Stars Gods Wolves

by Dan Kirshtein

  “Fifty thousand currency,” the AI chirped. “Estimated time of com—“

  “Sydney, stop!” Harper interrupted, realizing the volume on the frame. He quickly ran to the bay doors and closed them, though they did not close quickly. Once they did, a faint light flickered to life within the bay: one of the very few remaining bells and whistles. “Sydney, volume three.” A white light atop the frame’s scalp confirmed the change of volume, and Harper looked around to collect himself. This was a year’s haul, currency wise, to him and to many others in his line of work. Contracts were few and far between, and this one seemed too good to be read aloud to any nearby curious ears. Once Harper was satisfied, he sat back down upon the crate, this time much more interested, and asked again to open the contract.

  “Fifty thousand currency. Estimated time of completion: Four weeks. Cargo: Six passengers and one hundred and fifty pounds of cargo. First destination: Heru. Second destination: Sabile. Objective: Retrieve sixth passenger and transport to second destination. Six return trip passengers anticipated. Mission contact: Secretary G. Ramone. Do you accept?”

  Harper was befuddled by how simple the job seemed, considering the amount of money. His jaw hung open, and he blinked. After scratching some whiskers on his face, he leaned back on the crate. And while he was, of course, interested in knowing about the job, a very different kind of curiosity overtook him. “Sydney, run the bio on the mission contact.”

  “Galadriel Ramone, Secretary of Orbital Relations. Origin: Earth. Current Residence: Bridos-1. Born: Twenty-two eighty-one.”

  Harper raised an eyebrow when he realized the good money was due to it being a government job, which meant the girl had to be a higher-up. He exhaled, rubbed his eyes, and thought heavily. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to accept the contract, but he hesitated due to horror stories he’d heard on his travels. From these stories, an easy contract never paid well. And a contract that paid well was never easy. This was the largest contract he’d ever heard of, let alone been offered.

  “Sydney.” The AI’s frame flashed a patient white as Harper felt a weight on his chest. Four weeks, he reminded himself, would pay as well as a year’s work. “Accept contract.” And before he had a chance to fully make or regret his decision, the ping was sent back.

  “Acceptance acknowledged.” The frame replied immediately. “Pickup in Loading Zone Seven. ETA: Two hours.”

  The Atticus was a sturdy, albeit small vessel—on the outside, that is. On the inside, it was so cramped with garbage and empty crates, from weeks of neglect, that Harper had specifically taken jobs without passengers to avoid cleaning it. With a sigh, he looked around the cargo bay. When he looked back at Sydney’s frame, he patted it on what would be its cheek. “We got some work to do, darlin’.”

  Jupiter Proximity Station:

  Econo-Hotel, Room 81

  Downtime, to a group like the Purple Company, was torturous and plentiful. And after several mishaps throughout their established time together, a rule was made. They were not to leave whatever hotel room they were staying in, unless it was for work. Because of this, the time between jobs seemed interminable.

  Boomer, somehow, found a way to occupy himself. He took up juggling: that is, he’d find things to throw and attempt to catch them again. This time, it was a tea mug. A small smile illuminated his scarred face as he walked into the living room, repeatedly throwing the mug and catching it. He thought he was doing quite well, especially for a one-eyed man who was missing a few fingers. He slowly approached the two before taking a moment to look at Ox.

  The Waykind was sitting cross-legged with his massive hands resting on his tiny knees, holding his staff in open and upward-facing palms. His large eyes were closed, and his meditative breathing was loud enough to compete with the air conditioner. He faced the wall and was so deep in meditation that he paid no attention to Boomer’s escapades. Nor did he notice the random pieces of hotel accouterments that had been carefully balanced on him, one at a time, by Josie.

