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

delete. His heart in his throat, Ramone watched a progress bar—seemingly paid by the hour—inch its way across the screen at its leisure. This happened for nearly every folder Ramone tried to delete, save for one. An error appeared, one Stephen had never seen before: A password was required on one of the files.

In Stephen’s entire career aboard the Ballpoint, a password had never been required for a file. This had to be the file the others had died protecting. As the sound of struggle made its way toward the door, Ramone realized he’d have no time to guess the password. With a frustrated groan, he looked around. They weren’t a military ship, so blasters weren’t readily available, and the data banks were far from any real water source. Ramone looked to the other terminal, manned by Sanders, and saw how pale the ensign had turned at the sound of combat, which drew closer. This was made all the worse by the sudden, horrifying silence. The two men looked to the control panel for the door and watched it blink, remaining locked after attempting to be accessed. Sanders smirked before looking down to delete yet another file.

Stephen patted his pockets and realized he still had his pipe and matches. While matches and tobacco had proven expensive in the shipping and handling sense, Lieutenant Ramone felt it to be an absolute necessity while reading. The fake pipes, the cartridges, all that synthetic and healthy nonsense, they all tasted awful compared to the real thing. And when the door began to rattle after being blasted by one of the Eighth, the lieutenant counted himself lucky to have them on his person.

“It’s here! Help me with the panels!” Stephen shouted, and the ensign dashed to his terminal, kneeling to expose the wires and hard drives.

While the ensign worked, Lieutenant Ramone climbed atop the console and lit a match, holding it up to the smoke detectors. He stared at the match and watched the fire slowly make its way down the wood. As much as it began to burn his finger and thumb, he held tight as the flame descended.

Finally, the door gave way; chunks of it flew into the room and bursts of plasma followed. As if on cue, the fire-suppression system kicked in as well. White, wet foam burst its way into the room, filling it to about waist-high. Stephen had never before been so grateful to a chemical that smelled like lavender. Electrical popping filled the room as all the monitors went black. Sanders let out a yelp of pride as Ramone grinned.

Eventually, the debris was cleared from the doorway, and the Eighth stepped aside, making way for one. This one carried itself differently from the others; it was ominous and silent. Ramone recognized this one from news broadcasts. Its name, in a direct translation, was a decimal: 8.000000000001, the Eighth’s leader and current general. To the Human Government, it was simply known as Rook, due to its narrow-minded strategies that somehow seemed to pan out.

Ramone had heard of its current warpath being particularly unusual. Even attacking the Ballpoint: Ramone couldn’t imagine what they were after that was worth risking war. Still, Rook’s mere presence confirmed the importance of whatever they’d been carrying. Stephen watched the automaton stand at the edge of the foam. Its face changed with the realization of being denied what it was seeking. And he smiled.

The emergency beacons had been triggered by the fire alarms, making the Ballpoint a giant lighthouse of “come and save me, some interesting stuff is going on over here”. While it was silent to Human ears, all of the automatons could hear the signal being blasted out for light-years.

Rook eyed the two men, and its chrome face twisted in disappointment. Unable to enter the room due to the foam, it fired at Sanders. The ensign fell hard to the floor, dead before he hit the ground. After giving a look to his fallen comrade, Ramone stood firm, ready to die. “Come on,” he said, tapping a hand against his own chest.

Rook took time to stare at him, to observe his final moments. It reflected upon the idea of dying alone, and what it meant to a Human. It concluded that the lieutenant was too proud for a man that had only slowed it down. “You haven’t stopped me.” The metallic voice was nearly condescending, rage brimming underneath. “You think dozens of other Human ships don’t have what I need?”

“Who are you trying to convince, asshole?” Ramone inquired. He found himself missing the days when automatons were less concerned about their failures. In the old days, the bots would either have killed him or walked away. Now, the Eighth felt slighted and almost always felt the need to justify themselves. It was like being at war with teenagers. The lieutenant leaned forward, waiting to be shot at any moment.

Rook’s eyes narrowed at the man before it heard an incoming transmission. It was a hail, a response to the distress signal that the Ballpoint was now broadcasting. The lieutenant’s head cocked, realizing something had occurred, but not knowing what. “It appears you’re in luck, Lieutenant.” The Eighth fired accurately, sending Ramone flying back to hit the wall. “Your body will be found sooner than anticipated.” Rook turned and walked away from the two dead men.

The Atticus: Transport BayJust outside the Milky Way Galaxy

Gally was sitting quietly, curled in the corner, back against the wall, with her tablet lighting her face. She felt small; smaller still than when she had sat in the funeral procession. And as she watched the black-box footage—she’d lost count of how many times she’d seen it—she stopped moments before her father was shot. She’d seen it once and memorized the timestamp. She hid her watering eyes by strategically positioning herself in that corner.

And as small as she felt—a speck in a galaxy—she was happy to go unnoticed by the others when she felt the need to cry.