Forged by Battle (WarVerse Book 1)

by Patrick J. Loller

  Creating a link with each of the AMI units around her, she strengthened her Web, which gave her snapshots of each person’s sensory inputs, thoughts, and feelings. It allowed her to be far more aware of her surroundings, which was a major advantage. That same advantage could be just as swiftly negated, however, when the Web was too large, or if emotions ran too strong.

  Emotions were always closest to the surface. Determination from the pilots controlling the ship leaving the planet behind. Annoyance from the mother of two wrestling with her brood to keep them secured in their seats. Anger from a young couple at the back of the compartment in the heat of argument. The children had no units, and their thoughts were secure. Exile thought it strange that so many civilians had military-grade hardware installed. This backwater planet they were fleeing had more secrets to tell.

  Focusing, she listened to the pulses, the spikes in mental activity, and as she did, she could “hear” the humans' passing thoughts. The words they mulled over in their minds to pass the time were turned to airborne flotsam by their chips. One man wondered about arrival times, while another puzzled over a stain on his shirt. Trivial matters rolled over and over to keep the claustrophobia, the danger of spaceflight, and the always-looming threat of war from overwhelming their senses. These people were fleeing from their colony world, escaping the fires that ravaged the surface, and tension rang out through each of their minds.

  Exile cast her unseen wanderings back to the pilots, and as she did, pulled back from the others. She drove a concentrated spike of effort into their AMI and was met with little resistance; the men were too concentrated on their flight to even notice that she had connected to their thoughts. In a moment, she was looking through their eyes as the fleet garrison grew in the viewport ahead of them. A twinge of excitement passed through the pilot into her upon seeing the warships.

  They floated in a wedge, with representatives from several of the Joint Fleet’s races present. Thin, elegant grelkin frigates beside the rough, durable human destroyers. Repurposed asteroids that housed the shogoths beside the miniscule tannimite scout craft. In the center however was a ship she had never seen before. From where they sat, the ship resembled an impossibly large split sword. The bottom “blade” jutted out from the split top, which curved down in two prongs like fangs around a tongue. The long midsection met and extended back over a crossguard of two down-swept wings. At the end, eight massive engines blazed, a diamond of four diamonds upon each. The hilt extended back between and behind the engines. The pommel at the end was a sphere with two forward-facing cannons running parallel and forward. The ship looked deadly. The Exile approved.

  With her mind firmly within the pilot's, she was blasted with the same wave of fear and uncertainty he felt when the Separatists arrived. Without the shuttle’s sensors, they would never have seen them—space was simply to large. The red warning lights and magnified screen images were more than enough to terrify the pilots, though. Exile snapped back into her own head, working to separate their emotions from her own. She was already balancing on a blade's edge, and she could not risk anyone else’s panic taking root within her.

  Mentally, she erected barriers against any further spikes in emotion, and with those walls so built, she reached back for the pilot’s mind. She needed to know what was happening. Plasma blasts and laser fire filled the forward screens as the Separatists opened fire, and Exile forced down the fear that rose within her.

  Through the pilot’s eyes, Exile watched the battle expand before them, Joint Fleet and distant enemy ships disgorging swarms of fighters. From so far out, the blossoms of light and flashes from explosions seemed no more real than if she were watching a video. The pilots did not seem to agree with that sentiment, and their fear was so strong that her mental bulwarks could barely withstand it. The Exile used her Web to soothe them as best she could; she pressed her will into their minds to keep them from panicking, but they were too far gone to feel the effects.

  Thankfully, they were closer to a moon than they were to the planet behind them, and the pilots had enough sense to maneuver behind it to wait out the battle. Their thoughts were so unshielded that Exile knew they were ensigns, that they had never seen combat, and that they were very close to losing composure.

  With something to focus on, they maneuvered the ship on a trajectory to orbit the small moon, planning to cut their speed once they were hidden behind it. But before they could even start their turn, the warning lights flashed again and several smaller enemy craft appeared from around the moon. Ambush.

  Red warning lights flashed over the cabin and let all the civilians know they were in danger. Chaos took hold, and Exile was thrown violently from the pilots’ minds as the fear of those around her overpowered the Web.

  With so many emotions and thoughts pressing down on her, the Exile could not erect the necessary barriers to protect herself. Her Web twisted and thrummed with the acrid fear of every passenger, mixed with anger and denial. Exile twisted in her seat and fell to the floor in a ball, trying to shut out the voices that assaulted her.

  It was no use—there was too much raw emotion too quickly for her to overcome. She was overtired, stripped of her resources, and she could not find her center. The wall of the ship pressed in against her, threatening to break and allow in the void beyond. Accepting defeat, Exile pulled her dagger from its sheath.

