transcript

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Speaker 6:
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Speaker 7:
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Speaker 1:
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Speaker 7:
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Speaker 8:
[01:02] Welcome to the serialized audiobook, The Stone Wolves, season 11 of the Galactic Football League series, written by Scott Sigler and JC. Hutchins, performed by Scott Sigler. The Stone Wolves is also available as an ebook and as an ad-free, unabridged audiobook. For links to purchase any version, visit scottsigler.com/the-stone-wolves or find it at scottsigler.com/books. The killer wiped blood off the steering wheel. He didn't bother with the red smears and chunks of brain and bones speckling the inside of the windshield. Despite his armored exosuit and helmet, he felt naked without his void cloak. The dead sense told him where to go, and that path seemed ridiculous, yet there was no option but to trust in the very thing that had kept him alive so many times. The killer pressed the accelerator pedal to the floor. The loaded 18-wheeler jarred and bounced, big tires bouncing off crags and rocks and boulders. The vehicle closed in on the long, thin EFT. EFT's rear ramp was open, lowered to the broken ground. He glanced at the rearview camera, saw that the payload, a dented, rust-speckled white cargo container, stayed secured on the flatbed despite the jolting drive. A big bounce made the truck lurch high, which threw the driver's dead body into the air before it slapped back down on the seat and fell to the floor. With his right foot, the killer shoved the body aside, then pressed down hard on the accelerator. He saw two sentients come out onto the EFT's ramp, a hurrah carrying a long blade and a quiff leader in a gray exosuit, carrying a stubby automatic rifle in his middle arms. Dead sense lines glowed, the bright one telling the killer where to shoot to take out the primary threat, the hurrah, and a dimmer one projecting where the leader would be once that work was done. The pursuing mercs weren't firing on the truck. They needed it, which meant commandeering it had been the right move. The killer glanced up at the hole in the cabin roof where he'd ripped the metal and plastic side to shoot the driver in the head, then drop in and take his place. The killer was running out of oxygen. Only a few minutes left in his exosuit small tank. He'd relied on the larger stores in the void cloak. Stupid. So stupid. The hurrah let loose with a long blade blast. The brief laser burst struck the truck's windshield. Crystial sagged. The killer ducked, one hand still on the slick steering wheel. He gathered himself, slammed his shoulder against the driver's side door, knocking the door clean off its hinges. The rectangle of metal and plastic tumbled away. Right hand on the wheel, Orphaner in his left, he leaned out and fired where the dead sense told him to fire. The invisible bullet followed the glowing line. The hurrah popped in a puff of meat, yellow gas, and pink blood. Some of the dead sentience pieces fell on the ramp, some on the planet's tortured granite. The killer slid back into the cabin, his butt slipping slightly on the gore-covered seat. The brief firefight had distracted him. He was too close to stop. And if he did, he'd have to get out of the truck to get up that ramp, which would expose him to fire from the pursuing mercs. There was only one way. He pressed the brakes just before the truck hit the ramp. If there had been air, he imagined he would have heard the screeching of tires on stone and then steel as the truck slid up the ramp and into the cargo bay, shuddering all the way. At the top of the ramp, he thought the tractor might sail high and smash against the inside of the cargo area, but had dropped down hard in a bone-rattling, bouncing slap that strained the tractor's tires and shocks. The killer kept the brake pedal mashed to the floor as the 18-wheeler slid across the cargo area. Just ahead, the back end of the battered, mustard-colored cargo container that had been delivered on the truck's last run. The 18-wheeler slid to a stop a few meters from the container. The killer opened the driver's side door, or tried to. The truck's fit was too tight, and the door hit the hold's inner wall. He hopped onto the slippery seat, getting his feet under him. Like a finely tuned spring made of muscle and bone, he pushed himself through the hole in the cabin roof, down the hood, and onto the cargo deck. The EFT was still rocking slightly from the truck's inertia and the risky move, but through the soles of his boots, the killer felt the vibration of approaching footsteps. Something coming fast along the right side of the cargo container. The dead sense flashed, drew lines that had both never existed and had also been there since the dawn of time. The killer bent at the knees and drew his orphaner, firing it from the hip just as a quith worker holding a big knife in a petty palp hand came around the corner of the container. The gunshot should have been deafening in the enclosed space, but the cargo area was the same vacuum as the rest of the planet. The gun fired silently, the recoil thrumming