The two aliens ahead stood behind a truck, yards away from the dumpster. They sprang out from their position and behind the dumpster in their strange bouncy style. Layla edged to one side for a better view. They headed for a side alley.
She heard a twanging noise. Something flicked into the street.
The two croatoans froze, looked at each other.
A huge eruption followed a blinding flash of light.
Layla flew backwards, skidding across the road surface. Small chunks of debris hit her body and face. The sound of masonry dropping, glass breaking and a booming echo through the buildings deafened her.
The alien pulled her up. She found it difficult to balance, tried to focus and patted herself down. They were surrounded in a veil of light brown dust, rays of sun tried to break through it.
Her ears rang with a high pitched tone. The croatoan clicked in an urgent tone and pulled her toward the dumpster, pointing its weapon from side to side.
Layla squinted and blinked, the dust stung her eyes. She coughed and swallowed, trying to clear her dry throat.
They came across the bottom half of a croatoan leg, boot still attached. Close by, half a broken visor rested in the weeds. An arm protruded from a pile of rubble.
The street became clearer as the dust settled. One of the lead scouts was still intact, slumped against a brick wall in a mangled shape. Its suit had returned to its former gray color, ripped in various places around the armor plates. The helmet visor was splintered, punctured in two places.
She felt the grip release on her shoulder. The alien dropped to one knee, bowed its head and clicked more slowly. It appeared to be grieving, Layla hadn’t seen this kind of emotion before, although she’d never witnessed one being killed in front of another.
Her opinion of croatoans since being recruited by Augustus had gradually grown to a solid appreciation. They were pragmatic. Working in small teams to achieve their objectives, never being led astray to carry out petty injustices or wasting time debating their moves. The aliens had a clear focus on the big picture.
An old human saying was look after the little things and the big things will take care of themselves. The croatoans tackled things in the opposite direction, so far it was working out.
Layla sighed and put her hand on the alien’s shoulder. The rhythm of its sounds increased. Going from something similar to the tick of a Grandfather clock to a fast dripping tap. It stood up, holstered its weapon and grabber Layla’s ponytail, forcing her head down to the side of its hip.
“What the hell are you doing?” she said.
“Hu-man,” it croaked.
“Get off me. I’m on your side.”
It ignored Layla and started dragging her toward the forest. She stumbled over plants and debris, trying to maintain its pace while keeping balance.
They crashed through the undergrowth, back in the direction of the hover-bikes. Her legs caught on weeds, the croatoan curled an arm around her chest and ripped her free.
“Please. Why are you doing this?”
The top of her head ached from the constant yanking. She staggered alongside, and they reached the clearing. The croatoan wrestled her onto the back of his hover-bike and raised a finger.
She nodded. “I’m won’t do a thing. I’ll help you report it. None of this was your fault… our fault.”
The engine started with a roar and the alien thrust the bars forward. They shot up to an unusually high altitude, faster than she’d ever seen the bikes move, they were usually graceful and steady. The croatoan twisted the right grip fully back and they surged forward, increasing to a dizzying speed, the trees below merging into a green blur.
Layla clung on for her life. Wind blasted against her face. The seat vibrated below her, and she yelped as they occasionally bounced like a jet-ski.
The warehouses quickly came into view.
They dipped like a shooting arrow near the end of its arc, heading straight for the square. The buildings grew in size by every second. She felt herself pressing against the alien because of the angle of descent.
At the last moment, as Layla feared some kind of mad emergency landing, the croatoan twisted the left grip and the bike shuddered to a hovering halt. It calmly pulled back the handlebars and the bike smoothly descended to the end of the line in the square.
The croatoan ignored Layla, dismounted and quickly walked to a barrack warehouse. She stood up and took a few deep breaths and rubbed her hands together to stop them shaking.
Alex raised her hand from the chocolate factory entrance. She walked across to the parked bikes. “Is everything okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Layla put her arm around her, leaned on her as they walked back toward Gregor’s office. “They’re changing Alex. Is Gregor about?”
“He’s chatting to Mr. Augustus, something about new targets.”
Chapter 15
GREGOR GRABBED a forty-year-old bottle of whiskey from his kitchen cupboard. He’d intended to open it when celebrating something. Appeasing Augustus would have to do, something to take the edge off him.
Single malt wasn’t going out of date any time soon, unlike most other pre-alien produce. It was a shame Augustus hadn’t rotted away like an unwanted microwave meal in a derelict supermarket. He sat at Gregor’s desk, caressing his stupid robe, with an armed croatoan behind each shoulder.
Gregor placed the green bottle down with a reassuring thump, and turned the tartan label in Augustus’s direction. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Augustus?”
“Don’t you offer all of your guests a drink?”
Gregor frowned. “I didn’t think that—”
“No, I don’t want a drink. We’ve got serious business to discuss.”
The croatoans clicked in unison. Augustus sat forward, placed his elbows on the desk and clasped his fingers together. His sunken eyes fixed on Gregor.
Gregor told himself to keep calm, not to betray a flicker of emotion. He wanted to gut Augustus like a fish, just like his former boss during Gregor’s successful putsch in 2009. Augustus and his old boss shared a lot of the same qualities. They made the men feel uneasy, behaved like kings and ultimately acted for themselves instead of for the wider gang benefit.
“It’s been raining a lot this month,” Gregor said. Augustus dismissively wafted his hand. “You said something about new targets, Mr. Augustus?”
“A global change of plan is required for all camps and farms. I’m here to tell you about the new directive and to set your targets for the next month.”
Gregor shifted uneasily in his chair. “Change of plan?”
“You’re required to double the land conversion statistics. We’re not going fast enough. I need a major push in the next few days.”
“That’s impossible. The six harvesters are working twenty four—”
“Five harvesters at the moment. You’ve let another one get sabotaged today.”
“I’m going to take care of that. It’s the same person,” Gregor said. He tried to think of a way to articulate the implausibility of the new expectations. The ground team were already fully maximized meeting the current requirements. “Will you be providing me with more equipment and resources?”
Augustus drummed his fingers on the table and slowly nodded. “It’s time to be frank with you, Gregor.”
He turned sideways, slipped his bony fingers around robe’s hood and pulled it back. The mask encased the front half of his head, and was held on with an elastic strap. Blotches of pink scarring covered the back half, surrounded by wispy brown hair. Augustus reached behind his crusty misshapen left ear and clicked the fastening loose. The mask sprang away and hung to one side. He turned back to Gregor.