the other to back down.

The situation ended when Denver heard a crackle of energy from behind him.

“You two, calm down; otherwise you’re both going back to your cells.”

Denver turned his head. Aimee held a pole with a black box on the end. Two extended prongs crackled with an arc of electricity. She wielded it like a spear. “Baliska, back off,” she ordered.

Reluctantly, the croatoan nodded its head slightly and did as she commanded, slinking back into the shadows to the side of the room. Stepping forward, Aimee brought the makeshift spear up to Denver’s chest. “You know him?” she asked, pointing her head to the alien.

“Yeah, kinda. We have history. I thought my father had killed it.”

“Him,” Aimee corrected. “He has a name. Who is your father?”

“The guy who defeated… him, and took down the bastards’ ship. The guy who your lot here took from the escape pods after you slaughtered the other aliens. How did that sit with your croatoan population?”

Aimee backed off and a confused expression came over her face. “Wait… Charlie Jackson is your father?”

“Yes,” Denver said. “That’s why I was spying on this place. I came to bring him home.”

“He was responsible for bringing down the alien ships?”

“Damn right he was.”

“This changes everything. Baliska, fetch Charlie Jackson and bring him here, immediately.”

***

Denver stood from his chair and stared in surprise as the door opened and his dad walked in, escorted by Baliska. He rushed toward him, not caring about the alien or what Aimee would do, and hugged his dad tight. Charlie wrapped his arms around Denver and lifted him up.

They stared at each other, both clearly not believing they had been reunited, especially in these circumstances. The alien skulked around the table, where it sat with its great arms crossed over its chest, like some kind of sentinel waiting to do Aimee’s bidding.

“Please,” Aimee said to them both, “come and sit. We’ve much to discuss.”

Ignoring her, Denver released his father and stepped back to get a good look at him. “You’re looking a bit beat up, but you’re still here, still breathing.”

“Takes more than one of Mike’s bombs to end me, son. Besides, I knew I was gonna miss this place. It’s great to see you again. I never thought I would… not with, well, let’s not get carried away here. You’re safe, I’m safe, that’s all that matters. How are the others?”

Aimee cleared her throat. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Speed is of the essence.”

Before Charlie could answer, the door flew open, smashing against the stone wall. Augustus, flanked by two thuggish men armed with small scythes, stormed in.

“I demand to know what’s happening,” Augustus said.

Charlie, Denver and Baliska stood up from the table and prepared for a fight.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Aimee smiled at Augustus. He returned a glare and straightened his mask. The lying whore had escaped his assassination attempt. His team from the local tavern screwed up. Worse still, she probably had assistance from his stolen property, Jackson and Baliska. Both stood at the far end of the table in Aimee’s chamber, ready for action. Another fool, tall with red hair, completed the cabal of snakes.

He clenched both fists. He raised his quivering right hand toward Aimee and extended a bony finger. “I demand to know what’s going on. Who gave you permission to take my prisoners?”

Aimee let out a long sigh. “Your prisoners, Augustus? This is my town. I own every prisoner. You’re only welcome as long as you understand that.”

He leaned forward on the table. “Jackson is my property.”

“We’re not in ancient Rome, and your mother ship is gone,” she said, looking down her nose. If they were alone in the room, he wouldn’t think twice about slitting the bitch’s throat. “Unity has no slaves, only prisoners.”

Aimee backed away and stood behind the two men and large creature at the end of the room. Baliska hopped a couple of steps forward. Jackson scowled at Augustus. They would pay for this contempt.

“Who’s the freak?” the man with the red hair asked Charlie.

Augustus smashed his fist on the table and pointed at the newcomer. “Who is this cretin?”

“I’m Denver Jackson. Who are you?”

“Jackson… you must be Charlie’s bastard.” Feeling betrayed and out of the loop, he couldn’t contain a sudden surge of extra anger.

He picked up a wine cup and threw it against the wall.

Orange wine splashed everywhere as the goblet bounced off and landed by his feet. “His son!? Why wasn’t I informed of his presence?”

The conniving went way deeper than Augustus expected. These people would pay with their lives.

Charlie put his arm around Denver. “Son, meet Augustus. A supposed Roman emperor, chief croatoan ass kisser and loser of empires.”

Augustus thought about picking up a china plate and throwing it at Charlie’s face, but decided against it. He brought muscle with him, no need to get his hands dirty by fighting the peasants. “Is he really your son, Charlie? Gregor told me he’s a bastard. The red hair leads me to believe that lazy piece of shit told the truth.”

Denver made to launch forward, but Charlie held him back.

“You’re testing my patience,” Aimee said. “Do you know anything about an attack on me this morning?”

Augustus sneered. She had already tested his patience to its limit. “I can think of at least a hundred people who would like you dead. You may not realize it, but you’re not as universally liked as you think you are, nor half as clever. The underclass listen to me. I keep them content instead of letting them revolt.”

Aimee’s brow furrowed. “How is that even possible? You’ve only lived here for a few weeks. Before that, you were just an occasional visitor. Most have never even mentioned your name. I think you’re letting your ego get to you again.”

He may have exaggerated his position, but he would convince more of the population of her meddling and duplicity.

After the failed attempt on her life, he needed more time and leverage.

Charlie Jackson would do for now. If she had any respect for ancient law, Aimee would not resist. “I’m taking my prisoners back to their cells. You know it’s my right to do so.”