through the killer's arm. The bullet hit the worker in the left hip, turning flesh and chitin into a wet octopus of ragged flesh. The worker dropped, the single golf ball size eye behind his helmet visor scrunching tight, the vertical mouth opening in a scream that the killer could not hear. The knife forgotten, all four of the worker's hands reached for the ruin that had been its hip. Enemies were coming and the killer needed every bullet. He lifted a boot, brought his heel down hard, smashing the worker's helmet and the skull inside it, splattering red blood out in a wave. Movement. The killer raised the orphaner, aimed at the quith leader who was only a few meters away, up against the cargo area's inner wall. The killer's finger squeezed, then stopped. The leader had his hands out, all four of them palms up. The eye behind the blue exosuit's clear visor blazed a solid pink. He held no weapon. Then something happened that had never happened before. The killer froze. One pull of the trigger, that's all it would take. The dead sense told him he had another twenty seconds before the mercs reached the EFT. Twenty seconds he'd gained by taking the truck. Enough time to take off this leader's head with the orphaner blade, then move deeper into the ship. A battle of wills raged in a fraction of time. The leader was Virmada. He was enemy. The killer dealt with enemies quickly and efficiently. But there was something else in him. Killian. A sentient that tried to not kill. Son. Husband. Father. Friend. Friend to the sentients in his crew. To Beans. To Xan. To Redwire. To Aya. Maybe the killer didn't always have to live up to his namesake. What was he doing? This wasn't the time for moral debates. Was he weak? He couldn't leave an enemy alive. He couldn't. The killer glanced at the mustard-colored cargo container, already secured to the deck, ready for transit. Past it, the end of the cargo area, and an airlock hatch leading to the EFT's front section. His eyes snapped back, expecting the leader to have drawn a weapon, but the leader hadn't moved. Maybe the killer didn't have to kill everything. Orphaner held at his hip in his left hand. He reached out with his right, grabbed the leader by one petty pulp arm, and shoved him toward the hatch. The leader stepped through the splattered gore that had been the worker. The killer rushed along behind him, guided the leader into the small airlock. Once they were both inside, the killer slapped the cycle button. The hatch's outer door slid shut, the small chamber instantly pressurized. Tell me a role on this vessel, the killer said. His visor slightly amplified his voice, making it sound normal to anyone around him, while the leader's helmet, obviously standard, had mics that allowed him to hear things in his environment. I am the pilot, the leader said. Please do not kill me. I am a contract worker. I need the money and— Shut up! The killer glanced through the airlock hatch's small but thick window. Past the mustard-colored container, past the 18-wheelers flatbed and the white cargo container strapped to it, two mercs advancing up the lowered ramp. Eight more had to be close behind. The first two weren't shooting, not yet, but they were coming fast, and the airlock door wouldn't hold them for more than a few seconds. The killer opened the inner airlock door, shoved the pilot through, closed it behind them both. Do what I tell you and I won't kill you, he said. Agreed? Agreed, the leader said. You will fly me to your carrier. Now, that is your only option. A curl of dark red swirled across the corniest flood of pink. The leader was surprised, possibly hopeful that there might be a way out of this. I will do it, he said. The killer shoved the leader forward toward the cockpit, looking for cover as he did. The Mercs weren't firing yet, but he was badly outnumbered and under no such restriction. Get that ramp up and the cargo area closed, the killer said, hoping that a few Mercs might be stragglers and not make it aboard. Kill all the running lights, all of them, and get this thing moving. The killer knew he could probably fly this ship. He'd flown one before in his null-knife days. But piloting would take all of his attention, make him a sitting duck for the Mercs. If he could get the EFT Spaceborne, if it could reach the pocket carrier, it wasn't too late to stop Thorne's entire plan. The deadsense flared to life again just as the light above the cargo area airlock lit up. The Mercs were through the first door. The killer didn't wait for them to open the second one. He fired three times, the orphanage roar filling the craft, the big bullets punching through the airlock hatch. A glob of black blood splattered against the window. Air rushed out of the cabin, whistling through the holes. Whatever reason the Mercs had had for holding their fire, that reason vanished. They fired back. Their own smaller caliber weapons punching exit holes in the hatch. The killer turned and ran toward the cockpit. Decades old training guiding his hands to reload as if they were automatons made for that sole purpose. He felt a sting in his calf. Bullets ripped up the walls and equipment around him. A crackle from his com-bud, then Aya's voice, full of pain and panic. Skipper, help us! Beans is hit! Thorn is here!