  As she knelt next to Ox, she noticed her favorite tea mug being casually hurled into the air, only to be miraculously caught again. Her lips twitched, wanting to shout, but not being able to do so out of fear of waking Ox. Even so, when Boomer finally saw her, he knew what the look meant; she’d given it to him quite often. It didn’t have the vein-bulge that came with the “bathrooms are not a group activity” face, but still possessed the wide eyes of the “stop talking, right now” expression. And while he didn’t know exactly what she was mad about, he knew enough to stop what he was doing immediately. Catching the mug a final time, he walked over and silently knelt down on the opposite side of the Waykind.

  Josie seemed to calm down and lifted the remote for the media player, carefully balancing it in the middle of the staff. She slowly removed her fingers from the remote and leaned back, giving Boomer a triumphant look as the remote remained where she’d placed it.

  Boomer giggled and leaned forward; the only thing in his hand being the mug, he placed it on Ox’s forearm. He then leaned back, victoriously, and puffed up his chest.

  Josie’s lip curled before she raised a tiny bottle of shampoo, carefully navigating it to land on the Waykind’s shoulder. She watched it stand on its own before she looked to Boomer again.

  It was at this moment that Boomer realized he was no longer boredly passing the time with a curiosity; he was being challenged! His brows fell slightly, and he patted his body for something else to balance. Finding nothing, he lifted an index finger, asking Josie to wait a moment, while he leapt away. Upon his return, he carried a detonation tube, and displayed it to Josie as if he was clever.

  Her eyes widened with, what Boomer imagined to be, impending defeat. The demolitions expert carefully placed the tube onto Ox’s right shoulder, and slowly drew his hand away.

  He sat back and crossed his arms, certain that he’d won the game. A proud grin, full of yellow teeth, was flashed at the mercenary on the other side of the Waykind. Still, he couldn’t read Josie’s expression. She was either utterly defeated or very nervous. She slowly tried to rise to her feet, and Boomer soon realized she was headed for the detonation tube. He rose to block her, but the slamming of a door caught their attention.

  Historically speaking, waking a Waykind from meditation isn’t a dangerous thing to do. Normally, they awake, slightly flustered, as if from a nap. Sometimes, they misfire a spell of some kind, like throwing a punch when startled from a sound sleep. Neither of those are particularly dangerous scenarios. That is, unless someone had placed a grenade on their shoulder.

  After slamming the door, Nitro proudly held up a tablet. “We got a job!” he shouted, brandishing it like the ten commandments. He watched as the Waykind startled and flushed a spell from his body, a great force of wind flying through him. Every item that was placed atop his body, save for the staff, was flung in front of him: this included one fashion magazine, one media remote, one shampoo, one conditioner, one favorite tea mug, and a detonation tube.

  The wall in front of the Waykind burst after a brief and tiny purple explosion. Once the smoke cleared and the rubble fell away, a circular hole revealed a man in his pajamas, standing at a stove. The man had turned, with one leg still in the air, his body curled slightly.

  Boomer gave an apologetic smile to the man while he slowly stepped back. He turned that smile back to Nitro, who put his forehead in his palm before turning away. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “Just be ready in two hours.” He opened the door and walked through it again; this time he was careful not to slam it.

  Jupiter Proximity Station:

  Loading Zone Seven

  Harper stepped off the Atticus and looked out. He squinted and noticed a group of people on the landing zone walking toward the ship. Four soldiers with discerning faces approached. At least, they carried soldier-like equipment, but they were unlike anything Harper had seen before—especially the big, furry one. As they approached, Harper suddenly felt very out of place. One
by one, each of them gave the ship a look of disapproval, which didn’t ease Harper in the least.

  Nitro was at the end of the line and extended a mysteriously wet hand to shake. “Or should I be saluting?” Nitro eyed him wilily, with a small grin.

  Harper took the hand, shook it, and then awkwardly met Nitro’s gaze. “Oh, no, my military days are behind me.” His face changed to a polite smile. “Call me Harper.”

  Nitro nodded before breaking from the handshake. He didn’t feel the need for further introductions: he could spot a pilot a mile away, and he found they didn’t lead the most interesting lives. He was grateful Harper didn’t seem to push the conversation further. “Ramone not here yet?” Nitro asked before the pilot shrugged.

