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

away into the gray snow. His heavy boots refused to keep a steady pace, despite his legs’ demand.

As much of a struggle as he had getting there, he made great time getting back. He burst through the front door of Research Station 2. He didn’t see Doctor Howlette approach him; he stumbled past the doctor, barely hearing him speak.

“Mitch?” His voice held growing concern.

Mitch nearly collapsed onto the communications console and began dialing commands into it; it seemed more like slapping, given his nearly frozen fingers. In the corner of his eye, he could see Doctor Lee and Doctor Howlette hurrying over. Before they reached the console, Mitch was trying to form words from frozen lips. “P-Priority Alpha,” he stammered, half from cold, half from fear. “Emergency! Repeat. Emergency! Home base, please respond.”

“What happened, son?” Howlette placed a hand on the boy’s back, trying to get his attention.

It didn’t work. “Say again, Priority Alpha! Emergency! Home base, respond!”

“Mitch!” Howlette pleaded, nearly shouting into Mitch’s face.

Mitch finally turned to look at the doctor. “They need to come here.” His eyes were red, his lips bloody. His pink face still carried flecks of gray snow. He spat as he spoke from stiff lips. “They need to see what happened.”

Arlock-1: Lush moon, full of green fields and abundant wildlifeMedium-security political prison

As he stood upon the grass hill, James ‘Nitro’ Dockson’s leg bounced on the ball of his foot. It happened before every mission, especially when he was standing still. This wasn’t due to nerves. He was a captain; he’d been through more perilous missions than this one, and they always worked out fine; in fact, he’d survived long enough to have a bit of gray in his short black hair. His tall frame was not very intimidating at first glance: it seemed skinny, despite carrying muscle. Those that met him would only fear the look in his eyes: the look of a berserker. He carried the energy of a shaken can of soda, and had very much earned his nickname. Most of Purple Company used an alias, as their real names carried criminal records or court-martials.

Josie’s name carried the latter, but none would guess it from the way she carried herself. Even the way she prepared was by the book. She covered her shaved head with a helmet and tapped each sidearm out of habit. She gave a half-smile to the demolitions expert as she tightened the straps of her armor to meet her fit frame.

Matthew Beumer, known as Boomer, carried his explosives with a grin. He swung his head, his blond, scraggly hair moving away from his one remaining eye. He had been attractive once, but the years of jobs had taken a few fingers, an eye, and apparently the will to wash. One of many shrapnel scars caused nearly half his head to be bald. Though he was just as mad as Nitro, Boomer carried it differently. He fancied himself an artist: a passionate and slightly unstable artist.

Behind Boomer sat a large Waykind. They called him Ox, as his real name was too long for the others to pronounce. Typically a shamanistic and one-with-the-universe type of species, Ox had lost his way and joined up with what his people would call, basically, monsters, but it sounded nicer in their tongue. The brown-furred, three-hundred-pound mass arose from his meditation, supporting his large upper body by walking with his knuckles, like a gorilla. On the rare occasions when he straightened his back, he stood one foot taller than Nitro. The fur around Ox’s large, circular head frayed out to reveal tan skin, yellow eyes, and a very small, Human-like, mouth. His staff—made of dark green wood, with detailed engravings, and wings at the top that spread in either direction—steadied him as he looked to his commanding officer. “I am prepared, captain.” His voice was deep and resonant: a cross between a person’s voice and a cow’s moo. It carried very far with very little effort.

Nitro nodded and patted the Waykind on his broad forearm. Purple Company stood at the bottom of a grassy hill. Upon the top of this hill was a massive castle made of a brown, steel-like material. The captain’s leg finally ceased its bouncing and he looked at the others. “Alright, take us in.” Ox eyed the structure with a fierce certainty before slamming the base of his staff to the ground.

“Never gonna get used to this,” Josie mumbled before the ground thrummed beneath her.With a roar, stone and dirt erupted, creating a moving brown hill with a platform, upon which the mercenaries stood.

Boomer carried the smile of a child on a rollercoaster as the stone on the hill morphed into a point at the front, massing into a large, sharp ram. He was nearly standing on the spear-end when a wall of stone burst up in front of him, creating a wall to shield them from the impending crash.

The earthen battering ram crashed through the second story of the structure, carrying its riders into the center of the cellblock. Alarms sounded immediately. Josie braced her shoulder against a nearby wall and used her sidearm to fire at the Arthen guards [clad in wood-like plate armor, carrying rifles that shot poisonous darts in front of them], while Nitro covered their rear with his rifle.

Josie’s shots were quick, precise, and deadly. She’d taken out three of the guards before they could return fire. Ox rolled his staff, and the mound of stone turned to shield her at waist height, allowing Josie to drop down to one knee and continue firing. Before long, the room was temporarily silent due to lack of opposition. She smirked.

Boomer approached a row of prison cells and began flicking the bars with his finger, while his other hand carried a laser redistributor. He was so immersed in his work that he didn’t notice the wave of guards in the hall beginning to fire at him. A wall of stone quickly rushed to provide cover