Speaker 5:
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Speaker 9:
[14:45] No one goes to Hanks for his spreadsheets. They go for a darn good pizza. Lately, though, the shop's been quiet. So, Hank decides to bring back the $1 slice. He asks Copilot in Microsoft Excel to look at his sales and costs. Help him see if he can afford it. Copilot shows Hank where the money's going and which little extras make the $1 slice work. Now, Hank says, line out the door. Hank makes the pizza. Copilot handles the spreadsheets. Learn more at m365copilot.com/work.

Speaker 8:
[15:22] A hostage. That would come in handy. Redwire was around here, somewhere, and no knowing for sure if the mercenaries had taken out the killer. Druges tossed the now-spent rocket launcher away. Hand over hand, as fast as he could, Druges descended the long chain that hung from the overhead crane, ignoring the complaints coming from what remained of his flesh and bone. Those complaints wouldn't last long. He'd overridden his body doc safeguards, telling it to flood his veins with painkillers, stimulants, adrenaline, and a dozen other chemicals that would turn him into a murder machine. Druges' booted feet hit the ground floor. Sprinklers high above rained water down on everything. His cybernetic legs carried him across plexcrete and broken robots, over wrecked catwalk and sizzling bits of twisted machinery. He wasn't upset that the inner lopers had ruined the place. The work was done, so why should he care? Half of his obligation delivered. Through the smoke and out the tall window, he saw the second EFT. The truck had driven inside it, and the crew was, hopefully, unloading the cargo container so the truck could back out and come get the last of the six deliverables. Drew smiled, almost laughed. It was very possible he'd complete the entire delivery, even with this unexpected assault. He raised his palm. Operations, do you copy? Yes, Lord Thorne, came the immediate response. The infiltrators haven't breached our area yet, and— Call the emissary. I order him to bring his ship closer to cut down on return flight time for the first EFT. I want that EFT unloaded, immediately. Then all available troops to board it and come to our aid. Tell him that if he doesn't follow my orders, I will see that the broker filets him and I will feast on his steaming flesh. Druj lowered his hand. The controller would send the message, and the emissary would obey. For all the leakeys bluster, the sentient would know, now that Druj had come through, who the broker would favor. Stepping over a snarl of twisted catwalk, Druj drew his sidearm. An orphaner, just like the killers. When Druj had been a normal man, there was no way he could have fired that hand-held piece of artillery. Thanks to the killer himself, though, Druj Thorn was no longer a normal man. Holding the pistol in his right hand, he reached his target. The human girl crawling across the factory floor, dragging her right leg behind her. Druj grabbed her by the back of her neck, lifted her as if she was nothing but a ragdoll. He expected her to scream. She did not. He turned her, looked at the face behind the visor. Well, aren't you a lovely one? He said. An amethyst gem. She snarled, kicked out with her left leg. Her foot hit him in the thigh, once, twice, a third time. He didn't feel it, because that thigh hadn't been actual flesh in over a decade. He gave her one fast shake, to be sure she felt the power in his hand, to know that he could kill her with barely a thought. She stopped struggling. You try to take me? She said. And I swear, I'll rip off whatever excuse for manhood you've got down there. Drew smiled for the second time in his many minutes. Don't worry, he said. You're not my type. Movement to the right. He looked. Let the girl look as well. There, on the floor, gleaming with falling water, half-trapped by a long section of catwalk, lay a hurrah. Well, well, well. Of all the sentience to see here, trying to ruin everything. Lulz, Druge said. I was told that you were dead. What an unexpected delight. Druge had arranged Recoil's death, had been behind Fanaka's end, and now he would get to kill this hurrah. Once he finished off Redwire and the Killer, Druge knew he would forever savor the satisfaction of having personally ended all five of The Stone Wolves. The hurrah struggled to free herself. Her mouth flap stretched out toward her long blade, its blade glistening with water and blood, its shaft smeared with soot. It was a good meter and a half beyond her reach. Her left wing was