Stars Gods Wolves: Book One: Carrion

by Dan Kirshtein

  Gally’s eyes softened. The smallest sympathetic smile appeared on her face. “I was raised around soldiers, Jim,” she told him. “I think you do.”

  After staring at her for a long time, Nitro shrugged. He took a moment and let out a few sighs. “So, fine. Let’s say we do get the ship and get off the ground. Follow those burn marks.” Gally turned and followed his instructions, seeing the large, black cannon that the black trails led up to. “They’re just gonna shoot us down again.”

  She was happy to see him being productive, and spoke as if giving him something he always wanted. “You wanna trash it?”

  “I do, I really do,” he grinned, zoomed out, and took a step back. “I’ll ask Boomer if he brought enough to take it down. He goes off, takes out the big gun, we swing by with our new ship and pick him up.” His grin fell off his face as he examined the rest of the complex. “It’s still a shit plan.”

  She leaned on a nearby wall and slid to the floor, staring at him as if they’d just been introduced. “You know, you’re awfully negative for a man who’s done this before.”

  “I’m negative because I’ve done this before.” He grinned at her and gently punched her shoulder as he walked by her. At least, he punched where her shoulder should have been, in the bulky suit. “It’s like I can see into the—” Nitro’s foot stopped short, his head drooping forward slightly as he paused.

  Gally turned back to look at him, unaware of his odd pose until she saw him. “What’s wrong?”

  He shushed her, waving a hand behind him, as if she was a loud and unintuitive child. Taking his hint, she remained silent, though she did stand. After not being able to trace his eyeline, she listened.

  A very faint buzzing could be heard. Nitro enabled his binoculars again and saw them instantly: four of the Eighth rode buzzing snow-gliders. “Tracks,” he grumbled.

  “What?” Gally asked, puzzled.

  “We left fucking tracks!” Nitro turned and threw open the door to the steps, barreling down them two at a time. Gally ran behind him, although not as fast or coordinated.

  They never told Ula who the large one-piece suit belonged to, but they told her it would keep her warm. And it did, but it was about twice her size. She’d worn it proudly, like a costume, despite the sleeves constantly having to be pulled up. As she sat at the table, they’d fallen once again, nearly dipping into her second MRE. It was the best food she’d had in some time, and she heard the others joke that it was as if Ox had never left. She didn’t know who that was, and Josie wouldn’t tell her.

  It was strange, because Josie answered nearly every other question she asked. The mercenary even did things for her that her family used to do, like folding her sleeves up at the slight hint that she was getting frustrated. Ula watched the mercenary’s Human-colored hands work gently and diligently to make sure the sleeves were snug against her arm. When she was finished, she gently slapped the side of the helmet.

  Ula grinned as she leaned in the direction of the slap. She continued to eat, hearing Josie sit down on the floor behind her. She’d been cleaning her guns, and Ula had learned that doing that made them work better. She’d learned a lot of things recently, because she’d asked a lot of questions. In fact, one of the few times she wasn’t asking questions was while she was eating.

  The last time she’d had a warm meal was when her parents were alive, so she felt the need to talk about them. Her voice didn’t carry the same inquisitive tone; this time it was nostalgic and wondrous. “And he would bring back food and toys and books,” she continued before shoving food into her mouth. Josie hummed an acknowledgement as the Herulean girl heard footsteps.

  She glanced to her side to see Boomer approaching the table with a helmet in his hand. He placed it on the table and went to grab the one off Ula’s head. She ducked him, and finally turned her whole body to give him a look. She thought he was being very rude.

  The demolitions expert paused, looking at her expectantly. A moment passed before Boomer lifted the helmet he brought over and spoke into the coms so she could understand him. “This one’s yours.” He shook it, as if to tempt her with something new.

  Ula grew up with an older brother, and knew shenanigans when she saw them. With a slight frown, she shook her head, tapping the helmet she was already wearing. “This one’s mine.” She looked at him matter-of-factly.

