Stars Gods Wolves: Book One: Carrion

by Dan Kirshtein

  The blow made him stumble, but Nitro immediately threw himself backward again, keeping his back against the vessel. “Never fought a can opener before. Thought it’d be fun.” He spat blood in Rook’s face, and the machine barely noticed.

  “That’s an insult, I imagine,” Rook sneered, exposing the speaker behind his lips. “But you have no idea what I am.” Another swing, this one headed for Nitro’s ribs. The captain blocked it with his one, dangling arm. The skin in his shoulder, the bone, the cartilage, was all stretched from the blow. Nitro let out a short, pained holler.

  “Your people imagine me to be some idiotic, straightforward mad robot, but I am remarkable. If I’d told you my real name during the transmission, you would not have come.” Nitro swung again, but Rook countered and kicked the captain in the leg, nearly dropping him. The captain recovered, bouncing, still keeping his back to the vessel. Nitro was beginning to notice that Rook nearly stopped trying to get the man away. His blows were less calculated by angle, and more by degree of pain. “I averted a civil war of my own people. I made a silent coup and overthrew the mainframe within weeks! All without firing a single shot!”

  Nitro somehow dodged a few blows in a row, his face swollen. “What the hell are you talking about, you Eighth Asshole?” Nitro didn’t mean to make a racial statement; he was speaking chronologically, meaning that seven assholes had preceded the general.

  Rook dropped its hands. “That’s just it, captain. I am the first of the Ninth.” Nitro dropped his hands as well, giving a defeated look to the machine. “And all of this, it’s just one of my many stockpiles of weapons. When the war comes, I will arrive at your doorstep and turn your people to ash.”

  Bloodied, exhausted, battered, Nitro gave his adversary a puzzled look. “What war?”

  The Ninth grinned. “The only war that will matter, captain.” It stepped toward him once more. “Retribution.”

  Martin finally approached the ground level, waving his half-arm. The other arm dug into his pocket and took out a small container filled with a green liquid. He ripped it open with his teeth before shouting to the captain. “Nitro! The substance is Mono-Clardite-based!”

  The captain didn’t have time to react. While not taking his eyes off his opponent, he shouted to the doctor. “Am I supposed to know—” Another blow landed against Nitro’s jaw, and he heard another snap.

  “It’s dissolvable with any amount of acidic substance!” Martin continued, ecstatic; the need to tell absolutely anybody radiated off of him. His smile turned to a cringe when he saw Nitro take yet another hit, this time to the stomach. “Uh, never mind, you’ll see.” Martin hurled the container.

  Two of the Eighth standing behind Rook fired. One of them fired at Martin’s stomach, dropping him instantly. The other laser ripped clean through Martin’s open, spinning container. It punctured the chemical vial and spilled all of the contents directly into the open vat atop the transport vessel.

  The Ninth’s eyes widened.

  Martin dropped to the ground with a smile on his face. Upon landing on his knees, he coughed up blood. But that didn’t stop him from craning his head to watch the vessel begin to rumble. “Nitro,” the captain looked to him, trusting him to be the only one who knew what was about to happen. The doctor’s white whiskers were spattered with blood, and his eyes were glassy yet warm. Nitro knew the doctor had to be in incredible pain, but his face didn’t reflect it. He looked very tired, but at peace. “Run,” he smiled.

  The captain took a step toward the doctor, not wanting to leave him behind but not seeing any choice. When he looked back to the container, the rumbling noise turned to a chewing noise, stubborn and awful. Nitro’s brow leapt upon the realization.

  The Eighth began to fire, not at Nitro, but at the vessel itself. Nitro took his chance to break into a sprint as laser fire ripped holes through the transport vessel. Carrion tore through the holes, their long claws and teeth easily breaking down the one side of the ship. Rook detached its rifle from its leg and fired as well.

  Clear liquid and blue bodies poured from the ship like a dam burst open. Rook stepped aside at the last second to avoid the incoming, massive wave. Carrion ripped through the Eighth with such brutality, it was hard to imagine they didn’t understand what had happened to them.

