Throne of the Dead (Seraphim Revival Book 2)

by Jacob Holo

  “Eventually, we will be able to imprint our personalities directly onto the thrones,” Dendolet said, a look of breathless anticipation on her face. “Our divinity is nearly at hand.”

  “Your divinity?” Quennin asked without hiding her contempt. “Is that all this war is about?”

  “Ah, but I must apologize,” Veketon said. “We’re treating ourselves as the most interesting topic. You wish to know why you’re here.”

  Quennin waited for him to continue.

  Veketon rapped his fingers on the table, as if seeking a way to explain matters. “Think of it like this. The seraphs and the thrones. The data we gathered from Bane Donolon’s merger. Our experiments on talent duplication. All of these are merely pieces to a puzzle. You, Quennin S’Kev, are also a piece we require.”

  “We have never been interested in conquering this stunted universe,” Dendolet said. “What is the point in becoming lord of a prison? Our true aspirations exist beyond the Gate.”

  “Indeed, our goal has always been an invasion of the Homeland,” Veketon said.

  Quennin felt disgusted by what she just heard. The Homeland was their salvation, but the Eleven spoke of it some piece of territory to conquer.

  “We have Bane Donolon’s data,” Veketon said. “With adequate time, we will be able to resurrect six of the Eleven, burning their minds onto the thrones. However, those like Dendolet, the female members of our order, are incompatible with his template for reasons both obvious and not. Suffice it to say, we need a non-male example, one of substantial power to make the process work.”

  “And there existed only one suitable candidate,” Dendolet said. “Our wayward daughter.”

  “Your daughter?” Quennin turned from Veketon to Dendolet and back.

  “Vierj. The Bane,” Veketon said. “And she is dead.”

  “But there is an alternative,” Dendolet said.

  Quennin leaned back. “And that would be?”

  “The Bane is dead,” Veketon said, “but a piece of her lives on, tucked away inside your mind. You, Quennin S’Kev, carry a piece of the Bane inside you.”

  “No! That’s not true!” She rose quickly and backed away, her chair clattering to the floor.

  “But it is true.” Veketon stood up and rounded the table’s edge. “You know it’s true. You feel her in the back of your mind. You’ve even seen her in your dreams.”

  “They’re just dreams!”

  “And not just her. You’ve seen the Homeland as well, and another place far more horrible than the worst this universe can offer. I know. I’ve seen these realms with my own eyes. Would you like me to describe them for you so that you might believe?”

  “I…”

  Quennin looked at Veketon. His expression surprised her, almost bordering on desperate. He truly wanted her to believe, and she found herself nodding, giving him the chance.

  Veketon spoke in a slow distant tone, as if recalling far off memories of another life. He described the world in more detail than even her most vivid dreams could convey, but everything matched. Every detail fit neatly and fell into place. He described the perfect blue sky, stretching up and down and to either side endlessly. He described the vast floating cities, great as continents and covered with towers of white stone. The world in her dream was real, and he had once been there.

  Veketon continued, describing the other world, with its infinite tower of brass and unceasing clouds of fire. He described the crushing, suffocating atmosphere and the creatures that thrived there, as terrible as they were massive—

  “Stop!” She couldn’t bear to hear anymore.

  “Do you believe me? Please tell me that you believe.”

  “What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

  “What are… nothing! We will do nothing without your permission! We rescued you from exile. We need you.”

  Veketon took her hand. Quennin tried to pull away, but he held her tightly.

  “Listen to me. We need you, but you also need us.”

  Quennin shook her head. “No!”

  “Listen to me. You have felt useless since your injuries. They threw you away. Your life has been without purpose, but it needn’t be like that. We can change that. We can fix that.

  “Quennin, please,” Veketon continued, quieter now, almost a whisper. “We can repair your abilities. We can make you a pilot again. I’m offering you everything you want, everything that is mine to offer. Your talents back, stronger than ever. Purpose returned to your life.”

  Quennin yanked her arm away. “You want me to betray my home!”

  But Veketon said the words she herself had already thought: “They are the ones who betrayed you, exiled you, tossed you away like garbage. What loyalties do you owe them? We rescued you from Earth, and what did they do? They tried to kill you. Why bind yourself with obligations when they have broken theirs?”