  When Harper turned to watch the rest of Purple Company make themselves at home aboard his ship, he made a mental list of complaints about his passengers: one of them was about two hundred pounds larger than expected, the woman loaded a cigarette cartridge the instant she stepped into the bay, and the scraggly-haired man had a probably-hard-to-wash-out smell. Harper held his tongue on all that, as it only annoyed him, but wouldn’t affect the job. What he finally commented on was what weighed on his mind as inherently dangerous. “I don’t usually transport military.”

  “We’re not.” Nitro gave a half-smile as his hand dove into his pocket, pulling out a small sheet of paper. “Purple Company, independent contractors.”

  Harper winced, finally giving his own discerning look as he read the paper. “Mercenaries?” He hadn’t bothered to hold the paper; he could only imagine where it had been. He glanced behind the captain to see less-than-standard-issue explosives being less-than-expertly loaded onto his ship. His eye twitched.

  “Independents.” Nitro’s voice lowered. He seemed to take issue with the term ‘mercenaries’. His face tightened and his eyebrows dropped, as if he’d practiced looking more professional and streamlined. It didn’t help. Harper bit his lip, his eyelids flat and unimpressed. An old-fashioned electric scooter approached. It didn’t hover, it wasn’t auto-piloted, and it carried a very slight-framed woman. She waved at them with an arm that carried a satchel around it.

  Harper raised a stiff hand back. Nitro only stared into the distance.

  The wheels on the mechanical scooter came to a slow stop in front of the men. Once it was folded up, she extended a hand of her own to each man. Nitro shook it first, before his eyes fell upon a large overnight bag. His head jolted back to the freshly showered woman who was already on her way to shake Harper’s hand. “Secretary Ramone. Good to, officially, meet you both.” She carried herself so quickly, so one-second-to-the-next, as if they were already running behind schedule. They were quite used to the rush in the military, but the way she did it was unlike anything they’d ever seen.

  ”Wait a minute,” Nitro mumbled, drowned out by Harper briefing Gally on the Atticus’s specs. She also didn’t seem to notice Nitro’s confusion, as she expressed that she’d found the ship to be adequate for the job. Harper just seemed excited to be speaking, even if it was over the captain. “Wait a minute,” Nitro tried, a bit louder, to interject into the conversation, but that also fell on deaf ears, as Harper warned her that he wasn’t government or familiar with their codes or practices. Still not glancing at Nitro, Gally assured the pilot that his experience was, indeed, what she was looking for. Nitro could no longer be polite. He stepped closer between them and finally blurted out something in what was hardly a space in the conversation. “Wait a minute. You’re coming with us?”

  The brief halt in the conversation between Gally and Harper did not come with silence; Gally did not miss a beat. Matter-of-factly, she met eyes with him and nodded. “Will that be a problem, Captain?” Her eyes were expectant, firm, but her tone was more business-like than aggressive.

  Nitro looked away for a second, then back to her with a face that did its best to hold something back. They’d never included civilians in their missions before; any non-military team members would only get in the way: it was absolutely a problem. “No problem at all, ma’am.” He gave her a practiced poker face. “My crew is just hazy on some of the details of this op, is all.”

  She smiled back at him. “I’ll be happy to fill you in.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “Once we’re out of orbit.” And she walked past him. Harper followed like a lost puppy.

  “Shit.” Nitro stood staring into the distance before shaking his head. He cursed to himself once more before spitting on the tarmac. He didn’t like the situation, but a contract was a contract. He knew that would be small consolation to the others, but they’d accept it. After all, he told himself, he was crazier than all of them put together. He had to be.

  Shaking his head, Nitro tried to psych himself up. He found himself jumping in place as the bay doors closed; he had to be reminded to take a seat. They were going to be fine, he told himself. They were going to be fine.

  2

  Capt. Dockson,

  Contrary to what you might think, it is not the job of a soldier to ask questions.

  It is not the job of a soldier to think or feel things.

