Forged by Battle (WarVerse Book 1) (12 page)

The Duchess

Something was wrong.

She couldn't say what, exactly, but the Duchess knew in her horn that the ship was in danger. She had learned long ago to trust those instincts; it was imprudent to ignore such obvious divine intervention. Cloaked in the protection of her Shroud of Faith, she moved through the cargo hold. Whatever force was guiding her had led to that bay, and planted a sense of “wrongness” in the back of her mind. The same sort of feeling she had whenever she was near heresy.

Her Shroud muted each footstep. She would catch the monster unawares, force it to bend to the unwavering power she was a conduit for. Send the heretic back to the dimension that spawned it.

She knew the beast must be close, and with her Faith, she felt strong. All around her were neatly arranged crates of supplies that kept the super carrier around her running. This particular cargo bay held engineering supplies, spare weapons, hull plating, and scrap metal. The room was massive, so her quarry could easily stay hidden.

The Duchess needed the high ground to survey the entire scene, but she did not dare lower her Shroud to extend her Sense. Besides, her Sense would likely not even register the monster, as its kind was so impure.

Gathering her Shroud around her legs, she crouched down, and felt the rush of power before she kicked off and soared into the air. She easily cleared the four meters and landed without a sound on top of an equipment rack—the fourth rack out of eight, in the center of the room.

<
All pilots to the ready room for briefing,>
her AMI chirped. She ignored it. Once she uncovered the heretic, she could explain away her behavior. Until then, exposing the full range of her abilities would only hinder the mission. From atop the fourth wall, she used her vantage point to look across the bay.

came a ship-wide transmission.

The Duchess knelt down, pressing her fist against the steel equipment housing, and willed her Shroud to anchor her. The whole room rocked around her, but the strength of faith kept the Shroud from wavering. They were jumping. The mission must have been more important than she thought for them to jump so soon without her knowing about it. Still, her need to eradicate the heresy came first.

She stood up from her crouch, strength coursing through her, and leapt from one vantage point to another, scanning for her prey. She never saw the blast before it took her in the side.

Her Shroud softened the impact, but her breath still erupted out of her with a
whumf
. She twisted in the air, her trajectory unchanged. She hit the next equipment rack at the wrong angle, then tumbled to the ground.

The monster was close. She drew in her faith, forcing herself to believe in the solidity of the Shroud around her, and took off running between the racks.

Another blast slammed into her side, kicking her off her feet and down to the cold metal floor. She slid to the side and snapped her eyes forward. Her Shroud wavered. The prey she was hunting was one of her own.

The Psykin was wearing a blank fleet duty uniform, and had weapons strapped across her back and both hips. She had a single horn in the center of her head, and her right arm ended just below her shoulder. Everything about her screamed danger, from the way she stood to the dagger she held in her remaining hand. Even with her Shroud held tight, the Duchess could see the other’s wretched aura. She was tainted, a fallen one.

<
Heretic.
> She forced all her hatred and fear into the word.

The Exile only stared. <
How did you find me?>
she finally asked.

The Duchess glared at the dagger in the other’s hands. Was that what she had come to find?

Then, without another word, she launched herself forward with all the power of her Shroud. She crossed the distance in an instant. She used that same power in her fist as she visualized punching straight through her opponent. The Exile made no effort to move, and a wall appeared between them.

It isn't real,
the Duchess reminded herself,
just like training
. Still, she felt sick when she passed through. The Exile had stepped to her right, and slashed out with the dagger.

The steel bit the Duchess’s shoulder, and then a terrifying cold ran down her arm, as though the blade had sucked the very life from it. She hit the ground with an awkward stumble, her arm hanging limp at her side.

<
How could you go against your people? How could you abandon the mission?>
the Duchess screamed, forcing the Shroud to strengthen her arm. She lunged again, close enough that the Exile had no time to distract her with another illusion. Her fist shot in, catching the Exile in her chest with enough force to slam her backward.

the Exile spat back. She took a step forward. Darkness swirled around the blade and her arm as she slashed again. The Duchess leapt to the side to avoid it. The weapon seemed to suck in all the light around it.

<
The heresy is turning your mind. Cast aside the blade and repent,
> the Duchess cried, then gave an enhanced kick at the other’s arm. Her foot slammed into the darkness like it was solid, and the crack echoed in the silence.

<
The last time one of your “Chosen” tried to take my power, seven lost their lives. They managed to take only my arm.>
Another step forward. The Duchess could barely keep on her feet as she tried to dodge each swipe. She used her forearms to catch the Exile's arm before the blade could slice her again. With two arms, she had the advantage, and managed to force the Exile back a step with a series of Shroud-enhanced blows.

<
My faith will protect me. I am of the Chosen, destined to rid this realm of your taint.>
The Duchess lunged her head forward and their horns cracked together.

The Exile wavered, and the Duchess pressed forward, lashing out with her fists, once, twice, and then she hit a wall.

The Exile had turned the blade around in her hand, and pressed the steel into her own flesh. The air shimmered over her skin even as the blade sucked in more light. The Exile's shroud enveloped her, and did not stop at her disfigurement. It continued down and took the shape of an arm, of a hand.
Impossible,
the Duchess thought. How could she surround herself in faith when she was a heretic?

