The Exalted (Gene Soldiers Book 3), page 1
THE EXALTED
GENE SOLDIERS, BOOK 3
JAMES DAVID VICTOR
Copyright © 2021 James David Victor
All Rights Reserved
Except for review quotes, this book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, without the written consent of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All people, places, names, and events are products of the author’s imagination and / or used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design by J Caleb Design
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Progress Report
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Progress Report
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Thank You
PROLOGUE
Philas B, UTA Space
The skies below burned, and the earth shook.
“Launch, dammit—launch!” screamed the voice of Commander Krebs of the United Terran Alliance as he watched petals of fire blossom in the skies of the world below him.
The war between the two largest factions of humanity, the United Terran Alliance and the separatist Palacians, had arrived. And it had arrived here, at the UTA world of Philas B.
Philas B was not a major world—it was nowhere near the size of Mother Earth, for example, and its population according to the Stellar Classification Glossary was last updated at only three thousand, most of them agricultural or dock workers.
Philas B had no great standing military forces, and its satellite defenses had been built for the rare rogue asteroid or space junk that the universe threw its way.
Not the combined weight of a Palacian battle group, thought Commander Krebs as he paced the flight deck of his warship, the UTA Orion, and attempted to coordinate the response.
Philas was in the middle of nowhere, although what was classed as a safe nowhere in the Alliance. It was several systems away from the frontier and several more systems ahead of the Alliance interior. The only thing that really singled out Philas B, the second planet in its system but the only one with an atmosphere, was the fact that Philas B was firmly in the Goldilocks zone, so it was fully habitable, and that its sister shepherd planet shielded it from a lot of unwanted radiation and stellar dust.
Philas B was one of the many farming worlds of the United Terran Alliance. Its single green continent had been entirely given over to the agricultural corps and giant drone combines that moved ceaselessly over its surface, tending and harvesting the precious foods that could grow there.
Every day, hauler vessels rose and descended in lines to Philas’ main and secondary service ports, taking on loads of produce before they rocketed into the skies once again. From where Commander Krebs stood, he could still see distant engine lights over the far horizon of Philas as the UTA teams worked to get as much food off the planet as possible before the Palacians struck.
Too late for that, the commander thought as another savage orange glow rose in incredible slow motion over the surface.
“I thought I told the flight crews to launch, stars dammit!” Krebs shouted at his second lieutenant, who was busy bashing the keys and swiping through holos.
“They’re in last checks, sir. Any moment,” the second lieutenant was saying while the commands were sent for the myriad single fighters aboard the UTA Orion.
But really, he couldn’t blame the complete chaos aboard the Orion on anyone. Not on tardiness or laziness. The commander knew this—but that didn’t stop him from getting angry anyway.
But who would have expected a Palacian battle group to suddenly appear here inside UTA space? Wasn’t it a suicidal move for them?!
If only the UTA had thought to post one warship to guard Philas! Krebs thought with a snarl as the lights above the screen flared. The batteries were ready, and targeting was searching for marks . . .
The commander’s eyes flickered across the gulf of stars to where the Palacians remained. Still a long way out, their smaller battle ships congregated like angry mascots before the large juggernaut of a Palacian destroyer. Krebs could see the stars glint and reflect off a hundred portholes, a thousand-thousand yards of gray-and-blue steel hulls.
“Any word from Central Command?” Krebs demanded. The targeting computers of the Orion suddenly bleeped.
“Fire!” Krebs ordered, and there was the subtle thrum of vibration through the deck as a cloud of torpedoes was flung from the UTA warship and cast across the outer orbit of the farming world at their enemy. Krebs had one eye on the billowing cloud, watching as it slowly started to separate, the deadly net of incendiaries widening.
And then the glitter of the answering barrage began right in front of the Palacian group. They had far more guns, missiles, torpedoes, ships, and soldiers, Krebs realized with a curse. Already there was a daisy field of rapidly expanding and disappearing plasma blasts as the Palacian forces attempted to catch and disrupt the Orion’s torpedoes before they could reach them.
“Sir! Fighters online and ready to launch!” the second lieutenant shouted.
Commander Krebs held his breath, watching as some of the missiles—only a few—reached the battle group. Not enough to cause serious damage. Not enough to stop the attack.
They must have triple the number of fighter craft that we do, Krebs thought, gripping the rail before the viewing screen. Already there were more terrible fire storms and ugly, black clouds rising over Philas’ green continent below as more of the Palacian missiles got through.
Philas B was a breadbasket of the UTA. The Alliance needed this world and its food.
But sending my twelve fighter crafts out there will only lead them to their deaths! Krebs had one brief moment of terror and doubt.
What should a good commander do?
What would a good man do?
But Krebs had been ordered to hold this planet. He had been ordered to protect those food shipments—even if, at the time, none of his superior officers had seriously believed that Philas B needed protecting at all.
