Forged by Battle (WarVerse Book 1)

by Patrick J. Loller

  "I really need somewhere I can land. Somewhere not on fire," Vincent called, and he felt the acknowledgment as his AMI pushed out the sensors to find somewhere not completely engulfed. What was left of his armor would probably withstand most of the heat, but if he was going to repair his fighter, or be rescued by a tug, he needed somewhere he could get out of the cockpit.

  What had caused so much destruction to the planet? The fires had to have spread hundreds of thousands of kilometers. He had been briefed on the situation, but flying above it gave him a new perspective.

  the AMI unit chirped in his head.

  "Negative," Vincent snapped. "Just put it on the screen." Not a chance he was putting his fate in the hands of the computer.

  Boxes appeared on his display tracking; they grew ever smaller towards a point in the distance. Vincent tapped the rudders to bring him inside of the first projected box, and aimed for the second. Just like playing a video game. When the whole craft dropped a meter on dead air and shuddered, he reconsidered the thought. It felt like being strapped into a rollercoaster, trying to fly a fight simulator with a busted stick. Without his grav prop to compensate, he felt every g of force. Even with his tightening nano-suit and the padding, the restraints still cut into his shoulders, but they kept him firmly in his seat.

  Vincent's wrists ached as he tried to keep the sticks in line; the fighter seemed to want to go anywhere except where he was directing it. The basic frame wasn't meant for this kind of flying. That's why he had an atmospheric configuration sitting back in the fighter bay. For all the good that did him.

  The heavy armor frame could have handled it too; all the frames could adjust on the fly, assuming you didn't slam into a gravity hard enough to melt the armor off. His was somewhere behind him, a shower of flaming debris from his reentry. The term FUBAR sprang to mind.

  He was far enough down that if he ejected he would survive. Rover's survival routine would kick in, and the two of them would float down somewhere and hopefully land outside a hot spot. Vincent knew if he lost his fighter he wouldn't get another one anytime soon. The Chimeras were in short supply, they were prototypes after all. There certainly were none to spare. Best case, he would be taking another pilot off the line; worst case, he was on a shuttle back to Fleet HQ for reassignment.

  No, he was going to land, and hopefully he'd live to brag about it.

  He leveled out best as he was going to manage, the stumpy wings barely catching the air. It was little better than a nose dive. His air brakes were open to their max, and he was still moving fast enough that the ground was a blur. What he wouldn't give for some science fiction antigravity. Why couldn't the gnomes have invented that?

  “Come on baby, hold together,”

  Vincent readied the command in his mind; he couldn't let go of the stick long enough to flip the trigger. He ignored all the instrument panels and alerts from the AMI unit. He knew his ship, and he waited for the perfect moment.

  When he triggered the command, the thrusters fired off below his nose and directly ahead of him. He jerked forward against the restraints, feeling like he’d just been slugged in the gut. His speed slowed dramatically over the course of a few seconds, and his ship bucked like an animal. He kept a white-knuckle grip on the sticks. He was almost there—the trees below were close enough to see the individual leaves—and then he saw it ahead of him. A soot-covered lake, maybe a kilometer across.

  "A lake?" he yelled. "The ship isn't going to float!"

 

  Vincent wished the AMI had a neck he could throttle, but he didn't have the time; already, the water was beneath him, and with one last burst of his thrusters, he crashed into the surface. It was like hitting a brick wall, his right shoulder gave a sharp pop as he slammed back into his seat. Collision alarms flared, and he watched the water bubble up over the cockpit. He had to work to drop the controls, his fingers refusing to give up the grip, and he winced as he dropped his hand, his shoulder screaming. He grabbed at it, making things a thousand times worse, and could feel the gap between shoulder and arm beneath his suit. Dislocated, definitely dislocated. He hit a button on the chest harness to harden the nano-suit arm into a makeshift sling.

  The pain didn't diminish completely, but at least he wouldn't move it. His craft hit the bottom of the lake with a thud. He didn't seem to have sprung any leaks, but as he looked out into the murky water, he felt oddly claustrophobic. Somehow, the vacuum of space seemed less dangerous than sitting beneath however many feet of water.