In that moment, the Duchess wavered. The speed and strength the gods had blessed her with was sapped from her limbs, and the crackle of energy left her flesh.

But the Duchess had nothing to back up the words.

The Exile opened her mouth and darkness poured forth. "I am more powerful than you can possibly imagine."

The Duchess's mental scream tore through the ship, sending every living creature into a moment of brain-splitting agony. Then there was silence.

Part 3

Chapter 28

Johnston

"All hands report ready for jump, sir," said Navigation.

"Aye, you may engage. All ahead full." Johnston tightened his hands around the grips on his console. The young pilot sitting at the front of the bridge nodded and twisted in his chair to type in the final sequence.

The com officer keyed a ship-wide transmission.

After the countdown ended, the pilot grabbed a large lever set into the console and pressed it forward.

Johnston's stomach lurched as the Alcubierre drive kicked into gear. It only lasted a second, and then they were trapped in their own bubble of space-time. Space compressed in front of them, and expanded behind, and with math Johnston couldn't hope to comprehend, space moved around them. Or something to that extent. Johnston did not trouble himself with all the details. He understood the tactical and logistical impact the Alcubierre drive gave to his ship, and left the physics to the physicists.

"Status report," he said after they had been underway for a few minutes. Each of his stations checked in. No one had been hurt by the sudden acceleration, and engineering reported the reactors to be in the green and steady. Johnston had never had an issue entering warp, but he had heard enough bad reports to always be wary. They were underway, however, and the ship was as safe as she was going to be.

"Commander McKinley, you have the bridge," Johnston said, then stepped away from his console and moved towards the corridor and his ready room beyond.

"Willia—Captain, sir?" Belford called out. Johnston whirled on him. It was bad enough that the man tried to call him by his first name in private, but on the
bridge
?
His
bridge? He mentally located the nearest airlock.

"What is it?" he asked through clenched teeth. The commander did not seem to notice the murderous look carved into Johnston's face.

"I wanted to discuss the, er, engagement stratagem you briefed the fighter pilots on. The Chimeras aren't ready for that sort of challenge. I was a Falcon pilot, you know. I know what they can do. They should be the ones to lead the assault."

Military bearing and a lifetime of discipline were all that saved the sniveling man from Johnston's wrath. All the other members of the bridge crew turned their heads down to their consoles with obvious haste as the captain drew himself to deliver the ass-chewing the commander deserved for questioning his orders so publicly.

Then a mortar went off inside his brain, and he collapsed to the ground. The pain was like nothing he had ever felt before, an agony that did not just flare his nerves, but infused him with hopelessness. He would fail his mission, his ship would be destroyed, and he would go down in the annals of history as a colossal failure.

Johnston cried out against the anguish, but his voice was drowned in a sea of despair. Every other member of the bridge crew screamed with him.

Then, just as unexpectedly as it had arrived, the feeling was gone. Johnston pushed himself off the floor without a moment's hesitation, and although he was reeling internally, he forced calm over his features.

"Tactical report," he ordered, though he could see that no one else had gotten to their feet yet. The usual sharp metallic tang of the air on the bridge was replaced with the acrid stench of sweat and terror, and a touch of ammonia.

"What... what was that?" Belford cried.

"An attack," Johnston said simply. "Take your feet. We are not out of danger."

Several of the other crew had shaken off their fugue and turned back to their stations by now. Some of the bridge officers were calling out reports. Whatever had hit them had hit the entire ship.

"How could we be under attack?" McKinley asked. "Nothing can get to us while we are in warp."

"The attack did not come from without, Commander."

"Christ."

The nymph ensign who had first warned him of the enemy weapon on the shuttle was slumped in her chair, still unconscious. Johnston squinted at her, his brow creased.

              "Open a com channel to the ship," Johnston called, then turned to his station and broadcast: "Attention all hands, we have been assaulted by an unknown force. All hands to muster stations, full head count. All Psykin personnel are to be taken to med bay for treatment." He released the broadcast switch. "Now patch me into medical." When the patch went through, he spoke swiftly. "Doctor Kerrigan, I have reason to believe the attack we all suffered was Psykin in origin. Be prepared to receive their wounded. I will dispatch you additional help."

"It's more than that, sir," Kerrigan answered. "One of my nurses is a Psykin. She called out as she collapsed, and it came across all the AMI units because one of them was wounded. This wasn't an attack. It was a death scream."

Johnston turned back to his bridge crew. All of them were back in their seats and alert, save for the unconscious nymph, and Belford, who was still writhing on the floor. "All hands to battle stations. We have an intruder on board."

"Sir! I have reports of a fire on deck six, frame forty-five."

"Close the emergency bulkheads."

"There are civilians there, sir, and several of our crew members."

"Dispatch fire-suppressing crews. Scramble the marines. Those civilians are top priority, we will not lose them," Johnston ordered. Then, in a voice low enough only he could hear, muttered, "What the hell did we pick up on Bastogne?"