Forged by Battle (WarVerse Book 1) Page 11
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.
The Exile only stared.
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.
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.
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, Command
er."
"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?"
Chapter 29
Vincent
Vincent stumbled into the bulkhead, drowning in a wash of emotions. Grief, loss, and anger all vied to overwhelm him. His father's death, losing Derek, his inability to prevent either tragedy. He collapsed to his knees and tears streamed from his eyes as he curled his hands into fists.
Then it was gone, and only the soft echo of pain remained.
"What in the void was that?" he rasped, then wiped a sleeve across his face. He hadn't cried since the day he lost his father. This was no natural grief; some sort of magic had to be responsible.
The red washout of the battle station lights confirmed his suspicions, and Vincent took off running down the hall, leaping through the emergency hatches that split the hallway.
"Status report," he called between breaths.
Before the details even finished downloading into memories, Vincent was already activating his squadron sense, connecting his mental chip to theirs so he could sense their positions.
Tesla and Forge were in danger. Vincent doubled down on his speed, sprinting wildly through the corridors as if the fire were behind him.
"What... caused... the fire?" he puffed between breaths.
Vincent didn't waste his breath with further questions. He hadn’t appreciated the length of the ship until he was forced to sprint the distance. He didn't dare take the elevator, not if there was a fire.
He took far too long to get there—long enough for him to consider the worst possible scenarios. Then he heard them.
The distinctive spray of the firefighting foam packs was the easiest to hear; then, as he got closer, he heard the grunts and shouts of the crews themselves.
"Connect me to their bionet," Vincent ordered. His rank would allow him in. The connection was made and a flurry of communications came flooding in.
All the firefighters were launching off. Vincent was disoriented by all of their thoughts.
Ahead of them down the corridor, fire licked at the walls and ceiling. Closer to Vincent, foam coated the walls to stop the fire’s advance. Vincent knew firsthand how devastating a ship-wide fire could be. If it got into the life support line that pumped the atmosphere, it would get far worse. There were automatic cutoffs everywhere, but they could fail, and sufficient heat would find a way to spread.
The firefighters were gaining ground, but the foam only did so much. Force fields and oxygen denial were far more effective.
Vincent saw an extra pack on the floor behind the rearmost fighter, and he scooped it up and pushed his arms through the straps. He hadn't kept up on the training since the academy, but the principle was simple enough, same as with a weapon. Business end towards the enemy. He grabbed a respirator as well and fitted it over his face.
The corridor was only wide enough to support three men abreast, and five firefighters were already crowding for space. Vincent slipped in between the rearmost two and lifted the nozzle of his foam gun to arc it over the men ahead of him.
The tool churned in his hands as the foam blasted from the front. Flecks hit the three men ahead of him, but most arced over their shoulders to splash onto the flames. Between the six of them, they managed to press the fire further down the corridor, and then one of them broke off to access a panel on the wall.
Vincent pulled him back and stepped up. He was barely a foot away from the nearest flames. The view from his plummeting snubfighter filled his mind, forcing him to grip the tool with the same intensity as when he’d plunged into the fires on Bastogne.
It took Vincent a split second to remember what that meant. It was a split second too long. While the other two men around him twisted to shield their bodies, Vincent took the blast of heat full on. Every exposed inch of flesh screamed like a blanket of needles had pressed into it, and even with the respirator on, he could smell his own cooked flesh and singed hair. He screamed into the plastic of his mask, dropping back a step. The other two stepped forward to pick up the slack, but Vincent forced himself forward, still spraying everything with foam.
Vincent was starting to lose it. The wandering thoughts, the lack of focus. It didn't help that he knew. Didn't help at all.
Vincent saw the hatch in question. It was closed off to the fire. He turned his stream on it until it was completely covered. The foam would help to dissipate the heat so they could open it. He remembered that much.
At the end of the corridor, a force field shimmered. They were close to extinguishing the blaze completely. The fighters they had left behind to exchange foam packs had returned, and with the combined effort of all six, they pushed the blaze inexorably back. Vincent dragged behind and moved for the door.
He grabbed the handle—it was cool enough to open. He twisted and pulled. No fire came rushing out to meet him. As he pulled it open, it occurred to him just how dangerous that choice could have been.
He looked inside, and found his pilots and Ele huddled in the corner.
"Jiminy Christmas!" Tesla yelled. "You got it out?"
"Do you not see, Tesla
?" Forge cried. "It is the Kapitan!"
"Are you wounded?" Vincent called, and just moving his lips made his nerves scream again.
"Ele was burned."
"Give her to me. I'll take her to medical."
"All respect due, sir, but vape that. We will take you," Forge told him, and then pulled the foam nozzle from Vincent’s hand and lifted his arm over his shoulder. Vincent opened his mouth to argue, but sank silently into the support instead.
"What were you thinking, dude?" Tesla muttered.
Vincent didn't give an answer. He didn't have one. He hadn't stopped to think about it.
Chapter 30
The Exile
The Exile had little time. She had not wanted to fight the other Psykin, had intended to keep hidden until she could find more intel, steal a shuttle, and continue her mission. But no matter how tight she’d held her Web, no matter how much of the ship was between them, the other had kept following her. The Exile hadn’t had a choice.
Now she had several problems. The ship had lurched into a warp jump right before they battled. So the Exile was trapped inside the ship until they exited the bubble of space-time wrapped around the ship. The second problem was the death scream. The kill had not been clean, in more ways than one. The Psykin’s chest was torn open from the inside out, as though both her hearts had erupted. The Shadow had taken over, had twisted the Exile's emotions with its power and forced her to go further than simply ending the other's life.
The Shadow—or was it her?—took sadistic pleasure in murdering the other. Exile was having trouble deciphering whose emotions were whose. She felt like laughing and retching at the same time. Only the knowledge that she had little time kept her from unraveling.
The ship would know of her presence now. She needed a plan. Already the red lights washed across the room. She tuned out the distractions and focused on the task at hand.
Tension causes panic, panic breaks control, came the mantra, though the Exile knew she was well past tension. The ingrained teachings were the same as the Psykin before her: dead, useless things that came from an organization of fools.