Forged by Battle (WarVerse Book 1) (17 page)

The truck that had been sent back through the rift to establish bounce relays was unable to reestablish a connection. The elves had found a way to shut down their equipment, not just jam the signals. And with no communications through the portal, they were cut off.

Her own men's consciousness seemed to shine brighter as the battle declined. She could sense hope and awe from the men closest to their building. Given that the biodome they occupied had the largest profile of all the fighting positions, her platoon was effectively the center of the resistance. There were too many soldiers on the field for her to affect them with her Web, but the platoon acted as a conduit, allowing her draw attention to their actions. She bent to the task of rallying the troops around them, still connected to each as she watched the battle play out from fifteen sets of eyes.

***

"How did this happen?" Snowball muttered. "Fifteen left, down three." A burst of fire tore between crumbling walls into the treeline beyond, and they heard a roar in response.

"Solid hit. I think you wounded one," he said, squinting into binoculars.

"You mean how could Intel be just so completely wrong?" Daredevil asked as he realigned his weapon.

"Yeah, how'd they miss the entire damn army out here? Traverse left three." Another burst.

"I stopped wondering that a while ago—they're wrong more often than not. Do we have a spare barrel?" Daredevil asked as the last link of his weapons belt clinked to the ground. He grabbed another can and tore off the cover. With a quick glance at the rounds, he lifted the weapon's cover and laid them in place, then slammed the feed tray cover down and tore back the charging handle. With a squeeze, he sent another burst down range. "I haven't used one of these in a while but I'm pretty sure if it turns red we need a new one."

"I don't think so, hold on. Widget!" Snowball called over his shoulder, prompting another soldier to come running up on the floor beneath them. "Damn it, Widget, stay low. Make contact with the 101st in that building next to us and get a spare barrel for this thing."

Widget nodded and ran back out of sight, Snowball shaking his head as he turned back toward the fight.

"You think he'll find one?" Daredevil asked, letting off another burst.

"I doubt it, but it'll keep him from losing it during the fight. You know how new guys are." Snowball shrugged best as he could lying prone and looked back through his optics. "You know I always said the pre-contact weapon training would come in handy. Right fifteen, up seven." His ear rang as the gun swung around and spat another string.

***

Cowboy realized instantly that the relay wasn't damaged, and none of the others down the line were responding to his pings. The shield was coming down—he didn't know why, but it was coming down whether it should or not. Cowboy stole a glance back at his team; they only had two guns up and Doc had established a casualty collection point deeper in the biodome. The 101st on either side of their building seemed to be running low on ammo, or were losing more men than could man weapons—across the compound more guns were falling silent. The ferals moving through the woods only meters from him seemed impossible in number. Too many would survive a full-on charge. As he tore back towards the building, he ran his hand over the hatchet at his hip. The fighting was about to get a lot closer.

***

"As soon as Cowboy clears the wall, I want that barrel red," Killswitch snarled from his position next to Beast. "He's got that look. The shield’s going down. Things are about to get bad. Where's Blackout?"

His knuckles white from gripping his weapon, Beast replied through gritted teeth, "He was covering Doc at his CCP."

"Shit. I'll be back." Killswitch dodged behind the gun and moved further into the building.

Beast counted the seconds as Cowboy sprinted toward his position. After an eternity, he cleared the field of fire and Beast slammed down on the thumbpads. The weapon shuddered in his hands and he whooped with pleasure. He watched with a cockeyed grin as the plasma bolts destroyed the trees in front of him and sent fires springing up. As if to answer his blast, a trio of fireballs erupted from the forest.

"The shields..." Cowboy panted, ducking low as the fireballs detonated.

"We know. You got that look." Beast's face lit up with each burst, the illuminated grin giving him a demonic look.

"I set up a few surprises for them, but I think a charge is coming." Cowboy pulled a rifle off his back and hit the ground next to Beast. With a careful eye, he took aim along with deep breaths of air. As the crosshairs steadied, he watched for movement, then snapped off a shot between breaths. "Where's the rest of the team?" His question was punctuated by a roar from the wounded.

"Locksmith’s on the net, the other gun team is to my right." Beast paused to shoot. "Killswitch is getting Blackout, Rehab, and Doc. Still no coms with the away team, and I haven't seen Widget."

"Leave it to him to get lost," Cowboy muttered with another shot. "We're going to need to fall back after the first wave." Beast grunted in acknowledgment. "Do we have a rally point?"

"The back of the building, I think."

"Lots of room to move in here. Better than the streets, but still it'll give them an advantage."

"So we'll just have to kill them all here, then." Beast set his jaw and went back to his methodical firing.

"I see Killswitch now," Cowboy said after a glance back into the biodome.

Killswitch came up panting with Blackout, Rehab, and Doc behind him. Widget followed, looking crestfallen.