  “No, that one’s mine. I wore it first,” Boomer insisted, frustrated that he needed to have this conversation. As much of an intrusion as this was on her meal, she was happy to be reminded of her brother. She remembered how angry he’d get if she was just quiet and stubborn. Ula shook her head, returning to her meal. It worked; Boomer pressed her again. “Look, they’re literally the same helmet.”

  “Nope, they’re not,” she responded, chewing contently.

  Ula heard Josie laugh before joining the argument. “Boomer, just keep that one.”

  “It doesn’t fit right!” he complained, looking at her the way Ula’s brother used to look at their mom during such arguments.

  But Josie didn’t respond the way a mother did; she responded in a confused and humored tone. “They’re the same helmet.”

  “No, they’re not!” Boomer replied before his eyes snapped back down to her. He must have thought he was out of range of the translator. But he wasn’t. Ula turned back to her food, giving it a triumphant grin as Boomer stormed off. “Doesn’t fit right,” she heard him grumble as he walked away.

  She heard Josie return to cleaning her sidearms, and the lack of voices brought out the hum of the battery pack charging nearby. Eventually, Josie spoke again, a smile behind her voice. “What kind of books do you like?” she asked, as if the past few seconds had never happened.

  Ula instantly leapt into the conversation. “All of them!” the translator crackled as she nearly yelled into it. Then, Ula remembered the boring books she’d read since she left home, and felt it necessary to add a requisite or two. “As long as it’s a good story. And a happy ending. And the girl is smart.” She took time to think and chew at the same time. “But the girl can be dumb sometimes. Everybody’s dumb sometimes.”

  “Not Boomer; he’s dumb all the time,” Josie said, just loud enough for Boomer—who was only in the next room—to hear. The two mercenaries shot each other looks, and Josie took a piece of her sidearm and pretended to fire a disassembled gun at him. He responded by showing her the piece remaining of what used to be a middle finger.

  “HAH!” Ula leaned her head back, and the helmet fell off. Josie just made out the words as they fell out of earshot of the translator. “Dumb Boomer.” The helmet crashed to the floor, and Ula took a moment before going to collect it. Her long braid hit the floor, and she swept it up. Josie waved a hand in a ‘come here’ motion, and Ula did, tripping over the too-big suit a few times before slumping between the mercenary’s legs. She leaned her back against the mercenary’s stomach, and Josie began to fix her braids.

  The hair was damaged, dirty, and hadn’t been tended to in months. Herulean hair was thick, more like hay than hair. Yet, somehow, it still laid the same, still dirtied the same. As Josie combed out the braid, Ula wondered how a bald girl would know how to do these things.

  But as she combed, Ula felt more relaxed, calmer, more at home. It was something she hadn’t felt in months. Tears welled up in her eyes. Her voice cracked. “I miss my mom.” It was in Herulean, and she was without her translator. She didn’t expect Josie to understand the words, but the mercenary seemed to understand the sentiment. Her hands grew gentler, and rather than try to fix the braid, she just continued combing as Ula cried.

  Josie stared at the girl, trying her best not to think of her own parents, her own rough upbringing that made her want to join the military. These softer moments that crept into her life made her think of the civilian life she had left behind. She wondered what would have happened if she’d stayed; who she would have become.

  Breaking the silence, Nitro’s voice burst over the coms; he was
shouting and sounded as if he was running. “Purple Company! Initiate Send-Away protocol Alpha! We are hosting a surprise party for guests coming from the west!” Josie snapped into action and collected her things. She patted the girl’s back and stood up to gather the rest of her equipment. Ula, of course, had plenty of questions that went unanswered.

  Boomer kicked open a bathroom door to find Doctor Howlette terrified and only half-finished shaving. “Time to go!” he yelled as he entered. “Go! Go! Go!” Boomer kept repeating as he pushed the doctor, whose face was still half-covered in shaving cream, from the room.

  Harper, whose helmet was off when Nitro gave the orders, watched everyone spring into action from the most comfortable couch he could find. He stood up, realizing he should do something. Finding nothing after putting on his helmet and environmental suit, he rushed up to Josie. “What can I do?”