This is my duty, Krebs knew, his hands clenched so tight that his knuckles whitened.
My duty to the Alliance.
“Launch!” Krebs barked. “They are to escort and protect the haulers. Move the Orion between the haulers and the Palacian battle group!”
“Sir?” The second lieutenant’s eyes widened, and he hesitated for a second. Krebs saw the doubt reflected inside. They were only one war ship. Against a battle group.
But the UTA fighter craft were already winging their way across the outer atmosphere of Philas B towards the rising haulers, and the second lieutenant was already sending the commands to engines, propulsion, and navigation.
The trowel-shaped, large-headed UTA Orion surged forward proudly into the night to face the oncoming battle. They didn’t stand a chance, but this was a war, and for Commander Krebs, this was the line.
1
The Facility
The war had just gotten hot, but for Corporal Carl Sebastian, ex-infantryman, one-time experimental soldier, and now part of the elite Special Ops Pillarman unit, his body was filled with a terrible, freezing cold.
“I’m telling you, he’s not ready.”
Voices. Murmurs and scratches of noise on the periphery of Carl’s consciousness.
Flash.
Everything was a brilliant, dazzling white, but Carl Sebastian felt nothing at all. He felt like he was floating in that brilliance. Around him, the voices were trying to drag him back to the world of darkness and shadows, of fighting, warfare, and death.
“Sebastian! On your right!” Another voice shouted, this time the harsh, guttural snarl of Corporal Jadakar, who was the point man on this operation.
A WarDog operation, Carl remembered uneasily as the impressions of ochre-colored skies and the heavy, constricting confines of his breathing mask flooded him. Up ahead was the Palacian outpost—not much more than some concrete domes against a shattered alien arroyo, their walls and rooftops blackened and cracked from the Terran bombardment.
This is when they send us in, isn’t it? Carl knew—simultaneously replaying and forecasting what was going to happen and at the same time, unable to do anything about it.
“Watch out!” Another shout. This time from Fodova behind him as Carl turned, raising his rifle as sudden gunfire flared. Not from the ruins. From the cracked rocks and gullies all around. The Palacians had moved out to hide there! How long had they been waiting, camouflaged and covered in rock dust, as the WarDogs had advanced?
“Ugh!” There was a grunt behind him. Carl knew that heavy-set Jadakar had been hit. He turned around—always too late—in time to see his friend flying through the air to hit the dirt, spraying blood from his suit.
Decompression. He won’t last long out here without a proper suit seal. All of these were facts that Carl recognized, that he knew—but at the same time, he wasn’t doing anything about it. Tracer rounds shot across the broken, scarred land. Instead of helping Jadakar, Carl felt a surge of terrible, mighty anger as the strange nodes and organs that the UTA doctors had given him kicked in. All of a sudden, nothing mattered other than closing with the enemy. He was firing as he charged their position, running straight through the line of fire—but as soon as he vaulted the rocks, he would resort to using his rifle like a club. Carl was rage incarnate. He was a WarDog.
“Watch out! Look at his readings!” another voice said, but this time, it was a slow and serious voice, and one that did not belong to the chaos and immediacy of combat.
Flash.
Another splash of light, and Carl saw shadowy faces in blue-and-white gowns crowding near him with that glaring white light over their shoulders. He was flat on his back looking up at them.
What? Where is the battle?! Carl growled. Had he been captured? Already? He struggled against his bonds, felt a creak and the strain of something at his wrists, chest, and ankles.
“I’ve never seen neuroconnectors like it!” one of the blue-suited professionals was saying.
“Stay back, stars dammit! We don’t want what happened to the orderlies happening again!” that first man’s voice hissed. They had lost their cool now and were scared.
Yeah, be scared. Carl gnashed his teeth and snarled uselessly at them. The air smelled of disinfectant and something else, something chemical and syrupy. I’m a WarDog! You can’t hold me! Nothing can!
“He’s waking up! He’s going to break his bonds!” the serious voice said, and Carl at once realized that he wasn’t on that distant battlefield where half of his Alpha Fireteam, 6th Battalion had been torn apart by enemy fire. He wasn’t even lying down flat on his back—he was in fact standing up but attached through thick webbing straps to a wall in a glaringly bright room where the surfaces gleamed with aluminum and white tiles.
“Someone get me the sedatives!” the serious voice said again, and more of that brilliant light flashed into his eyes. It was the people in front of him. They were shining lights into his eyeballs, just like the doctors had done when they first took him and the rest of Alpha Squad and turned them into the elite, genetically-enhanced shock troops known as the WarDogs. The best at overwhelming enemy positions. At delivering Alliance justice . . .
“Wait! Stand down, Dr. Stevens! Stand down!” The injection of sedatives never came, and the commotion was interrupted by the sudden swish of a door, marching feet, and a woman’s voice.
