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

name is Jim; I’m calling from Marlock-Stevens. How are you?”

“Who’s calling?” the voice replied.

Jim hesitated. “Jim—from Marlock-Stevens. We’re handling your transporting account?”

“Oh,” the voice grunted. “Yeah.” And that seemed to be his response. After deciding not to expect more, Jim continued.

“Looks like we sent you the wrong file by accident. I wanted to advise you not to send that one in, and I’ll be sending you the correct file in a second.”

“What?”

“I said—”

“I heard what you said! Why did you send me that form?!”

“It was an accident.” Jim’s voice was flat as he repeated himself. As an afterthought, he added, “sir.” He still wasn’t used to calling people that unless they ranked above him. And he hadn’t met people who ranked above him in a very long time. The word rolled off his tongue less easily now, as if it was cheapened each time it was used.

“Well, that’s ridiculous. I’m not filling out two forms.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that, but the second form is the one that’s needed in order to—”

“Do you know how valuable my time is? I probably make ten times what you make! And you want me to fill out two forms now?”

“No,” Jim tried to continue, but was interrupted again.

“How stupid do you have to be to—”

“Listen, buddy.” Jim drew the line, refusing to be chewed out by anyone not wearing stripes.

“Buddy! Buddy? We’re not friends, you little asshole! Let me speak to your supervisor right now!”

“Yes, sir.” Jim’s left index finger did not even attempt to hit the transfer button. It simply ended the call. He took off his headset, leaned back in his chair, and waited; his prosthetic hand clenched without him realizing it. He tried to relax, and it opened.

Sure enough, in the next room, he heard Orsa’s phone ringing. Jim leaned back further in his chair and put his feet up on the desk, and waited some more.

Able:Veterans’ Cemetery

Hours later, the recently unemployed James Dockson stood in front of four headstones: Zerich, Josie, Boomer, and Ox. All four had no caskets, no bodies. They were just headstones, and they didn’t even have legal names on them, but he felt that they would have wanted no more than that.

The field seemed to stretch on forever, speckled with people visiting the graves of their family members and some veterans visiting former squad mates. None of them spoke to each other, only to the headstones. Jim soon learned it wasn’t exactly welcome to speak to the people here. They’d respond politely and then want to be left alone. He never understood that: coming to a place to feel lonely.

Nitro found that he came here when civilian life didn’t make sense, which turned out to be quite often. He knelt down and sat in the grass, his crooked nose whistling as the wind blew back his salt-and-pepper hair. It had grown longer than he preferred, but it was still kept short by civilian standards. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what his old friends would have said about it. He smirked at the thought, which quickly turned to a frown.

Nitro wanted to talk to them, but he was conflicted, as their bodies weren’t actually there. He wanted to tell them all how much he missed them, about how much he hated living without a fight. It was all so quiet and pointless to him; why couldn’t other people see that as well? He didn’t know how they all carried on, how they didn’t see what he saw.

He’d applied to other militaries, but none would take him. He’d applied to other mercenaries, but none would hire him due to his injuries from Sabile. The former captain had days when he was angry at Gally and some days when he was angry at the Human Government, but he also had days when he forgave them both. Today, he couldn’t decide.

Cellis 6: A moon orbiting the planet EphlaGaiman Transport Station

A short, cloaked figure stepped off the transport ship and into the rain. It carried no luggage, no bags, just an ornate walking stick that came up well over the figure’s head. The navy blue cloak flapped in the wind as the figure navigated through a crowd.

The transport station was bustling and packed with transients and travelers of all manner of species and occupations. The small, cloaked figure’s boots strode with confidence, as if they were proud or excited to be amid civilization.

Long lines were laid out all along the metallic platforms that would eventually lead to a ticket booth and, further on, the transport shuttles. After waiting in line, the small, cloaked figure approached the booth. The hood of the cloak inched back just enough to reveal an eager, blue face.

“One-way to Ephla, please.” Ula spoke into a large computer speaker. The computer churned as it translated and processed the request.

“How many in your party?” it responded in Herulean, albeit with a gurgled, metallic voice.

“One,” she smirked, grateful that she hadn’t needed to wear an oversized helmet to be understood.

“Total is fifty one currency. Please present payment.”

Ula’s gloved hand held up a small card to a circular sensor, perched just below the speaker she was talking into. A chime was synthesized, signaling that the payment was received, and a ticket printed out, which she accepted happily.

Tugging once again on the hood to cover her face from the rain, Ula carried her walking stick all the way through the gates and into a shuttle whose number matched her ticket.

The shuttle was long, white, and weathered. The dark and the rain covered the dents and dirt quite well, but the blasting white light from the shipyard made it all the more obvious. Ula found her way onto a seat and awaited the transport’s departure.

Ephla: lush, grass-filled planet, homeworld of manyCity of Lorin’Thock

The transport landed with an unnecessarily hard thud, and the passengers jerked forward. The doors opened, and the passengers poured out, as did little Ula. She carried the walking stick, no