Forged by Battle (WarVerse Book 1) Page 14
It took all of her mental reserves to force away the alien emotions and focus on the man she needed. He was sitting upright in bed, thinking about his command and his recent interaction with the Duchess. So the Shadow had come to see him, and the lieutenant had not been completely fooled by the illusion. She made a mental note that he could be of more use in the future.
She formed a thought in the Web about the ship he piloted, and fired it into his mind. For him, it would feel as though he had been struck by a wandering idea, and would have no knowledge of her infiltration. Humans were disgustingly easy to manipulate.
Unfortunately, this pilot proved to be more difficult than his compatriots. His thoughts turned immediately back to planning, and some human who was trapped on the planet they were traveling to.
Derek Rodrom—Exile was surprised to know the name. Another large player in Project Rebirth. She had stumbled into the center of the operation. Now she only needed to ensure that all the pieces fell into place. Rescue the doctor, force him to put his research into practice, and finally give humanity the edge it so desperately needed in the war.
It was difficult to delve into the deeper recesses of someone’s mind. Emotions and surface thoughts were simple, the flotsam constantly generated by undisciplined minds. Secrets were kept deeper down, not broadcast as easily or as often. Even humans had some practice in that regard. She fired a few more projections at the man, to see if she could switch the path of his thoughts, but he was concentrating all of his effort on the rescue of his friend. It seemed the pilot wouldn't be giving her any more intel.
No matter, she did not need the codes if there was another way to advance the project. The Condemned would be on the planet they were heading to, and with them she could find Derek Rodrom and ensure his work was finished.
Chapter 36
Rodrom
The weaveroot wasn't working. Or at least that's how Rodrom saw it. Lorelei seemed beyond reason with excitement over the notion that an “ironblood” could possess the gifts of her people. For Rodrom, all it amounted to was a constant influx of noise and bodily aches as she tried to show him the ropes.
"Concentrate, DerekRodrom, you have to allow the Weave to speak to you," she told him, a look of serene patience on her face.
"I have no trouble tuning in. Sorting out all the noise without my head exploding is the tricky part."
Every life around him was like a garage band trying to outdo every other kid on the block. The unintelligible, inseparable noises made his head spin. He felt as though he should have the mother of all headaches, but somehow it was the rest of him that hurt. It felt like tiny needles were being slowly pressed into every inch of his palms, and the same with the soles of his feet. He longed for a med scan to tell him what sort of physiological changes were happening to his body. What sort of damage, or enhancements, the weaveroot was making beneath his flesh.
His whole body was an exercise in extremes. While his joints ached and popped, his muscles felt larger and tighter. His pulse throbbed in his neck as though he had just finished a marathon, but his lungs had none of the burn he had come to associate with exertion. Somehow the weaveroot was allowing him to transport more oxygen—or barring that, it was making him use less when he moved. His artificial copper-based blood was only a quarter as effective as a regular human’s, but it was the only way the Grelkins could cure him of leukemia. The procedure had altered him down to the bone marrow, and he had felt it ever since.
He couldn't handle flying like his father, couldn't pass even the basic physical exam for the military. It was only as a surgeon that he was able to join the fleet and continue his family legacy.
Great, just great, Rodrom thought. Trapped behind enemy lines with some super-science parasite giving me auditory hallucinations. Kudos to me.
"You must not fight it. The Weave is everywhere, like the air around us. You breath it in, but only use what you need. Treat the Root the same."
Rodrom had begun to notice a distinct change in Lorelei as day turned to night, and wished he could study other non-feral Verdantun to fill in the gaps of his hypothesis.
Lorelei had kept his transformation a secret, so he was still being treated with the same animosity as ever. No, Rodrom thought, not exactly the same. It appeared his failure to run in exchange for helping Dirus had made the rounds. The guards shoved him around with a little less violence, and snarled at him with a little less tooth. Heck, they were practically family now.
At least he could understand them when they spoke. That was one part of his newfound ability he had mastered. It didn't seem to matter what the language was, either. The ferals seemed to communicate with a series of snarls and barks when they were closer to their beast form, but he understood just the same.
"Lorelei, there has to be more to it." Rodrom sighed. "A command prompt or a visualization technique."
"The weaveroot is not one of your machines. It is as much a part of nature as it is a part of you. It is the bridge that connects you to every living thing."
"Do or do not, there is no try," Rodrom muttered. Lorelei raised an eyebrow. "Never mind, human expression."
"Allow yourself to sink into the music that flows through you. Do not try to control it yet, only listen."
Rodrom bit back the comment he wanted to make. She was far less receptive to his snide remarks during the day.
He tried to do as she said, to sit back and listen, but it was like sitting in a room full of televisions all tuned to different stations. How could he relax in the center of all that? The more he concentrated, the louder it all became, until finally a noise came so loud and sudden that he snapped his eyes open in surprise. The look on Lorelei's face told him it was not the Weave that had caused the disturbance.
The Verdantun were once again under attack.
Chapter 37
Johnston
"Sir, we will be coming out of warp in two minutes."