  Martin smiled, finally at peace, as he let his body droop to the floor.

  Sabile:

  Base of Operations of the Eighth: Just Outside the Central Factory

  A lone, black vessel had made its way top side, blasting its way through the base’s docking bay doors. Harper sat in the cockpit, while Ula sat in the co-pilot’s seat smiling widely. When the ship had reached high enough altitude, Gally and Ox approached the cockpit to see the turret that had originally shot them down was now in rubble. They both smiled to see Boomer’s sacrifice was not in vain, though Ox’s was more of pride than relief.

  Gally almost said something when a lone ping echoed through the headsets. Ula looked back in confusion to see Harper point to a nearby screen with a signal on it. “There they are!” He was in the middle of bringing the ship to the originating spot when the signal pinged again. And again. And again.

  Gally was annoyed at this point. “Nitro, we read you, we’re on our way!” She sighed, no longer on her coms. “For shit’s sake.”

  Ox’s bottom lip jutted upward before he departed the upper half of the ship. Knowing he was needed, he limped to the back of the vessel as the landing bay opened. The Waykind grappled a nearby bar with one hand, holding out his staff, ready to be needed at a moment’s notice. The ship hovered over the base and waited.

  Within moments, the pings came in rapidly again as laser bolts blasted through a nearby window. Leaping through it, the captain found himself on the roof once again. But this time, he was not alone: Two Carrion followed close behind. Looking over his open and bloodied shoulder, Nitro managed to blast one before taking off in a full sprint toward the ship.

  Gally, carrying her rifle, also departed the cockpit. She didn’t hear Harper call out to her, nor did she hear the roar of the engine or the laser fire in the distance. She walked slowly to the end of the cockpit and stood next to Ox. Bracing her shoulder against the side of the transport bay, she raised her rifle and looked for her target. All she saw, however, was Nitro running.

  As he ran, Nitro made a promise to himself. If, by some miracle, he survived this, he’d be done running, unless it was for recreation. He’d find himself a nice cushy job in some sunny, warm place. He didn’t know where, but if there was ever snow of any color, it was off his list of prospects. All he had to do was survive this one last mission; all he had to do was make it to that ship.

  He urged himself not to look behind him, as he knew the Carrion were right on his heels, and he was certain they were more experienced in the snow than he had become. As he ran, he saw something break through a small tower ahead of him: a menacing figure that walked slowly, not out of patience, but due to wounds. Long claw marks ran along Rook’s torso; pieces of it trailed off to the side. Even with some chunks missing, the automaton pressed on with a determination unlike any Nitro had ever encountered.

  “Ahhh,” Nitro groaned, firing a few blind shots from his rifle, hoping to cover his retreat. “Ox!” The captain howled the name, his voice crackling with fear as he made a hard turn, one foot walking clear off the roof of the building.

  From inside the ship, Ox raised his staff once more. Several bursts of rock charged from the planet’s surface, creating a platform to catch the captain before he had the chance to fall. Several others were made, creating a path of platforms, up to the ship. Nitro leapt from one to the next, and finally came upon one last, large gap between him and the ship.

  Rook continued its slow, wounded walk toward its targets. It would have fired on the ship, but several Carrion in its way proved to be a more immediate threat. After downing the last of the beasts in its path, it watched the captain nearly getting away. It did not fire upon him, but his means
of escape: the Waykind.

  Three bursts of laser pierced through Ox’s midsection. He gave a low, painful moan, falling to his back, rocking the vessel. Gally went to reach for him, but in doing so found Rook standing on the roof. She inhaled and raised her rifle, waiting for a clean shot. She saw several Carrion pounce upon the Ninth, though they didn’t last long. The last of them had caught Rook in the eye with a claw, nearly dropping her target.

  It looked defeated, but not killed. This was her chance. Gally’s eyes widened with anger, her nostrils flared. “Rook!” she shouted. Their eyes met. Her rifle turned toward the Ninth, but something else caught her eye: Several Carrion darted toward the ship. With a frustrated growl, Gally fired upon them instead.

