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."
"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,
Killswitch nodded, then keyed over the bionet,
The Exile pushed the binoculars back at Killswitc
h 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.
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.
Chapter 57
Rodrom
Lorelei grasped her staff with shaking fingers. As she whispered to herself, Rodrom tried to think of something to say. How had he handled such situations before?
He could not think of anything useful.
Her amber fingers grasped the pendant with the glowing white stone, and then twisted. Rodrom heard a crack, and the five-foot staff fell away, leaving Lorelei holding a dagger in her hand.
"What are you doing?" Rodrom asked slowly.
"I was entrusted with its care," she told him. "I was supposed to protect it."
"Protect what? Lorelei?" Rodrom moved slowly too, lest she startle. She was in shock, needed help.
"You would not understand, DerekRodrom, you never will."
"Lorelei, just put the knife away," he said in his best soothing voice. It sounded harsh to his ears.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, and raised the knife.
"No!" Rodrom shouted, lunging forward.
It was too late.
Lorelei plunged the silver blade into her chest. Light erupted from the gem on the pommel, and she screamed.
Rodrom caught her as she fell, her head falling in his lap as she pulled in ragged breaths. The light on the blade started blinking erratically, blinding him. Rodrom tried to pull her fingers away to assess the damage. Her grip was steel.
Despite Lorelei being in obvious pain, her eyes remained locked in a distant gaze, and as her voice cracked from screaming she stopped, drew breath, and said a single word. A word Rodrom's weaveroot didn't translate.
Then the light died, and he held his breath in the dark. Waiting for whatever spell she had cast to activate or whatever the hell it was called.
Nothing happened.
His heart throbbed in his temples; he could feel the lingering time in each beat. For the span of perhaps a minute, complete silence settled in the root chamber. With effort, he looked away from her, expecting to see a guard, another healer, anything. Some result of the obvious magic she had just performed, or the reason she had just condemned herself.
Forcing himself to breathe, Rodrom looked closer at the wound.
A tiny light blossomed from the hole in Lorelei's chest. It was barely visible at first, but soon grew so bright that Rodrom was forced to look away, and even as he lifted his hand to shield his eyes, he was blinded by its radiance. It changed in hue, from red, to green, to violet, and every color in between, twisting as it moved across Lorelei's skin.
Light rippled out from the wound to bathe her, and she changed. The foliage and vines that made up her clothing withered away, and Lorelei lay naked in his arms.
Her hair turned stark white, like freshly fallen snow, so bright that it seemed to glow. Her amber flesh paled to a shade darker than the hair, and shimmered as she struggled to breathe. Her eyes changed last. Where before they were deep green, they were now a kaleidoscope of striated colors.
Her body shone with such luminosity that the other colors around the tent seemed to dim; shadows clawed into the corners and stretched across the dirt-packed floor, twisting from the light she cast.
It didn't take long for Rodrom to realize the shadows were not moving because of the lights—they were stretching towards it. He shook his head, trying to sort out what was happening.
Like snakes through grass, the shadows slithered across the ground and connected with Lorelei. She screamed again, but with raw animal horror rather than anguish. The shadows twisted up her skin, leaving midnight tracings across the glowing surface. Wherever they touched, the light was burned away, leaving impossibly deep black behind.
Rodrom reached up to grab the pendant she had created for him. A dissonance so chaotic, and yet so beautiful that he could not fathom its existence, pounded through his mind. He could not let go, and through the agony that affli
cted him, he watched helplessly as the shadows continued to climb across Lorelei's skin in swirling tattoos.
Darkness raced its way up her arms, across the exposed portion of her chest, up her neck, and along the side of her jaw, arcing across her cheek and ending over one closed eye. The shadows seemed to stop there, and Lorelei heaved a heavy breath, snapping her eyes open to meet Rodrom's. One eye still shone with the hue of every imaginable color, while the other was the deep black of an endless well.
Lorelei reached up with her unshadowed arm and clutched Rodrom's wrist, pulling his hand from the pendant and ending the song’s trance. Lorelei's voice came then, strained and weak. "Something is wrong," she choked out. "Please, move me to him."
Unable to think far enough to argue, Rodrom took hold of Lorelei's hands, and as gently as he was able, moved them to the side of the shifting warrior’s head, leaning her body over his lap. She closed her eyes, almost gasping for breath, but she held her hands steady.
That same blinding light shone once more, but this time it came from the palms of her hands and enveloped the warrior beneath her. Immediately, the warrior's shifting slowed dramatically to become an almost rhythmic dance. The churning change became a slow and purposeful shift that rolled over his body from head to toe. While he never remained completely in one form or the other, it seemed whatever Lorelei was doing was working.
The light changed in intensity to a deep green, the color of healthy leaves, and Rodrom could see that within the cavity he had created, the shrapnel was being pushed out of the heart, which continued to beat all the while. With analytical detachment, he waited until the shrapnel was almost completely removed, then reached out tentatively to pull it from the cavity, taking care not to touch the beating heart. Lorelei moved her head closer to Rodrom's chest in silent thanks, and for a moment, Rodrom's detachment cracked, and his chest tightened and ached. Lorelei continued her magic, and Rodrom watched silently as the warrior’s chest knitted itself closed, pushing out the branch Rodrom had used as a spreader.
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