Johnston stood at his command dais. The feeds in front of him showed nothing outside their bubble of space-time.
For all the tactical advantage warp travel provided, the inability to know where they would exit was detrimental. He would have no warning if an enemy fleet were waiting just off their bow, and with the peculiarities of gravity wells, he would not be able to jump back out if the fight were too one-sided. Without her escorts, the Inferno would be hard-pressed to survive any lengthy engagement. She was strong, perhaps one of the strongest human ships flying, but she was only one ship in the end.
The intel had reported nothing of an enemy presence over Aberdeen. All of the fighting had been contained to the far side of the ground side portal, but by now they had been in warp for nearly two standard days, which for the enemy was practically a lifetime.
Communications keyed a ship-wide announcement to prepare all hands to exit warp. Johnston had already called a ready alert—not to force his crew to remain at their battle stations, but to be close by in the event of battle. It was taxing for the crew to remain inside their gunner's seats and fighter cockpits just to assuage his fears. He would be cautious, but not at the expense of his crew’s wellbeing. In all likelihood they would drop out of warp into an empty expanse a few light-seconds out from Aberdeen. Unfortunately, that cheery thought did nothing to relax Johnston's grip on his console.
"Preparing to exit warp," Navigation announced.
Johnston’s grip got just a little tighter; purple veins stood out against his light brown hands, and a small strip of pale skin on his left ring finger stood in sharp relief despite all the time it had gone bare.
Pay attention, damn it, Johnston told himself. It had been a long time since he had slept. The headaches were growing more violent by the day.
"Surfacing in five, four, three, two, one. We have reemergence," Navigation called.
"Scan all frequencies, all contacts to tactical. Launch Voidfox squadron." Johnston was thankful that his voice did not betray his exhaustion. He looked down at his display as the data poured i
n and was processed by his ship's powerful AIs. So far so good, but the sensors could only scan as fast as the light hit them. They were not far from the planet now. A few million kilometers, but enemy vessels could be anywhere around them. From the launch tubes the tiny interceptor craft fired out, their craft barely more than a cockpit and engines. They would scout behind the nearby planets and moons.
After several long minutes, Johnston looked over the data and acknowledged that his ship was safe.
"No enemy contacts, sir. We are being hailed by Aberdeen orbital command. Shall I put them on screen?"
"Aye." Johnston turned towards the screen.
The weathered face of an army officer appeared. "JFS Inferno, this is Colonel Trast of the hundred and first. I can't express how glad we are to see you. We have a real situation brewing down dirt side."
"We came as soon as we were able," Johnston said. "Have you had any incursions to this side of the portal?"
"Negative, sir. The troops on the ground have managed to hold them off, but they were pressed back to the research facility. They need support ASAP."
"And they shall have it." Johnson gestured to Belford to give the shuttle launch order. "We will dispatch ground reinforcements immediately, and air support as soon as we can bring the Inferno inside the atmosphere."
"What sort of ground forces are we talking about?"
"I have a company of marines, an armored platoon with escorts, as well as a full squadron of atmospheric-ready fighters."
A look of relief crossed the colonel's face. "Those elves won't know what hit them." He smiled.
"We'll get those troops back, Colonel. Leave no man behind." It was one of the american army’s mottos.
"The boys will be glad to see you, that's for sure. Colonel Trast out."
The screen showing the ground commander winked out and was replaced with a forward-facing view off the bow of the ship. Already the blue flashes of engines was filling the space between the Inferno and the planet beyond—the shuttles carried the marines and tanks that would hopefully make good on Johnston's promise.
"All ahead full," Johnston ordered. "Get us close enough to drop the Reapers."
Part 4
Chapter 38
The Exile
The moment the Exile's vehicle passed through the portal she was assaulted by the unfiltered AMI transmissions of countless soldiers fighting for their lives. The cacophony threatened to overtake her, the pain of so many open channels spiking through her.
She redoubled the defenses in her mind, and casting out her Web as far as she could reach, she combed the battlefield for the consciousness of the Condemned platoon. Voices continued to wash over her, but her mental bulwarks held against the strain. As she searched, a picture of the battle formed in her mind. She picked up the views of dozens of soldiers, each snapshot pulling away the fog. In her mind's eye she pictured the Terran forces, and the Condemned lit up like beacons as she connected to their AMIs.
The Joint Fleet soldiers were set up in the dozen or so buildings that made up the research compound. They were built around the portal in a full three-sixty defense. The jungle beyond the buildings did not acknowledge the Terran claim to the land, and the foliage pressed in close, giving the enemy advantage of approach. An energy shield dome, just barely visible to the naked eye, ended only a few meters beyond the furthest building’s edge.
The Exile's battle map shuddered as a fireball slammed into the energy shield. Exile remained motionless, her attention focused beyond the vehicle she occupied and on those bright lights of consciousness that dotted the battlefield. The Condemned were the easiest to spot, their AMIs distinct compared to the average ground trooper, but the real difference came in the emotions they broadcast. Every soldier had some fear, no matter how veteran they were. The Condemned broadcast nothing—they were literally fearless.