a blackened mess of scorched flesh. We stopped you, the hurrah said, her artificial voice crackling and breaking due to her dented and battered backpack. You betrayed your race, all races. We will beat the Abenesia. We stopped you. A third smile? Why, this was turning out to be the most entertaining day Drouge had enjoyed in years. If that is what you want to think, then take it with you into the afterlife, he said. He leveled his Orphaner at the trap hurrah and pulled the trigger. The high-caliber bullet punched a hole in the scratched yellow metal grate. Lull's body and the grate alike lifted off the ground a half meter or more. Gas blasted out of her as if from a violent cough. Her twitching body dropped back to the floor, the catwalk again landing on her, pressing her body far flatter than it had been only seconds earlier. The Orphaner's Report echoed through the factory. For several seconds, clearly audible over the sound of falling water and the crackle sizzle of struggling flames. A fist-size hole in the hurrah's body. She was dead. Three stone wolves down. Were the other two still alive? The killer, outnumbered, outgunned, and without his precious little void cloak. Redwire was still here, somewhere. Druges had no illusions that his brainy science crew, despite their valiant effort, had taken Goldman out. That work, Druges would have to do himself. He squeezed the girl's neck a little bit tighter. Maybe it was best to just kill her after all. She dies, you die. Druges looked toward the source of that voice. Behind a three-segmented, tree-trunk-sized blue robot arm bolted to the floor, he saw a man dressed in the same black armor as the girl. Only half a helmet, half a black-clad shoulder, and the barrel of a compact assault rifle visible. A rifle aimed at Druges. Goldman hadn't shot because the girl was between him and Druges. Yes, by far, the best day in years. Welcome, Redwire, Drew said. I've been hoping our paths would cross. Ayya's body would not move. He held her by the back of her neck. The pain paralyzed her, made her think her vertebra were about to crumble into dust. She felt a too large gun barrel press against the armor at the small of her back. The sprinklers shut off. The last of the falling water splashed down into puddles off machinery and bodies. Then there was no more. Had the fires gone out or had the sprinklers run dry? A haze of smoke hung in the air. Ayya heard moans here and there from humans and quiff leaders, from what she guessed was a Wotokian, and a faint string of high-pitched syllables that had to come from a female Sklorino. Wounded scientists, techs and laborers who had fought against Ayya and the others. Did they believe in the Virmada enough to fight? Or had the cyborg beast Thorn threaten their lives, threaten the lives of their families, just like he had done with Fanaka? From behind Ayya, Thorn spoke, I hope you like my gun, Goldman, he said. Once I saw your friend use his, I just couldn't help myself. You know what it will do to this girl. It will make her insides, her outsides. Fates know you've seen the results firsthand enough times. If Thorn pulled the trigger, would I even feel it? Or would she sense nothing but shock as the bullet tore her in half? Thorn would shoot her. If not, Goldman would. He'd been willing to let his old comrade Vita and die for the greater good, so why would he hesitate a moment for Aya, a sentient he barely knew? She had a moment to wonder if she should be heroic, if she should tell Goldman to shoot, that her one life didn't matter if he could gun Thorn down and save billions of lives. But that moment didn't last. She no longer cared about sentience, she hadn't met and would never meet. Aya wanted to live. Put her down, Goldman said. Thorn actually laughed, and when he did, he squeezed just a tiny bit tighter. This was it. Aya Omiyada knew she was about to die. Put her down, Thorn said. How cliché. Did they show you bad movies in prison? Skipper had become a monster, but at least he was still flesh and bone. Thorn was just as big as Skipper, maybe even bigger, but the hand threatening to shatter Aya's neck was cold metal and lifeless plastic. Thorn was more machine than man. He hadn't even bothered to make his artificial parts look lifelike. This man, this creature, Aya could sense his hatred, both for himself and for anything else that lived. Put her down, Goldman said again. It's over, Thorn. The kill is finishing the job outside, and we have ships en route to destroy a little carrier. Drop the gun. Don't make me kill