by JA Huss
Contents
Clutch
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
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Acknowledgments
CLutcH
I Am Just Junco, Book One
By J. A. Huss
www.iamjustjunco.com
Edited by RJ Locksley
Cover art by Alex Tooth
Copyright © 2012 by J. A. Huss
All rights reserved.
ISBN-10: 1-936413-14-0
ISBN-13: 978-1-936413-14-0
Other books by J.A. Huss
Fledge (I Am Just Junco, Book 2)
Flight (I Am Just Junco, Book 3)
Range (I Am Just Junco Book 4)
The Magpie Bridge (A Tier Novella, Book 4.5)
TRAGIC (NA Contemporary Romance)
Losing Francesca (MYA/NA Contemporary Romance)
In 2152 the avian race is on Earth looking for something stolen from them decades ago – their genetics. At the center of the search lies the Rural Republic: a small backwards country with high hopes of military domination and a penchant for illegal bioengineering.
Nineteen year-old Junco Coot is the daughter of the Rural Republic's ranking commander. She's the most foul-mouthed, unpredictable and ruthless sniper the Rural Republic has ever trained. But when her father's death sparks a trip into forbidden places, she triggers events that will change everything she knows to be true.
As an elite avian military officer, Tier's mission is to destroy the bioengineering projects, kill Junco, and return home immediately. There's just one problem. Junco isn't who she claims to be.
With no one to trust, not even herself, Junco must confront the secrets of her past and accept her place in the future, or risk losing herself completely.
Chapter One
Picture yourself standing on the edge of a dock...
I shake my head.
Fuck that.
I'm standing on a dirt road barefoot, exhaust from the Goat swirling dust up my funeral dress, trying to make some sense of things.
The closed stop-gate in front of me signals the entrance to the Stag, but the antlered skull in the middle of the arm spawns a moment of pause. My eyes linger on the decorations only long enough to log them. Blood-red paint on the antlers, an old wooden arrow sticking out of one of the orbits, and a crown of acacia thorns draped around the tines.
A child's prank.
The cigar slips between my lips. I cup my hand to block the wind, touch the cigar to the striker, and suck in deeply as the end glows bright orange. They stink and they make me stink, but I don't care.
Today, I don't care about much.
I slam the Goat's door and walk towards the skull, then hear the tell-tale crack of a sonic boom and turn to squint at the sun as it loses its battle with the rotating earth. Peak City has been out of my sight line for hours but I know where it should be on the horizon. I find the contrail of a suborbital coming out of the north pointing back to my home.
Turning back to the gate, I watch as the wind picks up the strip of wood hovering across the sorry excuse for a road and makes it dance. A stray magpie lands and rides the skull with a rhythm that reminds me of better days. It watches me, tilts its head to the side, and squawks, "Away!"
I flick the cigar and chase the magpie away.
There is nothing here to stop my progress into the Stag but since this is a forbidden zone in the Rural Republic, I pause before taking this final step into disobedience. Consequences tend to mean less with the loss of precious things, so they mean nothing to me now.
Reaching up, I release my long auburn hair from the tie and let it flap around my face as the wind tries to carry it across the grasslands.
If only the wind would carry me across the grasslands.
My cold toes scrunch into the dirt and I remember my funeral shoes are in the backseat, discarded hours ago. I walk over to the Goat and fish around until I pull together a pair of field boots and some black thermals. I hike the warm leggings up to my hips and then sit on the edge of my old Humvee and meticulously lace up each boot so they are snug, but not tight.
A sheathed hunting knife is in danger of dropping through the rusted-out floorboard and I rescue it, stashing it inside the boot. Then I slide my shotgun onto the front seat and drop my little pistol into the crap box along with other items one usually finds in a vehicle. The lid drops closed with a snap.
In the end I didn't need to waste all this time in front of the gate. It was never a question of if I would go. Only when. I climb back into the front seat, jam the Goat in gear and veer off the road, pressing up against the low-hanging branches of cottonwoods that have crept up from the dry riverbed. I brace myself as my vehicle bounces down into the ditch and then jolts back up. I gun it as the tires lose a little traction in the rain-softened earth, swing her around the ominous gate, and surge back onto the dirt track that still thinks it is a road.
On the other side I stop once more to check for Peak City in the distance, but all I see is the magpie, back on the skull, riding it out. I flip it off and gun the Goat again. We lurch forward, sputtering out a cloud of smoke that could get you hanged in some parts of the world.
But not here.
The Rural Republic might officially be part of the United Republics, but that's pretty much where it ends. Our national motto is quaint. Simple Serves. A reference to the throwback life we are supposed to be leading. But if you're not from around here and need help, (which is strictly theoretical, we're a closed campus, kids) the answer you get is disinterest. If you're lucky.
