Forged by Battle (WarVerse Book 1) (23 page)

Chapter 54

Rodrom

The surgery was not going well.

A medic could simply tell, without the aid of monitors or machines, when someone was close to death. It was a sixth sense that slithered down the spine and settled in the gut, a primitive feeling that focused the mind and body to an external danger. When Rodrom joined the Joint Fleet, he had himself been a medic, and the instincts he had developed on the line served him well as a surgeon. He had that feeling now more than ever. He feared that no matter his skills or abilities, he would not be able to save Lorelei's beloved.

She had not said a word since beginning her song. She simply knelt beside the warrior’s head and allowed her lilting voice to fill the room. It was obvious this warrior meant more to her than any of the other wounded. She had never wavered before, not even an inch, since Rodrom had come to the camp.

Despite his concentration and his fear of failure, Rodrom thought he felt another emotion’s oily presence in his mind. For the span of a thought, he believed it might be jealously, though he quickly dismissed that notion. He was trapped behind enemy lines, with an alien weapon grafted to his spine, and a writhing shapeshifter beneath his fingers. Jealousy was the last emotion he should feel.

Performing open-heart surgery was difficult at the best of times, with a team of nurses and physician’s assistants, or preferably his holographic table. To do so on a vine platform, with a glass scalpel he’d fashioned himself, and tools shaped from branches and twigs, on a patient who was changing shape and mass, was damn near impossible. But it didn’t stop him from trying. He’d already found a way to temporarily stop some of the shapeshifting. Once he cut into the wound to see how deep the shrapnel went, he had discovered that by pressing his palm onto shifting skin, that it would stop the metamorphosis. Was it simply the pressure from the contact, or a facet of the weaveroot? He didn’t pause to figure it out.

With that obstacle temporarily bypassed, Rodrom was able to make the necessary incision to see deeper into the wound. The warrior’s ribs were in the way, of course, but he also had no way to open the chest from the center. He had no bone saw, or any other necessary tools, for that matter. The best he could hope for was to push two ribs away from each another and make a hole large enough to fit his custom forceps through.

Rodrom snarled in frustration and grabbed the nearest stick from a pile beside the patient. Snapping it to the length he needed, Rodrom abandoned all concerns about sterility and jammed the stick between the ribs. When it did not fit, he snarled again.

"Fit, damn you!" he cried, and to his shock, the stick twisted in his hand and pushed itself between the two ribs. It was crude, and looked flimsy, but it was holding. The weaveroot must have been responsible, though he had hoped the pendant Lorelei gave him would have suppressed it entirely. He assumed music was the key to activating its powers, but perhaps just vocal intent was enough.

He grasped the stick again. "Extend two inches," he said clearly, and the stick again moved beneath his fingers, though it grew the amount he wanted and then kept right on growing. "Stop!" he cried out, and was relieved when it did.

The space he’d created allowed him to see inside the elf’s chest cavity, and into the shrapnel that pierced its heart. Rodrom was horrified to see that the weaveroot had wrapped around the heart, and that its roots reached out to every part of the chest. An almost bark-like sac surrounded the heart now, and there the shrapnel lay quivering.

How could he even attempt the surgery? The shame of failure twisted through Rodrom’s gut. Looking at Lorelei only redoubled his regret. He had not only let down his patient.

Lorelei's voice cracked and wavered as Rodrom stared at her. He tore his eyes away. The recognition was clear, even on her alien features. She shook, and slowly took her hands from the warrior’s head. She opened and closed her hands, staring down at them as if they held some answer. A small cry escaped her lips, then another. The sound was so heart-wrenching that Rodrom felt as though his own chest were full of shrapnel.

He sat back on his heels, and moved his hands down to rest them against his thighs. His hands had not wavered an inch during the operation. The moment he sat back, however, it was all he could do to hold them still. He turned them over and looked down numbly at his palms as they wavered and shook. It was not just his hands that had betrayed him, but his entire body. His shoulders shook too as the adrenaline wore off, leaving him empty. His breath grew ragged and forced, his eyes unfocused.

The grief that filled Lorelei's scream needed no translation. Her anguish was palpable as she clutched the head of her fallen warrior. Rodrom remained motionless, swept up in her torment, unable to look away, unable to keep his distance. Tears fell unabashedly from his eyes, carving canyons through the grime on his face.

Lorelei cut her scream short, and turned to Rodrom with bloodshot eyes. "I will not let him die." Her voice scarcely was above a whisper. "Even if I must sacrifice everything to save him."

Chapter 55

Vincent

Vincent tore through lightning-strewn storm cover as he raced back towards the portal. The ferals that pursued them had broken off, and only the unnatural black clouds remained. He was forced to rely on his sensors to avoid colliding with anything; the uneven canopy below boasted several trees that would make short work of him. His frantic search for the elf camp had taken him far enough away from his other pilots that they had lost communication in the storm, and the com relays the ground troops brought through weren't responding.

Sensor lock. Vincent looked down. What on earth could he have locked onto that far out? It would have to be an enormous heat signature. An anomaly.