you. Thorn's laugh stopped. I know we were enemies, Goldman, but I thought you at least respected me, he said. Big bad athlete, are you? If you want to spout bad movie dialogue, how about we rework that script? I felt the barrel's pressure come off her back. She again heard the weapon's head-splitting roar. At the same instant, she heard a hellish clang of metal, a puff of blue paint and sparks. The robot arm rattled as if it had been hit with a huge hammer. Goldman fell back. The robot arm vibrated, a fading tuning fork sending waves of deep bass through the factory. Wisps of smoke curled up from a finger-sized hole in the robot arm. The latest in armor-piercing tech, Thorn said. How about that for a rewrite, red wire? Holding Ia loft, as if she were nothing more than some long, thin piece of plastic he'd found, Thorn circled slowly left, the huge handgun still pointed just past the robot arm. I reached for Thorn's hand. The slightest increase in grip pressure made her freeze anew. She saw Goldman scrambling on hand's knees, scurrying toward the green cargo container, his path marked by his red blood spreading across the wet surface. Thorn raised the orphanard afire. Goldman threw himself ahead, hit on his shoulder, and rolled both left and forward. Thorn adjusted his aim, taking his time. Goldman rolled again and slammed against the cargo container. Thorn angled the orphanard toward the ground. He didn't fire. Goldman slowly rose to his feet, his legs shaking, his right hand clutching his bloody left bicep. Black gel flowed from the tears in his exosuit, passing over flesh and cloth alike, sealing the damage. His upper arm was bent at a strange, sickening angle. A random thought flashed in Aya's mind. He's going to have a hell of a time playing football after this. Then her thoughts were back on her pain. On Thorn, on Vden, on Beans, who was probably burned alive in a schmuck. On Skipper, out there in the wastes, being hunted like an animal. On Goldman, with his back against the cargo container, the container being the only reason he could stay on his feet. And she realized that Thorn hadn't shot him because the bullet would go through him, through the container wall and into whatever lay beyond. Smart, Thorn said. But it's too late, Redwire. I'll tell you what. Let's get back on to our bad movie script, shall we? Is this the part where the bad guy puts his gun away and gives the wounded good guy a chance to fight it out hand to hand? All right. Let's give that a shot. Thorn slid the Orphaner into his thigh holster. Goldman didn't come forward. Chasteaving, legs wobbling, he forced a very fake smile. You want to piece the old man, Thorn? Goldman curled the shaking finger inward. Come, come get some. Hollow words. Aya knew it. Goldman knew it. Thorn knew it. If that's how you want to die, Thorn said, then that's fine with me. But first, you can watch this girl die, just as your friend made me watch my family die. Aya had no panic left. No way for her fear to climb higher. This was it. Thorn would kill her first, then move on to Goldman. She felt his grip tightening, slowly, felt the pain in her neck climb higher, felt muscle cells burst and ligament strain, invertebrae groan as if they themselves were dying animals. Then his grip relaxed, only slightly, as if something had surprised him. She became aware of movement, something big, outside the tall, wide, cristal window, the movement there because the shape blocked the lights outside and the stars above. The EFT smashed through the window and slid across the factory floor, tearing up robots and machinery, like a plow throwing up clods of dirt. The killer's weight pressed his back against the rear of the pilot seat. The first merc into the cockpit, a key, flew forward. The killer met him with the tip of the Orphaner hatchet. The tip punched through the key's chest armor. Vocal tubes squealed in surprise and pain and fear, but the killer couldn't hear much of the sound over the cacophony of metal on metal, cracking crystal and breaking plexcrete as the Ezekiel Class EFT smashed through the factory. The key's forearms grabbed at the pistol embedded in its trunk, three-fingered hands clutching spasmodically. The killer pulled the trigger. The bullet blew out the key's back and continued on, hammering into the human merc who had been just a step behind. The EFT lurched to the right, throwing the killer hard left to smash against the comms chair and the bank of communications equipment. He heard gunfire. A third merc, this one skilled enough to maintain