"Alright, get ready for a charge," Killswitch barked the instant he caught his breath. "Blackout and Widget, take up a position between the gun teams, and use the guns as long as you can. Then we get down and dirty."

Blackout grinned and reached up to touch a hilt that protruded over his left shoulder. Widget gulped and nodded, the fear obvious in his eyes.

"Doc, I want you with me. We're going to fill in the weak spots, and of course you take care of the wounded."

"I was taking care of the wounded, until you moved me," Doc countered, pulling a weapon from his back anyway.

"The 101st have their own medics. We'll need you soon enough," Cowboy cut in before Killswitch went off on him. Tensions were too high as it was.

Killswitch grunted and took up a firing position beside Cowboy. "You men had best pray to whatever god you fancy most," he muttered. "Though you'll damn well keep your feet. I won't have any of my men die on their knees, begging for help that ain't coming."

Exile could sense their resolve as they set their defenses against the oncoming charge. Each of them prepared to fight to the last man to hold the breach. The vehicle she sat in had emptied of its soldiers, having lost all mobility when a spine pierced three of its six wheels.  She almost hadn’t noticed, but she didn't have the option to run, anyway. The Shadow had grown too strong, and failing to rescue Derek Rodrom could mean the end of Project Rebirth.

Chapter 39

Vincent

Vincent watched as Ele was carried into the medical shuttle along with the other civilians the
Inferno
had been transporting from their burning colony. Ele had still not woken from the coma that had landed her in the medical bay in the first place. The doctor seemed torn between it being a psychological reaction to the stress of two near-death experiences in as many days, or an underlying condition. But they simply didn't have the time to treat such a critical patient with the limited facilities aboard the supercarrier, and they needed to care for fleet soldiers first. The doctors down on Aberdeen would see to Ele's treatment.

That wasn't what was bothering Vincent, though. It was something else, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Sad your girlfriend’s leaving, boss?" Zombie asked from behind him.

"You often fly in front of my sights, Zom, think about that."

He turned around. A huge smile was pasted on the pilot’s face.

"Safest place I could fly, sir!" He snapped into a precise salute.

"I'm going to change your call sign to Joker. Then I'm going to see if the captain needs the
Inferno
washed."

"Pretty sure that names been taken already." Zombie was still smiling.

Vincent felt the corners of his mouth itching, but forced the angry look to stay on his face. "Why do I put up with you?"

"Because I am the second-best pilot this side of the galaxy."

"Flattery? That's new."

"Sir? I meant Commander Belford, of course." Zombie's smile grew, then he dropped down to the deck on his palms and started doing pushups.

Vincent growled, "Real clever. When we get back I'm going to invent a special punishment for you. Get up, we have work to do."

The younger pilot hopped to his feet, still bouncing with glee as Vincent led the way up the false horizon of the docking ring.

"All the fighters have passed their preflight checks?" Vincent asked, already knowing the answer.

"You bet, sir. I double-checked them myself. All the flaps, turbines, and air intakes are operating at peak conditions. The Reapers will finally get a chance to see what this armor package can do.”

Vincent silently agreed. With all the training they had undergone in order to pilot the craft, it had been nearly intolerable to launch with the same configuration time after time. He absently rubbed at the ports on the back of his neck, thinking about everything he had sacrificed to fly.

"All the other pilots are ready?" Vincent continued grilling Zombie. The young pilot would presumably command his own squadron before long, though hopefully not due to the loss of his own leader.

The question seemed to give Zombie pause. "Well, sir, Duchess has been acting weird lately."

So it isn’t just me
. "Weird how?" Vincent asked.

"Just off, you know, like she's not all there. More than usual, I mean."

"Do you think she's fit to fly?"

"Oh, hell yeah. She's acting weird, not dead." Zombie smiled again. "She's been going over her ship like she's a day-one pilot. Must have checked everything three times. It's probably just nerves. Who knows how those nymphs think."

Their ships came into view as they walked further along the ring. It was still bizarre to see his pilots standing on what appeared to be the wall as the floor curved ever upward.

"Right, just keep on her when we're down there. We leave with twelve."

"We bring twelve home."

Chapter 40

Rodrom

The sounds of battle echoed strangely around the pit where Rodrom and his fellow scientists sat. None of the survivors bothered to cower in fear anymore; their minds had adapted to the stress, for better or worse. Instead they sat with their backs to one another for comfort and to keep them out of the mud. Having seen the Verdantun encampment in detail, Rodrom no longer considered his prison barbaric. The Verdantun dwelled within the living roots of trees, and before the Joint Fleet incursion, they were constantly on the move. The prisoner accommodations could be considerably worse, and the mud could not be helped. The planet’s local climate was a constant state of damp.

Looking up into the canopy, Rodrom tried to concentrate on the noise of the oncoming battle. Lorelei had been pulled away when the fighting began in earnest, leaving Rodrom to contend with the weaveroot on his own. His hands still felt like they were full of needles. Closer examination of them gave him little extra information, what with the mud and low light, though he was convinced he could see the ends of minuscule roots pushing out of the creases in palm.