“Sir! He’s too dangerous—we have to put him into stasis immediately!” Dr. Stevens was arguing, and there was a scrape of metal.
“I said stand down, Doctor! He’s not an animal, for star’s sake!” the colonel said.
That’s what they want to make of me, Carl thought. An animal. A killing animal . . .
“If you bring that needle one more inch towards Corporal Sebastian, so help me, I swear I will court-martial you. Do you understand, Stevens?” Colonel Forrest snapped. “This man is under my command, in my care. That means I have a duty towards him, and I am not about to give that up. He is a marine, you understand?”
A marine. Carl’s anger abated a little at that surprised thought. No—I’m a soldier. Alpha Fireteam, 6th Battalion. Infantry.
Only he wasn’t anymore, was he? There were parts of him that remembered, even if the majority of him didn’t want to. He had been an infantry soldier once, but that was a long time ago now. Eight or nine years or more since the first Alliance-Palacian War. He had gotten out. He had survived the war when many others hadn’t.
I know that voice, Carl thought, but the memories didn’t quite add up to form a concrete whole. Somehow he knew that voice belonged to Colonel Forrest. She was the officer in charge of the UTA Pillarmen—Special Ops.
And it was the Pillarmen’s job to hunt down ex-WarDogs like me, Carl knew. That was what had come after that fateful battle alongside Jadakar and Fodova and the others. That was what had come after the entire Alliance-Palacian campaign, hadn’t it? Years of running and hiding, faking identity codes, and always moving in fear that the most secretive, brutal branch of the military would come searching for you and take you away.
“Sebastian. Carl. Carl. Do you know who I am?” Forrest was saying, and Carl didn’t want to say yes. He wanted to fight and strike out at everything that was holding him back, everything that was trying to turn him into something that he wasn’t.
“Carl. Carl,” the woman who was called Colonel Forrest was suddenly much closer at his side. “Carl Sebastian.” She kept on saying his name, calling it like it was a magic mantra that would draw the man he had been up through the layers of hurt and anger and terrible, terrible rage that threatened to overcome him completely.
“Corporal Carl Sebastian, can you hear me?” Forrest was saying.
Of course I can hear you, Carl thought. Even though his eyes were occasionally blinded by the lights, he could hear everything in this room. All at once, he was aware of the woman’s breathing, the scratch and crease of her clothes as well as the tense, rapid breathing of the other two doctors in here. It was like someone had abruptly turned up the volume on his senses, and Carl could feel every crease and stitch in the leather bindings at his joints. He could detect the fine hum of machines, and underneath that, the finer whine of electroradiation along the wires. If he listened really carefully, Carl knew that he would even be able to hear all of their heartbeats.
When was I able to do this? Carl suddenly thought. His senses had never been this sharp before, had they? Not even when they had first made him into a WarDog.
“Carl. Do you remember what happened to you?” Forrest was asking.
I remember that I held the front line against the Palacians alongside Jadakar and Fodova of the 6th Battalion. Infantry . . . Carl thought.
I remember skies burning with Palacian bombs . . .
I remember the thunder that the ground made when the missiles hit . . .
I remember being the first in, time and again, into enemy installations because that was what we WarDogs did. We broke the line. We arrived with fire and fury . . .
“You were on Bwca, the mining station—do you remember that?” Forrest said, and Carl thought there was something there, a suggestion of green and of struggling.
“You were fighting one of the Fomorians when you fell in. Do you remember?” Forrest continued.
The Fomorians? Carl thought for a moment—before a memory of a metal humanoid, a cyborg, appeared in front of him. Humanoid, but one whose skin had been replaced with multiple layers and plates of metal. Whose tendons had been replaced with steel cords, and who wouldn’t stop. Not ever.
The Palacian-made super soldiers, Carl struggled with his thoughts. The Fomorians were Palacians turned into super soldiers. They were the enemy’s version of the WarDogs. Only they were a whole lot meaner.
“You fell into the xeno-agent. You almost drowned on Bwca. If it wasn’t for Lieutenant Abrams and your team dragging you out . . .” the colonel was saying.
And then, as if the colonel had opened a box without ever knowing she held the key, the memories slammed back into Carl Sebastian as furiously as a thunderstorm.
Jadakar and Fodova and the others were long gone.
The first Alliance-Palacian War was years ago.
He wasn’t an infantryman anymore. He had been grabbed and then offered a position as a Pillarmen—I am a Pillarman—or else, he would be disappeared into “rehabilitation.” Because the Palacians had started ramping up for war once again, Carl and the rest of his Pillarmen squad under Colonel Forrest here had been sent to the tiny UTA moon of Bwca to counter a strike by the Palacian’s Fomorian Brigade.
“I—I remember,” Carl croaked, as the chemical, alien rage that had been filling his body gradually started to evaporate from his muscles, leaving him feeling weak and exhausted on the other side.