his balance in the lurching vessel, fired into the cockpit. Bullets smacked into the key's back. The sentient screamed anew. A lurched to the left and the instant it happened, Dead Sense showed the killer where to land. He kept his grip on the orphaner as it slid from the dying key's body. He tucked and turned, managed to get his feet mostly under himself before his body hammered into the navigator's console. Pain erupted in his knee. The EFT suddenly righted itself like a race car that had come upon two treads in a tight turn, then flopped back down on all fours. The little leader, shaking with fear, stayed in the pilot's chair. The three remaining mercs rolled on the deck, lurching from the EFT's slowing momentum as they tried to shake off the impact of being slammed against the bulkheads. To their credit, they tried, slowly, to rise, to get back into the fight. The killer's dead sense blinked off. He didn't need it for this job. Limping, managing the shifting inertia as best he could, the killer advanced on the mercs. Dumbfounded, held in the air by the back of her neck, Aya stared. Everything happened so fast. She saw so many things all at once, all in the same few instants of time. The air shot out of the factory in one big whoop, instantly filling the spacious three-deck room with total silence. She wouldn't have considered the EFT big before this. A quarter of the Olerens' mass the EFT could carry a load of, or equivalent to, three standard 12-meter cargo containers. Add in the chemical engines, the cockpit, stubby wings, which were now ripped off. For atmospheric flights, grav-array, tail section, what looked small from a distance was another thing entirely when it was coming right at you, grinding to a halt, smashing machines, bowling over industrial robots and tearing up PlexCrete. Pieces of machinery and bits of robot stuck out of the ravaged nose cone. Shards of spiderweb crystal slid off the EFT's sloped sides, hit the factory floor and tumbled forward, spinning rainbow reflections from the lights above. Aya could see through the cracked cockpit window some five meters above the floor. A helmeted Kwiff leader in a flight suit. Something going on behind him, some kind of movement. The EFT finally slid to a stop, not two meters away. Something hit Aya in her side, harder than she'd ever been hit by anything before, scattering what remained of her thoughts. She flew sideways, felt strong arms wrap around her hip and ribs. She felt herself go airborne for a moment, then her leg collided with something hard and she was spinning. A weight landed on top of her. She felt a rib crack and she was sliding across the floor, wreckage hammering her from all directions. Drew's fired a second time, but he knew he'd missed before he'd even pulled the trigger. His face suddenly so, so cold, stinging as if he'd been dunked in boiling water. He couldn't breathe. He'd been staring at the big EFT sliding toward him. For an instant so shocked he, somehow, hadn't been able to process that the factory floor had lost all air. It was when he'd tried to take a breath, an automatic thing, something he hadn't thought about, the same action his body performed thousands of times a day, that he realized he could not take one. That was when Goldman had tackled the girl. The footballer had hit her hard enough to rest her free from Drouge's now relaxed grip. Drouge had reflexively drawn his orphaner and fired, the weapon oddly silent but the kick everything he remembered. He'd missed. His awareness divided by the EFT, the cold, the lack of air, and Goldman, Drouge had tried to fire again. By the time he did, Goldman was leaping over a lump of factory machinery, or at least trying to. The girl's leg caught a handle, and she and Goldman had spun through the air, feet arcing high before falling behind the machine. Drouge stumbled backward, away from the EFT, away from where Goldman had gone. Air. He needed air. At the broken window, he saw fast fill pouring down, a waterfall of the stuff, goop that landed and instantly hardened in a quickly rising gnarled white wall. The breach would be sealed in a few seconds, and the reserve air even now being blasted into the factory would return breathing and air pressure to normal. If he lived that long, he'd be fine. Drusch holstered the Orphaner. How many times had he fired it? And fumbled at his belt. Emergency mask. Everyone in the facility had to carry them in case of a breach or a chemical spill. His machine hands found the mask, pulled it out of its plastic case. He'd