Exile focused her Web onto one such light—the soldier repairing the shield generator. She spun her thoughts into a tendril and reached inside the soldier’s mind, attempting to see the battle from his perspective.
The soldier crouched low as a fireball smashed into the shield overhead. The unearthly roar shook his skull, and with that distraction, she was in and experiencing everything he did.
***
The wave of heat roared over Cowboy's exposed skin, and his nose was assaulted by the acrid wash of smoke and brimstone. As the worst of the heat dissipated, he pushed himself up and out of the mud, and reached out to wipe the monitor in front of him clean. He cursed as he cleared away the grime. Beneath the cracked glass, the numbers read too low, flashed too red to be accurate.
One fireball couldn't have been enough to take out a shield grid that large, he thought. Damn elves must have ripped up a relay. He squinted down the field and tried to judge the distance from his position to the next emitter: a hundred meters between buildings over open ground. The pounding rain wasn't making anything easier.
Snarling, Cowboy ripped soot-covered goggles from his eyes and spat onto the lenses. While rubbing them on an even dirtier sleeve, he took a less obstructed view of the battlefield. His team was hunkered down in the crumpled husk of a biodome, their position directly beside a company of 101st regulars who occupied the adjacent building. Behind his team, at the center of the compound, was the distinct blurring of air that marked a portal. The elves outside his shield were pushing them up against it. Soon they would have nowhere to fall back to, and they would lose the beachhead they had fought so hard to gain.
The 101st Infantry Battalion entrenched with them had pitifully little tech, gnome or otherwise. Most were still wielding the weapons of the last Terran war. Their M-4's cracked loudly and filled the narrow passages with the smell of cordite, while their crew-served machine guns that belched off streams of lead in sequence as they talked back and forth. Cowboy had been with the Condemned for so long he had nearly forgotten the sound of pre-contact weaponry. Pinned down and facing steep odds was not the time he wanted to hear it.
Truth be told, his own platoon wasn't faring much better. Their mission had taken them so far from supply lines that most of their tech had broken down or run out of power. When the original incursion had been pushed back, his platoon was trapped behind enemy lines, and only with this latest beachhead were they able to link back up with Terran forces. At this point they might as well be ground pounders for all the good their unpowered gear was doing.
Through the distortion of his shield, Cowboy could see maybe a meter into the foliage around the compound. It was a truly terrible place to defend, lending cover to the enemy as they filtered through the trees. Enemy artillery, or their bastardized version of it, pounded down upon their position as Terran forces attempted to discern targets through the forest, and the beachhead was far too small to move their own guns.
It was only a matter of time before the overtaxed shield fell and the elves pushed forward, and to make things worse, they had found a way to launch small projectiles through what should have been an impenetrable wall. The tiny black spears managed to stay intact beyond the shield just long enough to pierce through soldiers’ bodies before the instability from their passing the energy barrier caused them to explode. At this point, the shield was actually giving them an advantage; Cowboy didn't think the projectiles would explode without it, but to lose the shield was to be overrun. They were outgunned, outmanned, and running out of time. Grimacing at the idea of close combat or being spiked down by one of the elves’ shots, Cowboy mentally keyed his holocammies to camouflage and hoped he had enough power for the dash. Grunting, he darted out from cover and across the open ground.
***Exile pulled back from Cowboy's mind as another light flared. The platoon sergeant, codename Killswitch, was calling out orders to cover Cowboy's sprint.
"Lift fire!" he shouted, the words barely audible over the
noise.
He lowered his binoculars to observe the gun crew. They were thirty meters down the buildings, manning the last powered heavy weapon. Beast, the gunner, laid down the trigger and a series of eye-searing plasma bolts tore across the space between the buildings. They passed easily through the shield and splintered the line of trees beyond.
Killswitch swore as the line of fire passed dangerously close to Cowboy.
"Daredevil, take up the slack," Killswitch shouted to the other gunner.
Exile could see that the other gunner was positioned on the only remaining part of the second story of the biodome. With barely enough room for himself, he was operating an old M240B, a belt fed machine gun that spat 7.62 rounds. His assistant gunner, Snowball, was crouching on a ruined pillar beside him, his eyes glued to a pair of binoculars, and calling out targets as they moved between the trees.
Both minds shone in Exile's Web as they responded to their new orders. The gunner traversed his weapon to lay down covering fire for Cowboy, his advantage in height allowing him to clear the sprinting figure. With each burst of fire the gun slammed into his shoulder, his mind flared with excitement. A touch of surprise dampened his light in Exile's Web. He pressed himself low, and a heartbeat later a thick black spike whistled past where his head had been. It slammed into the building behind him, where it detonated, taking out piece of a wall.
The gunner leaned forward again and continued firing, and the Exile pulled herself back to view the field as a whole once again.
She had only discovered her platoon’s involvement in the beachhead a scarce half hour before she breached the portal. Once she had realized they were planetside, it was a simple affair to find a ride down to the colony. As a newly minted Special Forces lieutenant, she was afforded certain privileges, not the least of them the ability to commandeer a shuttle. Her Web ensured none of the other soldiers would remember her.