  His emergency beacon was on and transmitting. Now all he could do was wait, and hope the battle above came out with the Joint Fleet on top. Otherwise the Separatists would be the ones fishing him out.

  Chapter 11

  Johnston

  Admiral Johnston was not pleased. It wasn't enough that the Separatists had broken the treaty and forced his hand; they had also unleashed some sort of “magic” weapon that damaged one of his fighters, and blew up half of their own bombers. The damage to the enemy was not his concern, though any loss of human life was a waste in his eyes. What troubled him was how fast it had torn through them, like a wolf tearing open its prey. The ships’ husks floated on their inertia, some with drives still active, only their hulls were torn open like tin cans, and the pilots within skewered.

  Johnston was no stranger to forces he didn't understand. No admiral worth his salt would blink at the sight of an elemental, crystal, or dragon. Those were enemies they had faced down and could defeat. They were enemies that could be seen. Magic or not, impossible or not, they were at least a known quantity. Whatever had damaged those ships was certainly not on any fleet report.

  "What the hell have you done?" the Russian admiral demanded, his com signal now reconnected.

  "That weapon originated from the civilian shuttle, the same shuttle that came from the planet you claim is under your jurisdiction. What sort of facility is down there?" Johnston asked, a deadly edge to his voice. The Multi-Verse war was enough without the Separatists experimenting with magic.

  "You think we would shoot down our own ships?" Kolchak's face shone red.

  "You were quick enough to endanger our relief efforts, and it seems we have discovered why."

  "I will make you regret this," Kolchak blustered, and then cut the connection off again.

  "Sir!" Sensor called. "The Russians are maneuvering away. I have Alcubierre drive signatures."

  "Have they recalled their fighters?" Johnston asked.

  "Negative. The closest ones are turning back, but the others will not reach them before they make a jump."

  Communications cut in. "They are broadcasting so much that we had no trouble breaking their codes. It's all the same, sir; the pilots think they are being left behind."

  "Bloody hell," Johnston muttered, then said in a voice that carried over the others, "CAG, stand down our fighters and pull them back to a safe distance. Do not fire unless actively engaged. If those fighters are abandoned, then we will have no trouble scooping them up. They'll die without their carrier."

  "What are they thinking, retreating like that?" McKinley wondered aloud. Johnson quietly shared the thought. Whatever they had created down on that planet was enough to abandon half a dozen squadrons to capture. That did not bode well for anyone.

  "Sir, one of the civilian vessels’ engines detonated," Tactical said. "They are venting atmosphere."

  "Destroyed?" the admiral asked.

  "Negative, sir, they are still broadcasting an SOS."

  "Dispatch a rescue tug immediately. Send a marine escort with them, those civilians need to be quarantined"

  "Aye, sir."

  "And send another to the planet’s surface after that beached fighter," he added. He knew the chances of survival were slim, but he had already lost seven Vapefalcons and did not want to lose even one more. "Which pilot went down?" he asked
.

  "Barkhorn," the CAG said, and Johnston thought he saw a hint of a smile.

  Interlude

  Ele

  Fire and heat raged around her. Branches cracked and fell, battering her with blazing gusts of heat and noise; trunks splintered and trees that had stood for a millennium bent to the unwavering heat. Each lungful she pulled in was more smoke than air, though she did not cough or lack for breath. The flames that licked her skin left no burns, and the torrents of heat that buffeted her did not so much as singe her hair.

  Her entire mind was consumed with an anger that burned hotter than the forest. Fragmented and confusing thoughts struggled to be heard over the fire and her screams. Pain, hatred, anger, a swirling torrent of emotions and thoughts. She did not know who she was, how she had come to be in the forest, or why the fires left her skin unhurt.

  She was barefoot, though as she ran through the trees, she did not feel the heat of the fallen embers. Each unseen rock cut into the soles of her feet, but there was no pain. Why was there no pain?