practiced this maneuver hundreds of times, as had everyone in the facility, as did anyone who worked on an airless planet. He had the mask roll open in one instant, pressed it to his face the next. The material formed to his forehead and cheeks, hardened in a blink, quickly creating an airtight seal. The thin tube that ran from the mask to the plastic case fed him air, blessed air. That boiling hot cold on his head and neck. He again looked past the EFT to the 20 meter wide broken window, which was now a towering wall of sloppy fast fill reaching up and up. A wall of white frosting stiffening to rock hardness. Now three meters from the damaged ceiling, now two, now one. Druges heard hissing air, the pitch rising higher and higher, as fast fill patched the last of the holes, and the gale force wind coming from the air vents had pumped in emergency decompression reserves. In seconds both sounds stopped. He pulled on the mask. He could breathe again. Druges Thorn was suddenly grateful he'd built this facility to code, meaning all workplace safety regulations. He glanced to the machine where Goldman and the girl had run. No movement. Druges needed to kill them, then find out why the EFT had crashed into his factory. The killer. It had to be. He reached for his orphaner. Don't, came a voice from above. Druges froze. One word, one syllable. A voice Druges Thorn hadn't heard in thirty-seven years. Yet he knew it as well as he knew his own. He looked to the ravaged nosecone of the EFT. Looked up to the cockpit. There, leaning out of a gaping hole in the cracked windshield, stood Killian, the killer, Carbonaro. His face ablaze with almost blinding lines of red light, aiming a big-ass-hell-orphaner pistol down at Druges' head. You have been listening to The Stone Wolves, Season 11 of the Galactic Football League Series, written by Scott Sigler and JC. Hutchins, performed by Scott Sigler, produced by Steve Riekeberg. For more information on Scott and more free stories, go to scottsigler.com. Copyright 2025 by Empty Set Entertainment. All rights reserved. No part of this audio book or any part of this recording may be used or reproduced in any matter for the purposes of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. Theme music is the song The Kids Are Coming For You by the band Superweapon.

Speaker 4:
[41:00] The war is over, and both sides lost. Kingdoms were reduced to cinders, and armies scattered like bones in the dust. Now the survivors claw to what's left of a broken world, praying the darkness chooses someone else tonight. But in the shadow dark, the darkness always wins. This is old school adventuring at its most cruel. Your torch ticks down in real time, and when that flame dies, something else rises to finish the job. This is a brutal rules light nightmare with a story that emerges organically based on the decisions that the characters make. This is what it felt like to play RPGs in the 80s, and man, it is so good to be back. Join the Glass Cannon podcast as we plunge into the shadow dark every Thursday night at 8 p.m. Eastern on youtube.com/theglasscannon with the podcast version dropping the next day. See what everybody's talking about and join us in the dark.

Speaker 3:
[42:00] Hi, we're Meg Bashmaner and Joseph Fink of Welcome to Night Vale and on our new show The Best Worst, we explore the golden age of television.

Speaker 10:
[42:08] To do that, we're watching the IMDB viewer rated best and worst episodes of classic TV shows.

Speaker 3:
[42:15] The episode of Star Trek where Beverly Crusher has sex with a ghost, the episode of The X-Files where Scully gets attacked by a vicious house cat, and also the really good episodes too. What can we learn from the best and worst of great television? Like for example, is it really a bad episode or do people just hate women?

Speaker 10:
[42:30] The best worst, available wherever you get your podcasts.

Speaker 11:
[42:35] Ever open up your podcast app, scroll forever, and still not know what to listen to. And there are millions of podcasts and most of them, they just don't grab you. That's why I created Something You Should Know. Every episode is built around surprising, useful, and fascinating ideas. We're consistently ranked in Apple's Top 200, with thousands of 5-star reviews. But more importantly, people come back because they learn something interesting every time. If you're tired of searching and you just want something good to listen to, try one episode of Something You Should Know, right here on the platform you're listening on right now.