"Shit, break off, break..." A burst of static followed. They were close enough for direct beam com.

"Status report," Vincent called, but he couldn't break through the hurricane of voices. His pilots had abandoned their AMI's and were screaming to one another.

"Break right, Tanker!"

"What the hell is that thing?"

"Elemental!"

"Dragon!"

Wherever they were had the worst of the cloud cover. Vincent tried to skim low beneath it, but the damned elves had brought it down beneath the trees. He jerked back on the stick and tapped the throttle forward, pulling into a climb that left him dizzy.

"Fledgling, get out of here. Steel, I have your six," Havoc called. That was wing four. What were they fighting?

Vincent kept climbing.

"My rounds do not hurting this thing. How do we fight it?" Forge was frantic, and he never lost his cool.

Vincent burst into the sunlight above the clouds, and twisted into a spiral to see what they were fighting. Only flashes made it through the cloud cover, even as high up as he was. He twisted over, the straps cutting into his shoulders, then angled down and shot for the brightest spots. Zombie and Duchess followed in his wake.

He lost visibility within seconds. The dark clouds suffocated his view port as he pushed towards the only thing he could spot in the black. His pilots were still yelling, frantically trying to call out targets and defend themselves.

"Tanker!" several voices shouted at once.

"Pull up! Pull up!"

Vincent shot towards the position Tanker showed on the map. His HUD flashed with new coordinates, mapping out the other pilot’s descent. Invisible in the ink-black clouds, he dove straight down to certain death.

"Break, break, break," Vincent called, silencing the yells. "Tanker, what is your status? Can you rectify?" He poured on the speed, his fighter bucking against the turbulence outside. Rain splattered across the view port as he pushed himself faster and faster.

Silence from the falling pilot. Tanker made no move to maneuver, his ship faring no better than a rock against the pull of gravity. Then he smashed into the canopy, and his signal winked out. Abruptly, without even the fanfare of an explosion, he was gone.

Maybe he ejected
, Vincent thought, but he knew the truth. The signal he was tracking wasn't the fighters—it was the AMI nestled firmly in the pilot’s brain.

Vincent banked, harder than he needed to, forcing himself down into the chair, the blood rushing from his head. He started to black out; he was pulling six, maybe seven g's. He forced his suit to tighten and clear his head. He had failed his pilot. Should have been faster, shouldn't have left them behind.

His craft shuddered as the hand gripping the stick betrayed him. He was losing it. It was all too much. Finding Derek, losing Tanker, betraying orders. He had to pull it together. Couldn't lose anyone else.

A collision alert squealed, and Vincent twisted in his seat as a flash of red and yellow screamed by above him. The temperature inside his cabin shot up and sweat stung his eyes. The ablative armor on the top of his craft held up against the sudden heat, but the shift in atmosphere caused him to buck.

"Rover!" Vincent cried.

"Yes, sir," the bot's voice came through the com.

Vincent started. He had been sure the bot had been along the top of the craft and would have been caught in whatever shot him.

"I thought you... Never mind, make sure the engines are alright," he ordered.

What
was
that? He banked again, following the heat signature that had passed so close. The storm clouds broiled as they moved to fill the gap left by the intense heat, causing even the sensors to lose track.

"All pilots break off," he ordered. "Form a perimeter around the portal. We need to cover the ground forces’ exfil. We have an unknown weapon up here. Watch yourselves."

The heat sensors picked up on the signature again. It was flying directly away from him in the storm, back towards where he had identified the camp.

"Zombie, Duchess," Vincent commed, "You’re with me. We keep whatever this thing is away from the ground forces until they can get the prisoners and get out."

The storm clouds were thinner the further he chased the bogie. He looked up from the sensor to see if he could spot it in the dark. A bright spot was pushing back the storm ahead of him.

Zombie called.

"I do too. Flanking maneuvers."

Zombie said, though he lacked some of his usual enthusiasm. Push back the grief. Finish the mission. They had all been trained the same way.

"Yeah, roger that."

The heat the thing was generating was insane. It was putting out the kind of emission the
Inferno
did, and her engines were the size of baseball diamonds. Vincent strained to catch a glimpse of it, wanting to know what it was just as much as Zombie before he blasted it out of the sky.

When he finally got close enough to see it, though, he forgot all about shooting it down.

The thing was completely engulfed in yellow and blue flames. It was too bright too look at, but when his screen polarized and enhanced, Vincent saw what looked like woman. A woman with blazing angel wings.

She stopped without warning, flaring the wings out to catch the air. Vincent dialed back on the throttle and flared his airbrakes, and she twisted around to stare at him with pinpoints of blue flame. He was forced to bank away from her, not wanting to risk the heat, when Zombie called, "Reaper Three, foxtrot one."

Vincent wanted to scream, to tell him not to fire, but couldn't even begin to explain why. This was the enemy—why had he hesitated? The elves looked human enough, and he had fought the Separatists in their fighters. Why hadn't he fired?

Zombie’s missiles soared straight at the massive heat signature, and the flare of their engines was lost in the miniature sun. She twisted her wings around her like a cocoon, her form blurring until only a ball of flame remained. When all four missiles struck her, they were immediately consumed.