  From the raised platforms, Nitro watched in horror as his friend fell. He realized that he had very little time to make the jump, and with Ox gone, no one could grab him if he failed. He put all his energy into this next charge, and he leapt with all his remaining strength.

  His legs flailed wildly while he was in the air, as if kicking would help. His outstretched hands barely clasped the landing, and his body swung below it. He screamed from the pain of hanging and yelled to Gally.

  He called to her again before she glanced down at him, though her attention quickly turned back to firing at Rook.

  Having taken several hits, Rook fired back, though it couldn’t land a shot due to the damage it sustained. One or two of her shots had landed, though they didn’t fell the automaton.

  “Gally!” Nitro called for the third time, and she finally grabbed him—by the wrong arm. “NO! NO! NO!” And she pulled. His scream rivaled any engine roar, but it didn’t last long. Gally soon pulled an unconscious man up onto the ship.

  When she recovered to fire at Rook, the cargo bay doors started to close. “No! Damn it!” she shouted, firing as many bolts as she could through the small space. “Harper! Goddamnit!” She pounded the side of the ship with a closed fist.

  The doors closed with a loud thud.

  The only sound that remained in the passenger bay was Ox’s panting: deep and low, vibrating the interior. Ula ran to his side and grabbed his arm. “No fear, little one.” She propped up his head as best she could. He was staring at something, though she couldn’t see what it was. “I see them,” he rumbled. He was referring to his mother and father. They were as young as the day he’d left, their appearance unchanged from his own memory. “They stayed with me.” It was nearly a question, given his tone. “After all I’ve done.”

  He smiled and leaned his head back more than Ula could stand. She slipped back and let his head fall. His eyes were still open. Gally leaned over his body, finally kneeling, and ran a hand over his face to close his eyes.

  9

  Hey little darlin’,

  Happy birthday!

  I know it’s probably not how you pictured it. Hell, for all I know, this may not even reach you in time, so uh.

  Sorry, I’m bad at this.

  Listen, just because mom and I aren’t together doesn’t mean we love you any less, okay? That sounds cliché, but I really need to say it. I don’t know.

  I know you’re angry or sad or disappointed or whatever. And I wanna tell you that those feelings are gonna go away, but they aren’t.

  You’re just gonna get better at handling them.

  Hell, I scream into a pillow sometimes.

  Mom screams at everything else.

  Bad joke. Sorry.

  Anyway, I want you to know that I’ll always love you. No matter what.

  And you can always call me, or send me holos while I’m gone, or whatever you need to do, because I love hearing from you.

  Love you lots.

  Transmission from the Terminal of 2LT. S. Ramone,

  File Sent February 8th, 2299

  Delivered February 9th, 2299

  Able: the first planet outside of the Milky Way colonized by Humans

  Marlock-Stevens Corporate Office

  Six months later

  Jim Dockson sat at a small desk on a summer’s day. At least, he remembered that it was summer from when he came in this morning. The air conditioning in the building made it frigid, but he was one of the few employees who never wore a coat. He’d gotten his own office due to his prosthetic arm clicking on the keyboard too loudly for the liking of his co-workers. He stretched his jaw and heard a click, still having a dull ache since it healed.

  Having been moved, he could no longer see the window—or the sun—from where he was seated, but if he leaned a bit, he could glance down the hall and see a window. If Golda wasn’t at his desk, he could stare for some time. If Golda was there, it was awkward.

  After checking to see if Golda was there—he was, and they met eyes for what Jim had turned into an uncomfortable hello—he went back to his desk and began to type. He hadn’t quite gotten the hang of typing, but he’d come a long way from when he’d started. Still, it involved more hunting and pecking than some of the others in the office.

  He had just finished drafting a letter when Orsa came in. Orsa was a tall Obbitale, a tad overweight and just barely squeezed into his white button-down shirt. He was also Jim’s supervisor. “Good Morning, James.” He rushed through the words to get them out of the way; he had no intention of being friendly. “Looks like you sent the customer the wrong file on the Wat-Utao account?” His long neck jutted out as he spoke in a polite yet accusatory tone.