  Everything ahead of her was flickering red and yellow. The fire had no end. Though her memory supplied nothing of where she had been, she knew it could not always have been that way. Slivers of images tried to rise from the fog of her thoughts. Warm fluid surrounding her, her hands pressed against a window. Muddied faces looking at her, and indistinct voices.

  Then those memories were gone, replaced with the pain of needles lancing into her neck, back, arms. Lights flashed endlessly, and waves of sound made her sick. Anger clouded her mind again.

  Around her, the fire exploded with intensity. Several trees erupted from the heat alone, sending splinters whistling out, and trailing cuts into arm and side. Trickles of multicolored blood oozed from wounds flickering red and yellow in the light. Still, she felt no pain.

  The blood sizzled and smoked on her skin, and disappeared before her eyes in the impossible heat. The splinters ignited, and when they burned away, her skin was unbroken.

  Again, she screamed. Why? Why was she unburnt? Who was she? Fear started to take form, replacing the anger. Her tears sizzled and dried on her cheeks.

  A new sound hit her—a screaming louder than the roar of the fire and the snapping of falling trees. She looked around, then up, and saw a blazing trail as something fell from the sky.

  She ran after it. Whatever was falling would crash down somewhere nearby, somewhere in the fire.

  It took her much longer than she expected to reach where she thought it would land. Though her muscles never tired, and her lungs never hurt for air, it was harrowing to run through endless fire and smoke with only her anger and fear as distraction.

  When she finally broke from the trees, it was not some falling savior that she found, but a vast blue lake.

  The water felt cool somehow, though she was unable to feel the heat outside. She dove under the surface to escape. Bubbles erupted from all around her, the water coming to a boil as it touched her skin. Before long, she was blind beneath the churning waves. Memories of being trapped under water assaulted her mind, and the boiling water around her flashed into steam. She screamed and screamed against memories she did not understand, and when she opened her eyes, she was sitting at the bottom of an empty lake, all the water boiled away, with a large metal ship stuck into the ground across from her.

  She had found the falling object. A hiss came from the ship, and a seam appeared as the top half of it cracked open. A helmeted figure pushed his way out, his body covered in a skin-tight purple uniform. He started to approach her.

  "No!" she screamed. All the anger had boiled away with the lake, and only fear remained. She was sure she would kill the man, and then she would be trapped in the burning forest forever.

  He kept approaching, his hands raised in front of him. He was saying something, but she couldn't hear him through the helmet.

  He was only feet from her when she screamed again, "Don't, I don't want to hurt you."

  He pulled the helmet from his head. A young man with deep blue eyes and a head of short cut brown hair. She recognized him. But how?

  "Please," she begged as he came close enough to touch.

  He dropped his helmet to the ground and knelt. "It'll be okay," he told her, then reached out to touch her arm.

  His fingers touched her skin, and nothing happened. He was unburnt.

  She collapsed into his arms.

  Part 2

  Chapter 12

  Vincent

  Vincent's worry that he would be trapped under the lake evaporated, along with all the water pinning his fighter down. He had not expected his entry to put off as much heat as it did, but between shooting through the upper atmosphere and the heat of his engines he supposed it would be enough. His computer screamed a warning at him as the lake started heating. It was slow at first—he didn't even notice it for a few minutes after landing. Then the water bubbled all around him and flashed into steam. Before he knew it, he was sitting at the bottom of a dried-out lakebed.

  The way he had sunk left him with his nose in the air and a good view on nothing but the sky, so Vincent unlatched his restraints and pushed himself up to try and get a better look.

  "Is that a girl?" He gaped at what appeared to be the figure of a young woman across the lakebed. He must have been seeing things. "Rover, how hot is it out there?" he asked, blinking.

  "Ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit, thirty-six Celsius, three hundred and nine Kelvin..." The little bot droned.

  "Alright, enough. I can pop the hatch?"

  "Affirmative, sir."

  Vincent reached down for the control, but hesitated before he pressed it down. What in the void was a girl doing in the middle of the jungle, and how hadn't she been killed by the fire? Vincent, like most of the fleet, had learned to be wary of things he didn't understand. It could be some kind of magical trap, though he hadn't heard any reports of portals this far out in fringe space.

