Stars Gods Wolves by Dan Kirshtein (good books for 8th graders .TXT) 📗

his chin. “Let us know if you see anything unusual.” Ox’s thumping footsteps trailed off with the pilot.

“Also, if I can ask–” Howlette raised the concern that the rest of the doctors were thinking. “Who is in our shower at the moment?” Mitch had given the man his razor, some scissors, and a change of clothes. It had been at least an hour since he heard the water start running.

Gally grinned and looked around, interested in seeing the reactions when she told them. “That is Doctor Martin Collier.”

The three men were astonished. Lee slapped the table and spun in his chair. Howlette found disbelief and spoke on it. “He doesn’t look anything like the holo-tapes.”

Josie smirked sympathetically. “Five years in a Herulean isolation booth’ll do that to you.”

Lee stared in the direction of the washroom, arms dropped in astonishment. “I let him walk right past me.” He shook his head. “Five years?” It finally occurred to him what Josie said, and he looked back at her to see her nod. The implications of psychological impact were all present to the doctors, though none mentioned it aloud. Still, the very thought of it made Mitch curse under his breath. Whoever Martin was before he went in there, he was certainly not the same man now.

“You’ll be working with him closely, as he may be able to determine what’s happening here.” Gally tried to recapture the attention of the star-struck scientists.

Howlette shook his head, as if it was a simple explanation not seen by simple minds. “Well, clearly, he didn’t get them all.”

Nitro was more annoyed than his response dictated, not wanting this particular form of nonsense to continue. “Lieutenant, total number of Herulean engagements during your deployments?”

Josie snapped back. “Fourteen, sir.” She turned her chair to him, back straight and attentive.

“Any of them leave their enemies hanging out a window?”

“Sir, no, sir.” This answer was more casual, more proud.

“And why is that, private?” Nitro looked to Boomer.

Boomer also straightened himself to answer, though at a slower pace. “Because they honor their planet and they honor the dead.” He demonstrated, for some reason, by putting his hand flat against the table. “Every enemy they kill planet-side is placed face down, lying flat on the soil. And yes,” Boomer anticipated one of the doctors protesting, so he pointed to one of them with a knowing grin. “Every one.” He wagged his index finger playfully.

Nitro took Ox’s seat at the table because there was plenty of room in his wake. “I want to make one thing clear,” he announced, knowing Gally would allow it. “Once we go get the doctors from the other station, you’ll all be under my charge.” He looked around the table. “I’m happy to let you all work, but when I say jump, I expect some distance between you and the ground. No questions, no deviations. Clear?”

The white-coats all nodded in agreement, and a strange feeling suddenly came over Gally: This might actually work.

The water had turned cold, but he didn’t mind. He stood in the shower for what must have been over an hour. The white curtain hung close to him as the steam began to dissipate. Losing himself within the hiss of the water and the long-running ecstasy of freedom, Martin closed his eyes.

The sound of the water hitting the tub slowly drifted away from him. The pressure it applied against his skin nearly vanished. All that was left was the feel of a hand against his back, soothing and gentle. The water rushing by him was then a whisper against his ear: a warm breath accompanied by a familiar, merciful voice. “Poison,” she said.

He whipped the shower curtain away, stumbling to open it as quickly as possible in the tub. But there was nothing there. Only he, naked, panting, and feral, stood in the empty bathroom. It took time, but he convinced himself he was alone and stepped out of the tub.

Stepping up to the sink below the mirror, it was hard to acknowledge his reflection. Not because of how much he’d physically changed since the incarceration, but he found that he no longer focused on his face as easily [as one does when looking into the mirror]. With a huff, he decided he wanted to remember. He wanted to see what he looked like, even if he didn’t recognize that person.

He used scissors on his exceptionally long and frail nails, and that whittled them down enough for him to use clippers. The beard practically fell off on its own, as Martin was slowly discovering more and more effects the prisoner diet had had on him.

He’d decided to lose the beard entirely, and noticed that his face seemed more gaunt than usual. His reflection looked exhausted and sad. His eyes seemed sunken, darkened, and lonely. “The hell did they do to me,” he muttered before realizing how long his hair had gotten. As he cut it, he tried to remember how his old hair felt, but he couldn’t. All he remembered about it was the fact that he’d never grown it past his ears.

Upon finishing, he stared at himself in the mirror once again. His eyes still had trouble focusing on the face, but he put his hands up below his chin and smiled. The smile faded quickly, however, and a sad expression refused to leave. He was a long way from his youth. And while he could medically explain the effects he was feeling—both physically and mentally—those logical thoughts usually occurred well after the emotionally devastating ones.

That, he decided, was another effect of the confinement. Not only was he starved of food, but of mental stimulation and work. After he’d finished dressing himself, he gave himself a determined look in the mirror. His jaw swayed, assessing his new “skin and bones” look, which was accompanied by an “I did it myself” haircut. “We got work to do, bud.” He pointed to himself with a less-than-convinced grin. It didn’t feel like talking to an old friend,