The drive out to Stag Camp is a stretch of open road, peppered with the occasional falling-down farmhouse or small herd of antelope. So I settle in, light another cigar, and slide the window down even though the warm November afternoon has given in to the cold November evening.
Nothing to do now but think about the job. My eyes track to the passenger seat, past the shotgun, and come to rest upon the thick envelope pressed into my hands as I left the funeral several hours ago. The label on the front is machine-printed, but it doesn't say Junco. It says Dale. Resident of one Stag Camp in the middle of nowhere.
I push the funeral from my thoughts and allow the dying light to seep out of my world a little at a time. The eye-shine peering back at me from the side of the road as I take a wide turn clues me in that twilight is gone. The two glowing dots are far enough apart to estimate size and my body gives up an involuntary shiver as I run down the short list. Nightdog or prairie lion. Either one would eat me alive.
If they could catch me.
The sky is filled with stars long before I spy the dark shadow of the landmark hill in the distance. It's a slow climb that turns into a nightmare halfway up, then a flat patch t
o gather some steam so you can push your vehicle to its limit and struggle up the final grade that will plunge you over the other side.
I watch the approaching ridge with some trepidation. Once over it, I'll be more in than out. A sigh escapes my lips and I push the Goat until her body shakes, getting ready for the ascent.
We hit the hill going about 110, but the steep initial grade checks us and we lose speed quick. I downshift, then again, and by the time the grade evens back out for several hundred feet we are barely skimming 60. I gun it so we can gain some momentum to get over the hump and catch a little air as we clear the summit.
The buck in the road never has a chance. The Goat slams into the animal midair and the tendons and bones snap loudly in the cold night. The lower half of the deer slips under the tires, creating a slick mess of tissue and blood on the road. The head flies straight at my face and the bloodied antlers crash into the glass.
I slam on the brakes and the head loses its hold on the window and flies off out of sight. I hit a patch of greasy mud left over from the last rain and slide sideways, towards the edge of what may be a cliff, or just a gently rolling embankment.
I quickly correct, not waiting to find out, only to discover I'm now sliding backwards. I swing the wheel around, body parts flipping out from under the tires, and hit the brakes again. The Goat and I slip sideways into the ditch and I use the bounce to straighten out the wheels. When she comes down hard we're moving forward into a sparse grove of pines.
I force my foot down on the brake one more time, sliding sideways in the softened mud, and barely manage to aim between two old-growth Ponderosas as the lower branches slap against the doors.
I steer as best I can, but when you're racing a five-thousand-pound vehicle through a small forest, you tend to run out of luck sooner rather than later. A deep ditch of water erosion plunges the Goat down, but she recovers and jerks back up. My head hits the steering wheel and I feel the blood slip down my face, then taste iron as it trickles into my mouth. The Goat's front tires find another ditch and I lurch forward, cracking my head on what's left of the driver's side windshield. Finally we slam into the thick twisted trunk of a cottonwood. I have a second or two to moan, and then it all goes black.
Picture yourself standing on the edge of a dock. In front of you is a mountain lake...
The blood seeps into my mouth and I cough, then spit out a coagulated hunk of something before opening my eyes.
Shit.
I listen for noises around me and panic sets in when I hear the sharp snap of a dry tree branch off to my right. My head rolls towards the noise, not quite controlled, and I wait a few more moments to let things clear up a bit. The pain in my shoulder is like fire and the blood is hot as it trickles down the side of my head.
In front of me is a stream, not a goddamn mountain lake.
Wait.
I shake my head.
A small stream of water has materialized in the river bed from the last rain and the sound of it makes my mouth dry up immediately. I move my head slightly, allowing a moan to escape, and let my right hand reach out for the water bottle on the seat.
Of course, it's not there.
I twist my body a little so I can make a more earnest search of the cab, then grab the steering wheel with my left hand to stabilize my movement.
"Fucking shit!"
That hurts.
The pain is pulled up into every synaptic center of my brain. The resulting vertigo almost makes me heave as a thousand birds take flight from the trees and the wingbeats flare up in my ears.
And then the whispers start.
The dark whisper of a flock of starlings too long in the company of men. There is nothing more creepy than human words coming out of a starling beak and the contents of my stomach experience another moment of protest until I can push them down.
I reach into the crap box with my right hand and pull out the pistol, aiming it through the broken glass of the window in front of me. The shot rings out and the recoil travels through my body like a standing wave. When it reaches my left shoulder I cry out. This time the starlings stay silent.
More tree branch snapping hauls me back to my current situation and my eyes dart around, alert for movement. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, but that does nothing to stop whatever is moving out in the trees.
I shoot another round off and do a better job at damping down the recoil. This time I see a shadow of a great owl fly off in the distance. It must have been hunting in the trees.
