Stars Gods Wolves by Dan Kirshtein (best classic books .txt) 📕

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 agoVessel: The BallpointSecurity 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.

Smoking, the no-faced guard fell back, clanging on the adjacent wall. The second officer immediately looked to Ramone. “Data banks. It’s the only reason we’re interesting.” The lieutenant nodded and picked two ensigns to run with him to the archives. As they ran, they could hear the door to the bridge open, and more blaster fire ensued.

The fighting proved short-lived, and Ramone soon discovered that the Eighth were not distracted for long. A metallic voice wailed and sputtered over the sound of combat. “Down there! Three of them!”

The lieutenant made a quick turn around a corner, and only Ensign Sanders followed him, barely having escaped the blaster fire that claimed the other ensign. When they reached the archives, Sanders began barricading the door as Ramone took to the terminals. His mind raced as he began deleting files in large batches, starting with the most recently received transmissions. He cursed to himself for being unable to ascertain exactly what the Eighth were looking for.

Large batches of files apparently took some time to