  Her tone was appreciative but firm. In truth, he was the most capable one outside of the Company, and she knew it. “Round up the doctors and lead them east.” Harper nodded, looking around for Lee and Mitch. The instructions were easy enough. “Make yourself seen. Don’t go too fast unless they start shooting.” The nodding stopped, and he looked at her. For some reason, he never anticipated anyone to start shooting. She looked back at him. “Don’t think about it. We do our jobs, and they won’t make it that far.” She punched his arm to make sure he was paying attention, and he nodded again before departing. “And grab the girl!” she shouted as an afterthought.

  “Nitro’s got her,” he called back.

  “Idiot,” she called out, eyes closed in frustration. “The blue one!” Harper froze and reversed, scooping Ula into his arms before hustling around the building.

  7

  Bale,

  I don’t have time to explain how bad of an idea this is.

  I know it’s hard. Nobody else wants to leave either. But we have to. Or we’ll die.

  You need to come with us.

  I convinced Madda not to leave right away. We’re gonna try to wait for you, but we can’t wait long.

  Think of your family. Your kids.

  You don’t want them growing up here. It’s not what it used to be, and it’s only going to get worse.

  Think about it. Please.

  -D.

  Sabile:

  Ruins, just outside of the hotel

  Boomer lay in waiting, grumbling that he was unable to use his weapons of expertise. Apparently, the captain had a plan that called for every one of his demolitions. Not a single one could be used on these scouts. “Appetizers,” he grunted, looking through the scope of his rifle with his one good eye. He wiggled, uncomfortable in his perch. It was a flat balcony with no railings: perfect for a sniper. Boomer was not a sniper.

  Josie was stationed on the opposite side of the street, crouched above a doorway. She unhinged a knob from the side of her rifle—technically, the rifle was originally issued to Ox, but he never used it—before pushing it forward, and a bayonet extended from the rifle’s barrel. She didn’t use her scope, but she listened for them. The lieutenant had enough experience with snow-gliders to know when it was close. Her breathing quickened as she closed her eyes.

  Nitro had the tough job in this protocol, a job normally reserved for himself and Ox: They would be taking the two remaining riders from the front. After all, this was their maneuver; it was only fair they get the hard job. Still, it wasn’t the same without him. As the riders approached, Nitro questioned whether this was the proper call. He couldn’t shake why he felt that way—perhaps he was just missing his partner—but it felt as if something was about to go wrong, as if fate was suddenly breathing down his neck.

  Being this low, it was difficult to see too far out into the distance, but the tell-tale humming of the snow-gliders was all Josie needed. She felt the cold wind against her face, felt each frigid breath leave her lungs. After considerable waiting, she heard the glider reach her. Using one leg to push against the back of the building, she finally leapt when the time was right. She opened her eyes to see the glider directly below her. Its rider looked up at her too late.

  With a war cry, Josie plunged her bayonet deep into the front of the glider, directly into the controls. The glider suddenly became a centrifuge, spinning in circles. It whipped toward a nearby building, and, despite Josie making great efforts to stay aboard, it quickly became clear that it was no longer safe to do so. After an initial tug, the rifle remained in the vehicle. Josie’s eyes widened, watching herself be flung closer and closer to a building. With a loud grunt, she made one last, large pull at the rifle.

  It broke free, and Josie was thrown from the spinning vehicle at the last second as the whirling glider whipped its side directly into the ruins of a structure. The crash hadn’t killed the Eighth, but the resulting explosion certainly incapacitated it. Josie approached the wreck and noticed the rider trying to pry the remaining half of its body from the wreckage. She plugged a few rounds into it, point blank, and watched it collapse with a satisfying clunk.

  Boomer had finally grown uncomfortable. Unable to fidget with a detonation tube in his current position, he’d let one foot wiggle behind him and listened to the scraping it made. It had helped pass the time, and the rider had finally come into sight. Clearing his throat and ceasing his wiggling foot, he resumed his prone, sniping stance. After a deep inhale, he held out the exhale and pulled the trigger, once. Through his scope, he watched the purple bolt travel through the gray snow. It actually hit the target. He yipped, impressed with himself.