I sit there for a little longer and then swing my legs across the gear stick, scoot over to the passenger side door and release the handle. Pure determination allows me to coerce my legs into standing and then I seize my water bottle off the floor and down it in large gulps.
A thorough shuffling through dirty field clothes leads to a belt. I position it across my body and slip my arm into the loop of leather to take the weight off my injury, then sling the shotgun over my good shoulder and grab my pack to begin my walk back up the hill to the road. Looking and listening for any sign of apex predators.
The road looks like it usually does when a large deer gets mowed over by a military vehicle, so I don't dwell on it and instead walk back up to the top of the hill and try to see if there are any lights in the distance.
The Rural Republic is a chancy place to be stranded on any given day, but being alone in the Stag is exceptionally bad luck. There are no vehicles on the road, nor will there be. No one knows where I am, so no one will come looking.
I look east and see nothing but grasslands and scrub. I look west and see the same shit. That pretty much sums up the extent of what's available in terms of assistance. It makes no difference which way I go, the stop-gate back in Council 5 and the Stag Camp proper are about equal distance from the spot where I stand. I will have to winch the Goat up and out of that ravine before any other decisions can be made.
The night isn't as black as it could be and for that I'm grateful. The moon has fully risen in the time it took me to free myself from the Goat and hitch up my arm, and while it isn't anything near full, neither is it a sliver of hopelessness. Walking outside of the boundaries of the road leads me to an almost flat patch of shortgrass. I find the Big Dipper and then Cassiopeia to ease the creeping feeling of aloneness, and lower myself down on the ground, resting my throbbing head back into the palm of my hand for just a few moments.
The sounds of nature come back.
And with them are the dark whispers of starlings. They haunt me as I drift off to sleep.
Picture yourself standing on the edge of a dock. In front of you is a mountain lake and behind you is a small cabin, pristine white curtains flowing in the breeze passing through the windows. Down below the water you can see the scales of brightly colored fish reflecting the sunlight...
... and then you are in a church, looking down on a meeting.
No, wait, that's not how it goes.
I'm a piece of stained glass high up in the window. I look down at my body and see that I'm naked, but that's not the disturbing thing. Instead of feet I have long raptor talons that host a variety of knives instead of claws. From my mouth come the whispers of the starlings and the gurgling in my throat causes me to scream and break free of the glass. It shatters down to the floor where people argue. The shards of blood-colored glass kill them as they slice through their backs and then I am flying high up in the air, looking down on the Stag. I know it's the Stag because of the tall perimeter wall and the guardhouse at the gate. I land near the guardhouse, still outside the camp, and my father exits in full uniform and puts his hand up to stop me. I need to get in, Daddy, I say – even though I haven't called him Daddy since my mother disappeared when I was six. He opens his mouth and starlings fly out, screaming their whispers in my ears, and then they attack me with their long thin beaks and their wings beat against my body. I fly away, circling the Stag Camp, and then I dive down, spiraling into the gushing wind. The camp explodes and I am thrown up into t
he sky as a constellation where Orion hunts me like the bull for time everlasting.
And then I am warm and the starlings are gone, but the whispers are still there, making me feel safe. They are soft now, not deep and evil, but soft. And I listen to them and I say OK.
Chapter Two
The warmth of the dream fades and I wake shivering as the sweat drips off my body. A movement catches my eye across the expanse of wild grass and I sit upright in an instant, ignoring the fire in my shoulder. I have the shotgun out, propped in the dent where my hip meets my stomach, and I brace my arm on my thigh as I level the barrel on the shadow in the distance as best I can. My finger slips onto the trigger and squeezes lightly as I prepare for the shot.
It's not a prairie lion because I can see the outstretched wings back-lit by starlight as it skulks across the field. And it's obviously not an owl because it's walking on two legs.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," it says.
I squeeze the trigger and the recoil slams me into the ground, screaming in pain.
I'm back in the blur of agony once again and fuck is coming out of my mouth at regular intervals. The black shadow stands over me now, the dark wings fully outstretched and imposing.
"I told ya not to do that."
It's a male voice.
I pull away wincing, trying to sink down into the ground to avoid him as he leans into my personal space.
"That's really going to hurt now. You humans. It's always shoot first, ask questions later."
I find my voice and snort at him. "At least a human would know better than to sneak up on a girl stranded in the middle of nowhere with a shotgun."
The avian's hypnotic green eyes brighten as he smiles at me. "Ya have a point there, darlin'."
We have a semi-serious staring contest for a few seconds and then he reaches out to me. "Ya need a hand?"
I look him up and down from my unfortunate submissive situation. His wings are a lot more imposing than I figure they should be. I've seen images of avians here and there over the years, but not enough to be any kind of expert on them.