The wings snapped open like solar flares, throwing off blasts of heat and light. A second set of smaller wings unfurled beneath, spreading out as if she were...

"It's absorbing the energy. Break off, break off!" Vincent called out. The forest below lit up with the punishing heat, and the flames spread in waves. If she grew any hotter the damage would be unstoppable.

Just like Bastogne...

The realization hit him like a plasma bolt.

Chapter 56

The Exile

Exile threw herself behind the nearest trunk as a foliage-bending roar thundered through the jungle.

"What the hell was that?" Cowboy called, holding a hand to his ear.

"A problem," Killswitch muttered, pulling a pair of binoculars from his kit. He pushed aside leaves and held up the goggles. The Exile moved up beside him. "It looks like we've found them."

He leaned over and passed the binoculars to Exile, who took them in her remaining hand. Hunkering down, she pushed them to her eyes. Beyond the forest edge Exile could see the telltale signs of clearing efforts, and though there were still several meters of jungle to traverse between them and the camp, Exile could make out shaped tree shelters and Verdantun moving about. This surprised her, as she had assumed they would at least encounter minor patrols protecting the camp. But it looked like pure chaos.
Enemy mistakes are allied opportunities
,
she thought, then broadcast, <
They are distracted. Now is our time to strike.>

Killswitch nodded, then keyed over the bionet, <
Alright, men, you heard the lieutenant. Assault through the objective, weapons hot, find the colonists, and get the hell out of dodge. Keep quiet as long as possible; it's going to be a tough fight out of there.>

The Exile pushed the binoculars back at Killswitch and moved forward. Her rank alone would not convince those men to blindly follow her—they were far too experienced for that. She would need to lead by example, and that meant taking point.

Exile reached for her Shell, and the energy fell about her. She pulled it swiftly around herself, and her arm coalesced into existence in the time it took her to unholster her two laser pistols. She took hold of their grips with flesh and spectral fingers.

Holding the weapons at the low ready, she advanced through the dense foliage in a crouch. She felt a twinge of discomfort; with her Web down she could not be certain her platoon was following her, and she had learned not to trust anyone. She glanced over her shoulder where the holo-blur of Killswitch was glued to her heels, his movements mirroring her own.

The Exile continued her advance, her more mundane senses straining for any sign of the enemy. This close to the camp, the guards must be hidden somewhere, and the elves’ ability to shapeshift proved to be effective camouflage. Her holocammies kept her hidden as well, though, and it would become a dance of who could spot the other first. Time was of the essence, but Exile moved slowly, and tried to keep from rustling the foliage as she passed. When any of the particularly large leaves crossed her path, she willed them to stay still with the same energy she had used to shape water in the space station.

When she reached the edge of the deep undergrowth, the sight of the camp beyond twisted her wariness into suspicion. There was no way they would make it into the camp proper without some kind of welcoming committee. Slowly, she moved onto a muddy path twisting between the trees, and an army in chaos came into view. The elves were in full retreat, leaving behind everything too big to carry. Many of the trees had been set alight, no doubt in hopes that the Joint Fleet forces would lose intel along with the burning remains.

They were all running here and there, most in their native forms, though there did not seem to be any pattern to the movements. Some of the forces ran towards her, others away, and often with soldiers racing past one another carrying the same objects, as if they had no idea that what they carried was being pulled away from where they were going.

The Verdantun were leaderless.

Exile pushed.

For once, Killswitch didn't argue or sneer.

The Exile pushed forward into the camp, pulsing her Shell into her legs to give her speed. She dashed from tree to tree, her holocammies turning hazy as the surroundings blurred by. She reattached the pistols to the magnetic clamps on her rig and pulled two grenades from her belt. She thumbed the trigger on the first and cocked back her arm, focusing her Shell around her tricep as she did. She snapped the arm forward, fast as a whip, feeling the sharp twinge as she cracked the capsules along the back of her arm and forearm. A cool rush followed before she completed the arc as the chemicals raced through her. The grenade whipped through the air, easily clearing her line of sight, and landed some hundred meters away in the camp.

She passed the second grenade from her spectral hand to her flesh one and repeated the process, but with less force this time, directing the grenade further to her left. Pulling her two pistols from her hips, she pressed forward, silently counting down. When she finished, two thunderclaps roared through the camp—two rocks thrown into the already agitated nest—and the chaos reached its zenith.

The Exile used the fear and confusion to her benefit. As Verdantun raced by, unfocused, Exile snapped off a shot with her handguns, sending two streaks of light into unexpected victims. The small underpowered hand cannons would not kill outright, nor would they disintegrate on contact, but their vibrant blue beams did cause significant pain.

Leaving cries of pain and confusion in her wake, Exile moved swiftly, keeping her path erratic, and firing at random so it seemed as though the attack was coming from all sides.
Tension causes panic, panic breaks control
.

Above, engines droned as the air support drew closer. The inky presence of the Shadow was also drawing in. It was up there, still in the guise of the dead Psykin, and biding its time.