Rodrom kept to himself at the edge of the pit—consciously because the further he kept from the others the less he would be able to sense them, and subconsciously because the other scientists did not like how much time he spent helping the Verdantun and made no moves to engage him. More than a few rumors had circulated that he was going to defect, given the chance. Should they learn that a dangerous piece of the enemy’s “technology” was now grafted to his spine, the reaction was sure to be less than pleasant.

With no distractions in the muddy pit, Rodrom was more or less forced to listen to the music that drifted from each of his colleagues. Most of it was nondescript, just the beating of drums with an unenthusiastic stringed accompaniment. He tried to ignore it best as he could, but was quickly interrupted. A symphony erupted when an amber-skinned Verdantun came into view at the top of the pit.

"You will come with me," the elf stated, pointing at Rodrom with a slender finger.

Rodrom knew better than to acknowledge that he understood their native tongue. There was a difference between the language, and what the weaveroot allowed him to know, and Lorelei had ensured this was clear to Rodrom. She had implored him to keep his new abilities a secret from the others, lest they both be killed, but Rodrom didn’t need the encouragement. Feigning ignorance, he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

The Verdantun pounded the long staff it carried into the ground with what was clearly impatience. "Damn ironbloods don't understand anything," it muttered, then thrust its staff into the pit towards Rodrom so he could hold on to be pulled up. Rodrom begrudgingly reached out, wrapping both hands around the staff.

He regretted it immediately. The moment his palm touched wood, the ever-present music that so bothered him was washed away in the fiery dissonance of energy the staff contained. While the Verdantun and humans sounded like orchestrated symphonies, each piece of their anatomy playing in a sort of harmony, the staff sang a thundering heavy metal song. The roar of a forest fire, the rampant thunder of a lightning storm, the fury of an erupting volcano, all twisted into music over the cadence of war drums.

Power.

The music thundered and vibrated through Rodrom. This was the tool the Verdantun used to create their offensive magic.

It was his lifetime of delivering bad news and handling incompetent superiors that saved him. His surgeon’s face could confuse even the most adept poker player, and while a moment passed as he steeled his features, the Verdantun above him was no master interpreter of human expression. 

Somehow over the din of the music, Rodrom made out the guard saying, "Get on with it already, lazy ironblood." Rodrom obliged by gripping the staff with his other hand, allowing the Verdantun to hoist him with supernatural strength up and out of the pit.

Rodrom released his grip as his feet passed over the lip of the hole and immediately the song that thundered in his mind was gone, replaced by the soft songs of nearby biorhythms. Their music was a whisper in contrast.

Curiosity mingled with relief washed over him. The touch of such power was foreign to him, and not simply due to its extradimensional origins. Rodrom had always been a healer, and had set aside any pursuit of personal wealth or influence for the betterment of those whose care was entrusted to him. The lure of that staff, with such tangible energy, was difficult to ignore. The guard did not allow him any time to think on the matter, however, and roughly shoved Rodrom walking towards the camp proper.

It didn't take Rodrom long to realize that the battle he had been listening to for the better part of the day was not going favorably for the Verdantun. As he got closer to the camp, he sensed the chaos long before his ears or eyes could confirm it. The Verdantun forces were in shambles, with wounded soldiers streaming in from the battle, carried by others who could barely keep themselves erect. The trees specifically used for the wounded were filled, the songs of the healers lost beneath the cries for aid from unshifted ferals, and the roars from those still in the beastly facade. Wounded lay wherever there was room for them, and already there was a pile of the ones who could not be saved.

Rodrom was ushered towards the healers, though his path needed no bidding. The wounded occupied his mind so fully, he almost forgot he was in an enemy encampment with a foreign technology growing inside his body. He triaged each wounded soldier as he moved, estimating each patient's chance at survival, as well as what medical interventions he could use to save them. It was butcher’s work, learned from his long practice on the frontlines and in ships’ med bays:
Save as many as you can as quickly as you can, and ignore the ones you can’t help or who will take the most effort.
The brutal numbers game war forced on the members of the medical corps.

"Bring the human over here.” Lorelei's voice broke through Rodrom's concentration. She was standing at the entrance of a large tree, her hair matted to her face, and blood streaked down the leaves she wore like armor. Catching Rodrom's eye, she continued in English, "I need your help DerekRodrom. Too many will die this day."

Rodrom nodded, wasting no errant thoughts on his feelings towards her. There was precious little time as it was; he didn't need to be asked to help. "Where do you need me?" he asked for her sake.

Lorelei nodded towards the wounded lying around in the mud. Another Verdantun approached and handed Rodrom the bag he had been using to treat the other wounded in days past. Wasting no time, he approached the first casualty on his mental list, dropped to his knees to search through the bag, and set to work.