Forged by Battle (WarVerse Book 1)

by Patrick J. Loller

  Though they were based on the Inferno, the platoon had almost no record in any of the computers she had searched. The best she had found was a list of fifteen code names.

  She would need to dive into their minds for more intel on their capabilities, but she had worked with Special Forces soldiers before. Each was an army unto himself. These were the best the humans had to offer.

  Her Web trembled, alerting her that Cowboy was close to a source of the energy the human's called “magic.” He had not recognized the threat, so Exile dove her consciousness forward into his and flashed a warning in his mind.

  ***

  Rounds peppered the ground as Cowboy sprinted across the last open space to the relay. He was unshielded, wearing no armor, and inches from the front line. A shadow of doubt touched him, though he shrugged off the feeling, knowing the barrier was still up, and his holocammies were keeping him somewhat hidden.

  The relay itself was a scant meter from the shield; its disc-shaped antenna projected the energy barrier between him and the enemy. As he dropped down into the mud to check the diodes, he felt a sudden sense of foreboding, followed by a blood-thirsty roar.

  Reacting on instinct, he threw himself to the side. He dropped his hand to his hip for his sidearm as the feral lashed out at him. Cowboy saw only a blur of white fur and savage claws before red sprayed into his eyes. Wiping the grime from his face, he scrambled to cover the wound.

  It wasn't until he noticed the monster slumped on the ground in front of him, its side littered with bloodied holes, that he realized it wasn't his blood. The feral looked almost like an oversized wolf, with pitch-black claws and wicked-looking horns over its eyes. Along its spine was a row of spikes that extended down along a whip-like tail and came together at the tip. Tight muscles bulged beneath blood-matted fur as it heaved its death rattle from its chest.

  Cowboy holstered his sidearm and vaulted over the dead elf. He reached with his other hand for the toolkit he kept on his belt, dropping it on his knee as he forced his shaking hand to hold steady. His heart screamed in his throat, vibrating his temples as he concentrated on the relay and not the adrenaline surging through him. Too close a call, he thought. No way I could have gotten the shot off.

  ***

  Exile pushed down the anger that threatened to rise within her. Distraction kills more than the sharpest knife. Cowboy had ignored her first warning, and her second was too late to help him—only the swift reactions of his teammate had saved him. They were unaccustomed to her methods, too steeped in battle to heed her telepathic suggestions. She was unable to move forward while trapped in her vehicle, and so the battle would play out without her interference.

  But the operators inside her vehicle had begun arguing, and Exile reluctantly listened in.

  "The damned instant we passed through the portal we lost them, Sergeant" one yelled from the rear of the truck.

  "How could we lose all the coms?" the driver called back. "They have damn near a thousand redundancies." A similar sentiment emanated from one of the Condemned.

  ***

  "You fix the coms yet?" Killswitch called as he huddled low beside a soldier called Locksmith. He glanced over his shoulder at the platoon sergeant with a sneer and ducked as another spike whistled over them.

  "I'm not a radio operator; I know how to turn them on and off," Locksmith spat. "That's all."

  "I realize that, damn it, but I need coms and you're all we’ve got," the sergeant spat back. He shook his head and glanced down the field. "How could an entire battalion lose coms?"

  "Magic," Locksmith muttered, rolling his eyes, then went back to his work on the radio. Of all the tech they had lost that day—blasters, motion trackers, thermals—it was the radios that hurt most. The device wasn't actually a radio, of course; radio waves hadn't been used since pre-contact. Honestly, Locksmith had no idea what the thing emitted, only that it could go through portals and get them reinforcements, and maybe some desperately needed counter battery.

  Locksmith had no desire to be bent over the little unit in the middle of a firefight; he should have ben laying down rounds against the cursed ferals, but they needed to get heavy support, and soon. If only he could access the bionet like he was supposed to be able to, then his AMI could tell him exactly how to fix it, but no such luck. So he pulled the unit apart and gave himself a crash course in communications.

  The gnome radio wasn't like anything he had tinkered with before. Locksmith was a breacher, not commo. He dealt with portals, doorways, and things with locks—physical or otherwise. He just didn't have enough experience to know how this blasted thing worked. Not for the first time, he bit back a curse rising to his lips. Another deep breath and he pulled another set of wires from the box. He would just push them together until something worked.

  ***

  Despite her attention on her own platoon, Exile still sensed the general tide of emotions shifting across the entrenched soldiers. Despite the initial determination to establish a beachhead and push the enemy off their colony world, the troops had too little equipment to hold against the forces the elves had amassed. The dull thuds of detonating rockets had begun to wane as the 101st expended the last of its shoulder-carried launchers. The thunderous roars of machine guns had become the intermittent growls of a dying beast, and the cries of “Forward!” and “To victory!” had been drowned out by calls of “Medic!” and “Fall back!”

  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 st
ress, 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.