  You’re a goddamn bullet in a gun.

  You’re one of many, you’re replaceable, and you serve a fuckin’ purpose.

  You are to fall in line, trust your handler, and strike whichever target you are told to strike!

  Now, I’m tickled pink about your promotion to captain. Truly, I am.

  And while I do not take kindly to threats, I understand your reasons for wanting to walk away from Maj. Torno’s division.

  I do hope you’ll reconsider.

  Signed,

  Maj. Wendell Thompson,

  43rd Infantry

  July 30th, 2299

  Black Box Drive:

  File Recorded: 37 days ago

  Vessel: The Ballpoint

  Security Level Required for Viewing: Mid-B

  Lieutenant Stephen Ramone was coming to terms with his own demise. He and the remaining bridge crew stood, backs to the wall, outside their bridge. Their uniforms were rust-colored and less form-fitting than more combat-focused crewmen would wear. They were a scientific vessel, mostly, which was why they’d been taken so easily. It was also why the other crewmen had begun to panic as they stood in the hallway: They hadn’t fought anyone since boot camp. The door to the bridge had been closed for some time, and while they knew the captain to be a calm, stubborn man, they eventually heard him screaming. The screaming turned to sobbing, which led to begging, but still carried an insistence that he and his crew knew nothing.

  Ramone straightened his posture as he considered what he actually knew, wondering if he’d unwittingly learned any top secret information that the assailants might interrogate him over. He tried to steel himself—as he hoped the others did—against the wails of their tortured captain. He admired the man for trying to save everyone, not just himself. Even so, the screaming kept coming. It was peppered between wails, proclamations of ignorance, and the smell of burning flesh. Amid those things, a voice the lieutenant didn’t recognize clearly said the word “transmission”.

  Ramone’s head jolted slightly at the realization that they had, in fact, received some newly classified transmissions. While none of the crew knew exactly what these entailed, Stephen recalled the captain taking extra precautions to ensure exactly that. Compartmentalization, as a tool of subterfuge, was useful to the higher-ups: to those who would suffer due to the loss of information. But for the lower-ranking soldiers and scientists, those who would be tortured to death for information they truly didn’t know, it was damning. Stephen felt his throat clench with this thought, so he cleared it.

  In front of him and his men walked one of the Eighth. They were six feet tall, with onyx-like plating that shined like the hood of a freshly washed black car. No wires were shown, save for their necks, but the occasional light would flicker, as on a computer when it’s thinking particularly hard. Above the plating, their faces were chrome and fierce
-looking. Their densely built bodies were incredibly strong and completely autonomous. One of them kept guard, pacing in front of Ramone and his crew, its thick plating taunting them with their own scared reflections.

  “Ramone.” Stephen turned his head slightly when he heard Second Officer Daye call out to him. From what little he knew of the officer, Daye was a man of strategy and battle simulations. He would recall these things the way one would recall pop culture movies, at every opportunity and without provocation. He was a bore to be around most days, but Ramone noticed a fatalistic look in his eye, and paid close attention.

  “Awfully nice weather we’re having, wouldn’t you say?” Stephen glanced over, knowing full well the officer was speaking in code. The other officers tightened up, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. “Reminds me of Vega Two.” The words, taken literally, were neither hostile nor revealing of any intent. They slipped right by trigger words that would have caught their guard’s attention.

  Lieutenant Ramone had, years ago, been part of an away team with the second officer, which visited Vega Two. While it hadn’t gone according to plan, the away team would go on to recall how Stephen had almost died, choking on the planet’s gaseous atmosphere. The lieutenant nodded to Daye, and coughed.

  He twisted his body and hacked and wheezed so violently and so forcefully that one of the Eighth came over to address him. It was pounced upon by the other officers in a flurry of kicking and beating. The plate armor was too strong for such a primitive display of force, but it bought the second officer time to pull the invader’s rifle from its grip. Stephen turned to see the red spark of laser fire hit the guard’s face, point-blank.