  Despite the raging emotions, she could feel the sudden spike of ancient hunger the dagger released. She fought against the urge to strike out at the passengers beside her and instead turned the blade around in her palm to press the cool metal into her forearm. The dagger bit into her flesh, the blood pooling around the metal and traveling down the blade's fuller toward the obsidian stone set in the base. When the blood struck stone, the chaos that assaulted the Exile's mind ceased, and black shadows twisted around her arm toward her core. Raw power exploded from wherever the shadow touched her, and Exile returned the dagger to its leather sheath.

  She wouldn't have long, so she stood and turned to face the majority of the passengers, and lashed out with her Web. Were someone to review the security footage, they would see only a blue-skinned alien standing alone, wreathed in shadow. To the passengers, she was a monster. Exile projected a ferocious image into their minds, enhanced with the power from the blade, and they saw her flesh twist and distort as muscles forced their way out of her skin. She expanded the image until she nearly filled the cabin, and was hunched forward to rest on bony knuckles. Then she opened a maw filled with mismatched fangs and roared.

  Several of the passengers passed out from fear alone; with the others, the Exile would need to be more direct. Two fleet personnel stood as if to fight her, and she used her increased reach to slam them backward. Though her size and strength were an illusion, to them it was as real as the shuttle around them, and their bodies reacted as their minds did: They crumpled back into their seats.

  Another man pulled a weapon, and Exile lashed out at him as well. Her imaginary claws caught him full across the face, and his skin was forced apart by the violent muscle contraction of his mind anticipating the blow. Within moments, all of the passengers were silent, and Exile allowed the illusion to fall away. She would need to scrub the security tapes of this encounter, lest the Joint Fleet see what the conclave was truly capable of, especially armed as she was. Then she remembered.

  Standing alone within the ship, chest heaving as the power drained from her, it finally hit her. She had been so focused on running, so intent on surviving, that the reality never sank in. They destroyed more than her arm. The misguided fools took everything from her. Everything she had sacrificed, had done for the greater good— meaningless.

  Anger flared, consuming her doubt like kindling. No, she thought, I will finish what I began. The mission that had brought her to the dagger, cost her an arm, and erased her name.

  She moved closer to the front of the shuttle and prepared to possess the minds of the pilots once more. She needed them to fly the ship, but
more importantly, she needed to use them to survive.

  Chapter 3

  Johnston

  Rear Admiral William H. Johnston stepped onto his bridge, and chaos became order. Men and women leapt to their feet; the shouts of “Captain on Deck,” sounded louder than the alarms that had woken him.

  He nodded, and then in a voice that drowned them all out, asked, "What is our status?"

  The eye of the hurricane moved on, and the flurry of movement resumed. The bridge officers scrambled back into flight chairs and to their duties. Even in combat, he required they come to attention. Not for his ego, or because it was written into the fleet policy, but because that moment of stillness brought a clarity and calm to an otherwise unwieldy bridge. He could see the confidence growing in his crew as they went about their duties.

  "Separatist battle group has jumped in system, sir. Supercarrier group with four battlecruiser class and two battleship escorts," his executive officer, Captain Christopher McKinley answered. "Commander Belford has ordered fighter launch, and our battle group is maneuvering to defend the planet.”

  "Thank you, Commander," Johnston answered. On the bridge, only he held the honorific of “Captain.” He stepped past McKinley to his command console. It lit up beneath his palm as it connected with his AMI. The information for the battle was already downloading into his thoughts, arranging itself like memories so he could focus on the present. It was as though he were rediscovering an old skill—the information sprang to mind as he needed it. The data confirmed everything his XO had told him.

  "How is she holding up?"

  "Shields holding strong at ninety-eight percent, ship AIs are in tandem, and the guns report no problems."

  "Then the shakedown cruise is over. Bring us about, and let's see if we can't reason out this breach of the ceasefire." Johnston distanced the dataflow in his mind and looked around his bridge. From his command dais he had a good view of every bridge officer without needing to turn. The deck fell away from him in tiers, and each officer had their own depression surrounded by monitors and controls. Ahead and above them all was a bank of massive screens that displayed the battlefield and the blue-and-green backdrop of the planet below. The view gave the illusion that they were looking through an enormous window from the prow of the ship, but the ship's designers were not so naive. The bridge was nestled into the deepest part of the ship, and would be protected even if every other corridor and chamber were vented and destroyed.

  The viewscreen showed him the Separatist Fleet, their carrier to the rear, the battlecruiser flanking on either side like an umlaut, and the battleships leading the charge. Already, the space between them was filling with the smaller blips of fighters, though enemy bombers were suspiciously absent.

  The ship's AI worked with two petty officers as they compiled the details visible on the hulls of each ship, taking into account their drive signatures, classifications, battle damage and repair jobs against all known Separatist ships. The information they winkled out displayed on Johnston's dais. The battleships and carrier were Russian-made, the battlecruisers a mixture of Chinese and Korean. The crews aboard would be human, the Separatists misguided notion of Terran superiority persisting despite the grelkin technology they needed to fight.