  "Rover, scan out a hundred meters, full frequency," Vincent ordered, waiting tensely for the reply.

  "One life form detected, human," Rover answered, and Vincent didn't waste any more time. As soon as the cockpit was open he vaulted out, landing in a crouch on the dried lakebed below. It wasn't even wet. His ship had been burning hotter than he thought, or the lake was smaller than he thought he had seen. Thank the gnomes for good life support.

  Vincent wasn't halfway to the girl when she called out.

  "No!" she screamed, and Vincent saw immediately how terrified she was. She was young, maybe twenty standard years old, with long red hair that stuck to her in clumps. She was wearing what looked like a jumpsuit—orange with black lettering—only it was burnt off to the point that she was almost naked.

  "It's okay, I'm here to help," he called, but she clearly didn't understand. He tapped the control on the side of his helmet to separate it from the nano-suit, then lifted his hands so she could see he had no weapons.

  "Please." Her eyes were so wide he could only see the whites. Soot stained her olive-colored skin. She twisted her arms around herself and shook.

  "It'll be okay," he told her, and then he reached out to touch her shoulder, to let her know he wasn't a threat. She collapsed.

  Vincent lunged to catch her, just barely keeping her head from striking the ground. She was really pretty up close. The kind of girl he might look for if he ever made it home. He pushed her hair back behind her ear. They were round, Human. Thank god.

  "Rover!" he shouted. "Med kit, now!"

  The little bot scuttled off the ship and towards him, exchanging its tail and foreclaws for basic medical tools. As soon as it was close, it squatted low and played a beam from its sensor array across the girl. Its tail shot forward, stopping just short of the bend in the girl’s elbow, and then a needle deployed and pressed into her flesh.

  "What's that?" Vincent asked.

  "Battlefield antibiotic, painkiller, and sedative to keep her comfortable until rescue." A compartment opened at the rear of the droid’s shell.
It dipped its tail, and with a small set of graspers, pulled out a square of silver cloth. "Emergency blanket."

  Vincent rested the girl’s head on his knee as he pulled open the thin blanket and wrapped it around her. It felt like foil, only less prone to ripping, and reminded him of the kind of heating blankets he and his father would use when they went camping in the mountains. Human tech.

  "Is the emergency transponder activated?" Vincent asked.

  "Roger, sir," Rover answered, as did the AMI chip. Vincent grunted in reply.

  "I need to get her back to the ship," he told no one in particular. She was not difficult to carry, and he got her to the ship without issue. Once he was close, he allowed Rover to climb the side and latch itself on. With its clamps turned to the side, the bot lifted the girl up and over while Vincent climbed up himself. Together they managed to seat her in the cockpit.

  Vincent nodded and dropped down to sit on the edge of the cockpit’s opening. The ship rocked dangerously with his weight. He made sure not to make any more sudden moves.

  "Rover, go find some rocks or something and make sure our ship doesn't fall over. Try not to scratch the paint," he said as he looked over at the armor plating still flash-welded to the frame. While the rest of the heavy payload package was scattered around the planet somewhere, the emergency repair Rover had made in orbit had stuck.

  The droid barked and the dog hologram shimmered back in place before it set off to comply.

  "She must have been using the lake for shelter when the fires broke out," he mused, looking back to where he had found the girl. The fires around him had started to burn themselves out. Blackened husks of trees stood where a forest had once been, and smoke overpowered any other scent. Funny. No matter how big, it always smells like a campfire.

  Vincent glanced back down at the unconscious girl. She looked peaceful now; the fear that had been twisting her features was gone, replaced by the dreamless nothing of medicated sleep. His eyes fell to her slow-rising chest, which was exposed under the poorly situated survival blanket. He twisted his head, admonishing himself for looking, but a scrap of orange cloth caught his eye again. The black lettering he had noticed over her left breast was still intact enough to read. He reached down and pulled the blanket over enough to see the whole word.