Book Excerpts: It Takes Death to Reach a Star by Stu Jones & Gareth Worthington

EXCERPT book 1:

MILA

No matter how badly I want it to be different this time, in the end I still die.

We all do.

I lie on the cot, cold sweat clinging to my skin, arms raised to my face, stuck like a marionette tangled in its own strings. The dream feels so real. Another breath—count it out. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. My heart slows, my mind no longer caught in the grip of the terrifying dream: a battle in which I play a critical role, yet I’m no soldier. This nightmare stalks me night after night, and even though I know I’m dreaming, I’m powerless to prevent the inevitable—the coming of Death.

The alarm on my personal electronic device, or PED, chirrups three times: 05:00. Not much sleep during the dark hours, again. I squeeze my shoulders, rubbing away the dull, muscular ache, and try to remember the fading embrace of a brother who now feels far away. A deep breath in, a slow exhale out. Get up already, Mila.

The frigid floor stings my bare feet. I shrug into a few less-than-clean garments and pull on my boots. The stale smell of the attire fills my throat. A shiver crawls across my skin. Sard, it’s cold. Gotta find something warmer. After rummaging through a pile of soiled clothes that lie in the corner of my room, I pull out a short leather jacket, its collar lined with fur—though from what animal is unclear. Shaking it hard a few times, I stare at the fur lining. I know the lice are in there somewhere. No time to try and clean it now. The jacket slips over my shoulders, the ice-cold collar snugging up around my neck. It stinks like dead rat.

My PED and my precious collection of writings go into my satchel, carefully so as not to crush the worn old picture that lies at the bottom. I fish out the faded image of Zevry and me. I can be no more than eight-years old in this photo. He’s grinning, as usual, with one arm wrapped around my shoulder. It was taken more than twenty years ago—yet little seems to have changed. Still have roughly cut short hair, now with a streak of color in the front. Still have a lean, almost boyish frame—though I’ve added some piercings and tattoos over the years in an attempt to distinguish myself. And then of course there’s my scar—cutting its pink path across my forehead and left eye. Slashed deep into my face not long after this picture was taken, it’s a permanent reminder you don’t walk the streets alone in a place like Etyom.

No time for this. I stuff the picture back into my satchel and head out the door without locking it. Anything worth stealing is already on me—and it wouldn’t take much to force the door to my closet-sized room anyway.

My boots creak on the rickety stairs leading into the bar below. It’s quiet now, a far cry from the bedlam hours earlier. Smoke hangs lazily in the air, like the memory of an old ghost.

“Come on, Clief.” I cough. “How do you breathe this stuff night after night?”

The man at the bar raises his head but continues to wipe down the counter. “Oh, it’s not that bad. Sorta like burning plastic.” He offers a tired smile. “Off so early?”

“Every day.” Still pinching my nose and squinting, I make my way toward the door. “I’m serious. Get some fresh air in here. That botchi is going to scramble what’s left of your tiny brain.”

He huffs out a laugh. “And that out there? That’s where you get the fresh air?”

“You know what I mean.”

As I push open the door, the wind hits me like a frozen punch in the mouth. Going out in this icy hell never gets easier. The streets are dark and cold, shadows upon shadows concealing the horrors of Etyom. It’s hard to believe this place was once considered a haven. Long ago, it was a vast, sprawling gulag-turned-mining community called Norilsk. Between World War III and the New Black Death, nearly nine billion people around the world lost their lives. Those who were left fled their homes and cities in search of someplace safer. For many, this barren hellhole was it. The conflict hadn’t fully destroyed the city, and the New Black Death struggled to take hold in the brutal Siberian climate. Survival was possible here.

A mass migration followed; the Russian government was helpless to stop it. Outside Norilsk, organized social structure, at least the way people understood it then, gasped its final dying breath. And then, silence. Communications with the outside world went dark. Zev said anyone who hadn’t died in the war succumbed to the New Black Death. It was then everyone here knew they were truly alone. They chose to isolate themselves, even renamed the city Etyom. My brother and I weren’t born for another few hundred years, the descendants of those who fought to survive. We’re fighters, Mil. Survivors. Nothing can keep us down. That’s why we’re called Robusts.

EXCERPT book #2

VEDMAK

“Worthless—a failure from the start, like all the rest,” I hiss.

The pathetic youngling stares up with wet, almond-shaped, hazel eyes—Gracile eyes. I strengthen my one-handed grip around its neck, squeezing, cutting off the air to its lungs. The disgusting whelp doesn’t even struggle.

You don’t have to do this. There are other ways.

“Oh, there you are, little peacock. Just in time.” The annoying Gracile, Demitri, who used to possess this corporeal shell is a constant thorn in my side. There seems to be no end to his perpetual interruptions, pleading for me to halt my work.

Please, let him go.

“Why? This creature is useless to me, to Russia.” I rap on the youngling’s head with the cane in my other hand. “Should I let it die slowly in the cold like an injured goat? No. We should all hope for such a quick release.”

Why should he die at all?

“Without torture, there is no science,” I rasp. “Its mind is like borscht. Malformed and lacking in the strength of its body.”

Him, not it—he’s a child, Vedmak. Not that it matters to you.

It’s difficult to hold back the snarl of a smile spreading across these stolen lips. The Gracile lives in here with me. He knows my soul. My desires. I toss the runt into the waiting arms of one of my more successful ventures: Merodach—an enormous Gracile clad in armor—who does as I bid. The intravenous stim keeps Merodach in a permanent rage, yet under my control.

With powerful hands, Merodach holds the youngling’s arms out, splaying it wide open. Vulnerable. It squirms in the dim light of the lab, throwing awkward shadows against the white walls.

Please, stop it. Stop.

“Silence, peacock. Always in my head. Always whining. Enough.”

Merodach watches me, but he’s not confused. He knows of the inner voice. I stare through the round lenses in my modified Soviet gasmask and study the little creature—past its sad little eyes, and into the void of its feeble mind. Whatever dwells in there it’s not what I wanted. The laser-scythe ignites, screeching into life—my black walking staff now adorned with a crescent-shaped, cobalt-blue plasma blade that crackles and pops. I trace the edge across the youngling’s cheek. The incision is instantly sealed by the white-hot blade. If it weren’t for this mask, I could smell the burning flesh. Pity.

The pup’s chest heaves rapidly, but still, no words come from its lips. As I suspected, its soup-like mind is useless. No ability to speak. If it can’t talk, it will at least scream. I nod to Merodach.

Merodach’s face breaks into a beautifully evil leer and he begins to pull on the arms.

The youngling shrieks.

“So, you can make a sound.” I laugh, glee filling this chest.

For the love of Yeos, end it!

“Yeos? Oh, how delicious. Are we praying now?” My laughter fills the mask, and it’s difficult not to choke on the stim vapor circulating inside. “Yeos doesn’t exist. Neither do Yahweh nor Ilah. You as a scientist should know this best, little puppet. I am the closest

thing there is to a god. Soon, the Logosians and the Musuls and all of Etyom will learn this.”

The youngling is on its knees mumbling incomprehensibly; its face wet with tears. It bores me. I lift the plasma scythe into the air and slice down with a powerful strike. The youngling’s head rolls off its shoulders and bounces across the floor of the lab—its wide eyes still staring off into space.