  "Open a transmission with Admiral Kolchak," Johnston ordered once the information appeared on his screen. The communication tech bent to his request. While he waited for the connection, he submersed himself in the data feed of his AMI. He could see virtually everything about his ship, and if he wasn't careful, he would lose himself trying to look at it all. That was why his bridge crew was so essential: Their delineation allowed him to see only the pertinent data.

  "Connection made, sir," the com officer announced.

  "Patch me in directly. Security screens active for any infiltration attempts."

  "Aye, sir."

  The security screen activated around the admiral and the sounds of the bridge crew faded to a low buzz. The head and shoulders of the Russian admiral displayed at eye level. Johnston gave the man a level stare, remaining silent to see if the Russian would make the first move. It would be far easier to intimidate him in person, as Johnston dwarfed most men.

  "This space is a restricted zone. The Grand Union of Terran Planets holds jurisdiction over this colony." The admiral spoke in English, another concession on his part.

  "Admiral," Johnston spoke slowly, deliberately, "this colony requested assistance with evacuation and fire suppression. Our fleet is well within the bounds of the treaty to provide assistance."

  "Svoloch! You are here for the research facility. You Americans are slaves to your orders, and are taking advantage of our people."

  Johnston bristled but pressed on. "I am an officer of His Majesty’s navy, and this fleet is comprised of sailors from every signed colony in the Joint Fleet accords."

  "Did you expect that we would not respond? That we would leave our people to die as you so often do? As you did at Sol?" the admiral spat. Johnston’s expression became dangerous.

  "Cease your hostilities and allow us to assist the colonists. Fighting here will do nothing to stop the fires."

  "Suka poshel nakhuy uyebok."

  Johnson did not need a translator to understand the admiral’s words. It was clear their conversation was over, so Johnson ceased with the pleasantries.

  "You have fired on a Joint Fleet battle group, broken the conditions set forth in the Treaty of Lexington, and are interfering with a rescue operation." Johnston let some of his anger vent as he continued, "You will stand down your fleet, dock your fighters, and surrender yourself to my custody. If you do not, this will be a declaration of war, and we will respond in kind."

  "You have trespassed into our space, captured our colonists, and stolen our research. You will leave this system in chains." And with that, Kolchak cut the connection.

  Johnston keyed for the privacy shield to drop. "The Separatists have reignited the conflict between us. Message to all ships: Fire at will."

  Chapter 4

  Vincent

  Vincent's head snapped back in the seat as his fighter rocketed forward, propelled by the cannon's magnetic rails. The running lights blurred as he picked up speed, momentum pushing him further and further into the seat, the starlight erupting all around him as he blasted into space. He hugged the larger ship’s hull and tapped his rudder to avoid the cannons that jutted along the spine. Their shots illuminated his cockpit with each blast.

  Vincent winced as plasma blasts splashed harmlessly against the Inferno's forward-projecting shields. Vincent could see the Inferno's escort ships, their guns bellowing silently in the black as they added their own long-range bombardment to the fray.

  The other squadrons launched and blasted further afield. The Vapefalcons, the quick response force of the ship, launched first. The lightning-fast crafts were dedicated to intercepting the enemy before bombers closed the distance. The Reapers slower Chimera fighters followed in their wake.

  Havoc asked over the squadron's bionet.

  Forge replied.

  Tesla wasted no time in antagonizing his wingman.

  "Reapers, cut the chatter," Vincent snapped, only to hear a series of groans in his mind.

 

  "Make it fast, preacher."

  An uncomfortable jolt rolled over Vincent as he passed through the Inferno's shield at its weakest point, but once free from the larger ship's protection, he dialed up his engines and flipped on his gravity propeller. The whole craft shook as it came online, and the propeller generated split-second singularities that dragged his fighter along.

 

  As the engines roared, the sense of weightlessness faded and Vincent was pressed back into his seat. He reached up to dial down the inertial dampeners; one of the mechanic
s had taken it upon on himself to change Vincent's settings.

 

  The Russian ship seemed, to the naked eye, to be just a metallic glint in the corner of Vincent's screen, though his enhanced imagery and computer readouts showed her true fangs.

 

  Vincent's sensors began picking up friend and foe markers as the enemy fighters flared their own grav props. Commander Belford, aboard the Inferno's bridge, issued out assignments, and the “heads-up” display in Vincent's cockpit flashed his squadron's assignments.

  "Wrap it up, preacher."

 

  Ten other voices repeated the line. Vincent sighed. Damn gnomes watched too many movies.

  Before the rest of the pilots could build up steam, Vincent cut back in. "Alright, Reapers, you know the drill. We're on screening detail. Fledgling, keep close to Havoc. Let's touch down twelve fighters when it's over. Stay light on the stick, those long-range guns are still pounding." A series of groans issued across the bionet. Vincent agreed with them, but not for want of glory.

  The Falcons’ grav signatures flared on screen as they took the lead. The Reapers hung back to shield their mother ship from enemy bombers. Vincent released one of the joysticks briefly to twist open his multitool, a habit his father had passed on, before he reconfigured his fighter.