Critical Path

“It’s okay,” Mai said before Mike could protest. “You go with them, love, and I’ll stay behind to finish the bomb. Our time is short; it makes sense for us to use it as best we can.”

Of course she would say that. It’s one of the qualities he had come to love about her. She would always see the logical path even if it meant personal pain. Since they met, they’d never spent a single day apart. Even now, the thought of leaving her behind while he went with the others gripped him with a paralyzing fear. But he knew she was right. If what Layla was saying was true and he could help, then he couldn’t say no, even if it meant spending time apart from Mai.

Time he would never get back, and time that could be his last.

“Okay,” Mike said reluctantly, keeping his eyes locked with Mai’s. “I’ll go. Give me an hour or so first; I need to make plans.”

“Sure,” Layla said, standing and urging Maria to follow her. “We’ll fetch you at 1900.”

Mike just nodded to her as they left the lab. He approached Mai and brought her in close for a hug.

“I’d rather not leave you behind,” he said, whispering into her ear.

“I know, but they need you. And you’ll be fine. It’s just an engineering problem. You’ll be back here in no time.”

Mike wasn’t so sure. He didn’t trust the croatoans as far as he could throw them. Working on their behalf felt like a betrayal of everything they had done to survive, but if Charlie needed him, then he couldn’t say no, especially after the sacrifice the boy was prepared to make for them before.

For now, though, he would enjoy Mai’s company until he had to go, knowing this might be the last time he saw her. He hugged her tight and tried not to suggest they run off together. The world was bigger than them. Sacrifices had to be made.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too. Now, let’s go over the final plans for the bomb. There’s a few snags I’d like to put past you before you head off.”

“Always the practical one,” Mike said, releasing his hug.

“One of us has to be,” she said with her mischievous grin.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Shadows moved in unnatural ways, catching Denver’s attention as he himself stood shrouded in the darkness that haunted the corners of the room.

For an hour or more Denver had paced the living area of their new, guarded abode. From his position, he watched through the plastic-sheet windows out into Unity from approximately halfway up the steps carved into the basin of the drained lake.

Charlie snored from the other room, the tiredness caused by days of struggle and uncertainty expressed in the sound of a man who probably hadn’t slept as deeply for weeks. Even when they were in one of their shelters, Charlie always slept light, alert, and ready to move at a moment’s notice.

Just like Denver. Which was why, as the sun came up to the east of the settlement, and the low-raking light cast its shadows, Denver spotted deliberately concealed movement; someone was stalking through the shacks and light-constructed dwellings. From one alley to another, this robed figure wove a maze-like pattern of progress, double-backing on themselves, checking for followers, but always heading to the north of the basin—to Charlie and Denver’s new prison by another name.

Definitely human, he thought, spying them through the window from his dark corner. The robes reminded him of the people he saw when observing from the root field. The swollen lump on the back of his head throbbed a reminder. This time, he kept his back to the wall of the chalet.

Warm light, fractured by tall pines on Unity’s perimeter, gave the living room more character than it deserved. Built from old reclaimed sheets of plywood, the interior wasn’t exactly plush. With no soft furnishings or furniture beyond a wooden bench and a rickety table, the place felt more like a cell than it did a home.

The human guards outside didn’t give it that homely feel either. They were relieved by a new shift three or so hours ago in the predawn. For someone who said she trusted and needed Denver and Charlie, this Aimee woman certainly had a funny way of showing it.

A dripping tap was at the end of the open-plan room. A basin, made from a bucket fixed to a wooden cabinet, echoed with each drop from the hosepipe. It snaked its way out of the chalet to a water tank he had spotted on the roof that caught and stored rainwater.

The stale taste was still in Denver’s mouth. They had assured him it was filtered, but he had tasted fresher from the root-infested rivers and brooks he and his dad frequented.

At least those had some active root compound in them.

Denver’s muscles protested with tiredness as he slid closer to the window for a closer look. His body ached to their bones. Root withdrawal. Layla would be so pleased for him, but he just felt like a weak puppy. Like Pip. That was the reason he took care of her. The runt of the litter, she didn’t get what she needed from her mother—she needed Denver.

And now, apparently, so did the world—if Aimee were to be believed.