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

Sabile:Base of Operations of the Eighth, Fort 0102: Mid-Central Zone

Ox’s ‘thing’, as the captain called it, was a pathing method; it was one of the first things his people taught him. Bleeding and limping, Ox hobbled to a quiet corner to draw a circle with his staff. Holding it with both hands, he placed the staff in the center and whispered to it. “Show me.”

A bright light flashed through the base like an ocean wave, though it was only seen by Purple Company. When the light reached the ends of the base, it retracted and pulled all the way back to Ox’s staff. Ox’s eyes flashed with the same light, as did each of the remaining mercenaries. It was more effective than any map, as it imbued the layout of the building within the minds of the Company, as if they’d been there for years.

Harper took this time to properly strap the bag to his back, which proved difficult. Still, with his arms free, he could hold a rifle, despite being hunched over and slow-moving. “Kid, stay behind me, alright?” He looked to Ula, still wearing her environmental suit and helmet for translating purposes. She nodded and stepped behind the large bag.

Once he was done, Ox looked at Gally and gave her a nod; they turned down a hallway that would lead them to the hangar. Upon reaching the door, the four of them realized it wouldn’t budge. Harper found the small terminal next to it and got to work. “Hotwiring is hotwiring is hotwiring,” he mused as he pulled off the screen.

Gally furrowed a brow. “That can’t be true.”

“It’s not, but what the hell.” He frowned as he saw all of the wires. Ships had fewer wires than this in their ignition system. He groaned and fumbled in his pocket for his multi-tool.

Sabile:Base of Operations of the Eighth: Rooftop

Nitro ran west atop a very slippery roof. He heard his helmet bouncing, felt his armor tugging at him, and heard his breath trying to keep time as each foot landed. Each step was precarious, wet, and awful. If he slowed just a little, he would risk falling. He wasn’t certain whether he was actually running or if it was just one continuous slip. He couldn’t see three feet in front of his face, so he was looking down. It was becoming very apparent to him that this was a bad idea.

As he neared the west side of the building, he could feel his momentum shifting away from his control. The next few moments went by very quickly. His right foot landed but refused to stop, sliding further right a great deal. It was more of a fall than a stop, as he slid off the roof completely. He flattened his back and tried to land straight, but that only did so much. Most of the landing was the metal flooring of the airstrip, with only a thin layer of snow to cushion the fall. It hurt.

He grunted as he raised himself, somewhat thankful for wearing the armor, which had spread out the hurt. Panting, he stood up and tried to center his breathing. As he approached the door, he heard a pop as a burst of plasma ran through it. They’d already begun shooting at him, and they were doing it the way he did it to them. Smart. With an impressed grin, he readied one of the enemy laser rifles. He was unaccustomed to it, but he enjoyed the hum and vibrating before each large kick. After Nitro had opened the door, a blast came back at him, narrowly tearing over his shoulder, ripping a hole in his environmental suit. The suit hissed and flapped, suddenly becoming about as protective against the elements as a thin napkin.

Nitro stepped through the door once the shooting stopped—sooner than expected—and checked his shoulder: a piece of flesh had also been burned. It hurt, but the whole shoulder would have been gone if they’d used laser, like the rest of them did. Before the smoke had cleared, he examined the room: Some small telecommunications post, three and a half automatons laying in ruin, and a large wall with his desired door at the very end.

He’d made enough noise, made a large show of his entrance—as usual. So why weren’t they pouring through that door? Any military installation worth its salt would have been filling the room with bodies by now. Especially a robot general that had earned a reputation for straightforward, ‘Hail Mary’ style tactics. It didn’t make sense for Rook.

The captain squinted, side-stepping as he assessed the situation. It was quiet— the kind of quiet that makes hair stand up on end; the kind a predator would impress upon its prey. Nitro enjoyed this particular quiet; it had been a while since he had walked into a trap.

Sabile:Base of Operations of the Eighth, Fort 0102: East Tower

Boomer was in his happy place. Each adorable little detonation square had been gently lined along the bottom of the turret tower; and he was now gently tucking them into neat little spots at the top of the spire. The tower would lift and separate, before being completely blown to fuck-all.

He threw the detonator from his hand, catching it as casually as one tosses a coin. He threw it again, watching it loop in the air before he caught it a second time. The third toss was the last one attempted, as he’d nearly dropped it. He giggled to himself before giving the device a stern look and a wag of the finger, which made him giggle once again.

He placed the detonator squarely in his teeth, and swung his right leg over the ladder to bring him back down. But he froze. A clang, followed by a few muffled, heavy footsteps confirmed his worst fear: More of the Eighth had arrived at the tower. He looked down and saw three of