Critical Path

She raised her dress a couple of inches and splashed through a shallow muddy puddle. He leaned against the wall and rubbed his temples.

The gangster’s actions had sealed his fate, and Charlie couldn’t risk his life and compromise the mission by trying anything heroically and pointlessly stupid. He sighed and resigned himself to the fact that this was the world he now lived in, but he wouldn’t be one of the bawling voyeurs on the arena steps.

He just wanted to get it over with and then help with the ship.

A guard jabbed his muzzle into Charlie’s shoulder. “This isn’t an invite you can refuse. Pass on what you see to the other new arrivals. Let them know the price of disloyalty.”

Aimee turned and gestured him forward. “It’s politics. The town will see that you and your friends are with me and not aligned to his actions.”

Charlie slammed his heel into the wall, shook his head, and followed Aimee toward the bloodthirsty congregation.

* * *

Gregor’s eyes fluttered open. Cold water dripped from his head, joining the dry specks of his own blood on the stone floor. A guard stood over him, holding a metal bucket. The bastard laughed and threw it into the corner of the cell.

He grabbed a clump of Gregor’s hair and ripped his head back. “Showtime in three minutes. Say your prayers, fuck-face.”

Gregor gathered the little saliva he had and spat. The guard grimaced and wiped his cheek. He leaned forward and swung his fist into Gregor’s ribs.

Inwardly, his whole body bloomed with pain. He sucked in a breath and coughed out spittle and blood. He refused to show signs of pain and smiled. “That the best you’ve got?”

Another guard entered and aimed a double-barreled shotgun at his face. The sound of a crowd cheering echoed along the corridor. He had seen the fighting area while being dragged to the cell.

They would not be entertained at his expense. He refused to go out on the terms of this shitty town.

Bucket guard unfastened his manacles and shoved him against the wall.

The other jerked his shotgun toward the arena. “You fuck around and I’ll blow your head off. This way.”

A sharp pain shot through Gregor’s right thigh as he tried to walk. He dropped to one knee, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. They would not get to see him like this.

He steadily rose, trying to push away the agony, and walked slowly toward the entrance of the fighting area, but couldn’t hide his limp.

Bucket guard followed. “Looks like he’s shit himself.”

The other laughed.

If Gregor got out of this alive, he would mash both of their faces with a jackhammer and have a great deal of pleasure doing it.

He reached the gate and clung to the bars. He didn’t have much energy left, and the effects of his last shot of root had evaporated a couple of hours ago.

One uniformed croatoan lay on the sandy surface outside. Another stood above it, holding a spear. Yellow blood dripped off the pointed head. It thrust the weapon down into its opponent’s chest, sending the crowd into a pleased rapture.

Two men appeared and carried the dead alien away. The winner looked up. Its cobalt blue visor glinted in the sun. The crowd fell silent, and a high-pitched voice addressed the alien before a guard led it away to a ripple of applause.

A broadsword and buckler landed at Gregor’s feet. He shook his head and looked outside.

Something sharp poked in his back. “Pick it up.”

Gregor looked to his side. “Fuck you.”

A boot slammed into his bad leg. He sank to the ground, hissed through his teeth, and clutched his thigh.

“I said, pick it up.”

Gregor grabbed the sword and spun. The blade sliced through the air and clanked against the stone wall to his side.

Both guards had retreated several yards. One aimed the shotgun at his face.

Bucket laughed. “You must think we were born yesterday?”

Gregor jabbed a finger at him. “When I get out of this, I promise you one thing—”

A bolt screeched along its latch. The gate behind him yawned open.

“You’re up next,” a croaky voice said. “Come out nice and slow and face Aimee.”

Gregor kept his focus on the two internal guards. Both needed to be taught a lesson.

Powerful hands grabbed both of his shoulders and dragged him back, threw him down on the filthy surface and dropped the sword next to him.

He scrambled to a crouch, shielded his eyes from the sun, and looked around.

Hundreds of people and aliens stood on steps above a wall surrounding the fighting surface. Watching him. Aimee sat on a high chair in a sectioned-off area. She casually wafted a fan in front of her face.

Charlie Jackson sat next to her. He looked away when Gregor attempted eye contact. Coward.

A squat man dressed in a brown jumpsuit rose from his chair. The crowd’s buzz of anticipation fell silent.

Gregor used the sword to haul himself up. He limped to below the sectioned-off area and pointed the tip of the blade at Aimee, then Charlie. “You’re next, bitch. Then you, Judas Jackson. I’ll cut your throat from ear to ear.”