  A small smirk broke onto his face as he adjusted his positioning once again, wiggling his shoulders in satisfaction. He waited for the glider to get closer before firing again. The second shot was a miss, but the third felled the rider. Once it was dismounted, Boomer fired several shots more into the Eighth until it was smoking and unmoving. With a grunt and an approving nod, Boomer surmised that was enough.

  Nitro cocked his head, seeing only one glider approach him. He had to ignore that something had to be wrong. He had to act like it wasn’t until he’d gotten confirmation. With a sneer, he began firing on his enemy as soon as it got close. The shots landed, but they didn’t stop his target. The sneer turned into an angry groan, and he leapt upon his rider, tackling it into the snow. The glider carried on for a short time before slowing to a halt, bumping into a nearby building. Wrestling with the driver, Nitro learned that they were not as easy to kill as he’d originally thought. The tackle quickly turned into a brawl. The Eighth swung a right arm up at the captain. It was a hard hit that turned into a hard push, flipping Nitro over his foe.

  The landing nearly knocked the wind out of him, but he was able to follow his enemy with his rifle, landing several shots that ended the fight once he landed. With snow in his eyes, he quickly spun around to get a better view of his adversary before he confirmed it was dead. Panting, he wiped himself off before he spoke into the coms with a bloodied lip. “Purple Company. Report.” He was out of breath, but satisfied.

  “One down.” Josie’s voice was as casual and calm as always.

  “One down.” Boomer was heard as well.

  Nitro glanced at his fallen foe, a growing concern on his face. He was supposed to have the hard job; one of them had to fight two. His jaw tightened, more out of fear than anger. “Say again?”

  “One down,” they each repeated.

  Nitro let out a long, growl of a curse before making a mad dash back to his kill’s glider. Only barely knowing the controls, he gunned it as fast as he could, back to the civilian caravan.

  Further along, Gally walked with the doctors, Harper, Ula, and Mitch. They trudged through the snow at a pace that Harper had vaguely deemed ‘not too fast’, but fear urged them all along at a brisker pace than usual. And while Gally and Harper led them, she watched the pilot continually stick an arm out to slow the doctors who seemed to want to run.

  She admired his forced serenity, the way he seemed to be so calm on the inside while falling apart on the o
utside. His head was slightly lowered, his mouth hung open in the cold, and the hand that wasn’t being used to herd the others was carrying Ula.

  “What do you think, Ula?” Gally tried to lighten the mood. “You think Harper would make a good shepherd?” Harper’s helmet shifted to his left and she could make out the smallest smirk under his visor.

  Ula took this question to heart and began a serious examination of the man, albeit she could only do it from about the chest up from her current position. “No,” she answered, decidedly.

  Gally laughed, watching Harper take offense before realizing it was rhetorical anyway. “Nah, me neither,” she added. “He’s more of a—” she trailed off for a moment. Before she could finish the thought, a familiar humming caught her ear. When she recognized it, her face tensed. “Shit.” She turned and ran off.

  Ula’s eyes burst open and her jaw dropped before turning back to Harper and placing a hand on each shoulder. “Listen to me.” Gally could still hear the translation over the coms. “You are not a shit.”

  Mitch met up with Gally, pointing to the ruins. “Into the buildings,” he urged, and they all started to seek shelter.

  “No,” Gally stopped them. “We hide, and we’re the enemy. They haven’t started shooting at us yet.” She watched Harper turn to them. She could tell he wanted to argue, wanted to bring up his ship. She was grateful when he didn’t, but his point was made by the way he shifted Ula to his other arm. This freed his right arm to unhook the clip in his holster, should the need arise to free the pistol.

  They didn’t have time to argue: a tense silence overcame them as the glider slowed. One of the Eighth stepped off the vehicle and approached the group, holding its own rifle lowered in its arms. It was silent, lacking any of the whirring or mechanical sounds Gally had heard of when she read the reports on the automatons.