  “Oh,” Jim looked down at his computer, going through the files transmitted. He saw the error; it was indeed the wrong file. “Yeah, sorry. I’ll send him the right one.” Jim nodded and went to correct the mistake before he realized Orsa hadn’t left his desk.

  There was silence as Jim’s head slowly turned back to his supervisor. “Why did you think that was the correct file?” he asked, his eyes pretending to drift casually onto Jim’s computer screen.

  “Uh, I didn’t, I just clicked the wrong one. I’ll send it over now.” His tone fought very hard to be professional, but there was a hint of annoyance in it.

  “Please do,” Orsa said, as if Jim had only just come to the conclusion. “The client needs to be informed as well so they don’t send the wrong form back.” The supervisor began to walk out. “So call him right away, please!”

  Jim bit his lip, shaking his head. After collecting himself, he put on his headset and dialed the number. It rang for a bit before a gruff voice picked up. “Hello.”

  “Mister Wat? Good morning. My name is Jim; I’m calling from Marlock-Stevens. How are you?”

  “Who’s calling?” the voice replied.

  Jim hesitated. “Jim—from Marlock-Stevens. We’re handling your transporting account?”

  “Oh,” the voice grunted. “Yeah.” And that seemed to be his response. After deciding not to expect more, Jim continued.

  “Looks like we sent you the wrong file by accident. I wanted to advise you not to send that one in, and I’ll be sending you the correct file in a second.”

  “What?”

  “I said—”

  “I heard what you said! Why did you send me that form?!”

  “It was an accident.” Jim’s voice was flat as he repeated himself. As an afterthought, he added, “sir.” He still wasn’t used to calling people that unless they ranked above him. And he hadn’t met people who ranked above him in a very long time. The word rolled off his tongue less easily now, as if it was cheapened each time it was used.

  “Well, that’s ridiculous. I’m not filling out two forms.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about that, but the second form is the one that’s needed in order to—”

  “Do you know how valuable my time is? I probably make ten times what you make! And you want me to fill out two forms now?”

  “No,” Jim tried to continue, but was interrupted again.

  “How stupid do you have to be to—”

  “Listen, buddy.” Jim drew the line, refusing to be chewed out by anyone not wearing stripes.

  “Buddy! Budd
y? We’re not friends, you little asshole! Let me speak to your supervisor right now!”

  “Yes, sir.” Jim’s left index finger did not even attempt to hit the transfer button. It simply ended the call. He took off his headset, leaned back in his chair, and waited; his prosthetic hand clenched without him realizing it. He tried to relax, and it opened.

  Sure enough, in the next room, he heard Orsa’s phone ringing. Jim leaned back further in his chair and put his feet up on the desk, and waited some more.

  Able:

  Veterans’ Cemetery

  Hours later, the recently unemployed James Dockson stood in front of four headstones: Zerich, Josie, Boomer, and Ox. All four had no caskets, no bodies. They were just headstones, and they didn’t even have legal names on them, but he felt that they would have wanted no more than that.

  The field seemed to stretch on forever, speckled with people visiting the graves of their family members and some veterans visiting former squad mates. None of them spoke to each other, only to the headstones. Jim soon learned it wasn’t exactly welcome to speak to the people here. They’d respond politely and then want to be left alone. He never understood that: coming to a place to feel lonely.

  Nitro found that he came here when civilian life didn’t make sense, which turned out to be quite often. He knelt down and sat in the grass, his crooked nose whistling as the wind blew back his salt-and-pepper hair. It had grown longer than he preferred, but it was still kept short by civilian standards. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what his old friends would have said about it. He smirked at the thought, which quickly turned to a frown.

  Nitro wanted to talk to them, but he was conflicted, as their bodies weren’t actually there. He wanted to tell them all how much he missed them, about how much he hated living without a fight. It was all so quiet and pointless to him; why couldn’t other people see that as well? He didn’t know how they all carried on, how they didn’t see what he saw.