  Quennin shook her head. Tears burned in her eyes.

  “What would happen if you returned? Would they exile you again? Or perhaps they are too fearful of your escape. Perhaps they would simply kill you and be done with it. Which do you think your ‘benevolent’ Choir would choose?”

  Quennin clenched her eyes shut and put a hand to her face.

  “You are a pilot,” Veketon said. “This is who you are throughout every fiber of your being. We can give this back to you, make you whole again. And we ask for nothing more than your loyalty in return. Give us your word. Let us both have what we want.”

  Quennin took a shaky breath, opened her eyes, and looked at Veketon. She saw no deception, no clever tricks, only a strong desire to hear her say the words.

  And he offered so much! It was everything she wanted, everything except… except Seth. Everything Veketon could offer her, he had. A new life as a pilot, a life once again rich in purpose and direction. Was serving the Eleven really that different from the Choir?

  And what alternatives did she have? Quennin’s hand found the sheath of her knife and gripped it tightly. All her other options amounted to running away. Running from life or running back to exile or death. None appealed to her. Not now. Not anymore.

  She thought of the Choir, of the oaths she had given when she became a pilot. Even now, with all she had experienced, they were difficult to break. But then she remembered the indignity of her exile, of being discarded like a broken tool.

  She hated the Choir, now more than ever.

  If I can become a pilot again, what does it matter whom I serve?

  Quennin gave her answer.

  Chapter 9

  Of Her Own Free Will

  Quennin followed Veketon and Dendolet’s hologram out of the estate and across the surrounding vista. Short walls marked the vista’s boundary, blending upward into the simulacrum of sky, cloud, and sun.

  Veketon led them through a wide security airlock and into some sort of laboratory. Brightly lit halls stretched out perpendicular to a central corridor, each filled with vessels of varying shapes and sizes. Most of the containers held thick, ominously red fluid, but Quennin could just make out dark humanoid shapes suspended within the tanks.

  “Circumstances have forced us to move some of our experiments to the front,” Veketon said.

  Quennin dwelt on yesterday’s decision in silence. She had thought of little else since making it.

  Have I made the right choice?

  She followed Veketon and Dendolet closely as they passed through more doors and automated security checkpoints. These chambers were empty of Outcast servants. Finally, Veketon stopped in a small room, well lit but nondescript. He palmed open the first two of twenty lockers lining one wall.

  Quennin looked inside the first.

  “You’ll need this.” Veketon pulled out a black slipsuit and handed it to her.

  Quennin accepted it and pinched the material between thumb and forefinger. It was a centimeter thick and somewhat spongy on the inside. The outer layer flexed but felt stiffer, like a fine metal weave. The inside texture reminded her
of an i-suit, but less prickly.

  “What is it?” she asked

  “An improved interface-suit.” Veketon grabbed a white slipsuit for himself. “Dendolet will explain. After all, it’s her design.”

  “We minimized the restorative layer.” Dendolet gestured to the slipsuit in Quennin’s hands. “Thinning it to half its original thickness. Aktenzek’s engineers are a creative sort, but their designs lacked elegance. On top of that is a mesh of solid chaotic conductors, which allows the wearer to focus their influx with much greater efficiency.”

  Quennin looked down at the suit. “You mean it works like a seraph?”

  “The gain is only ten to one, many magnitudes less than a seraph, and the technologies are vastly different. But you are essentially correct. The principle and goal are the same.”

  “But how am I supposed to use this? I can’t even pilot a seraph. ”

  “Not yet, you mean.” Veketon gave her a confident smile.

  “But—”

  “Please trust us,” he said. “We have carefully researched this matter.”

  Quennin found his tone strangely reassuring. She sighed, then nodded.

  Veketon threw his slipsuit over a shoulder. “Well, I have to get ready myself. Dendolet will show you the rest of the way once you’re ready.” He left through the closest exit.

  With only the hologram in attendance, Quennin stripped and pulled on the slipsuit with some difficulty. The taut outer skin made sliding in difficult, but she felt small motions in the suit. The slipsuit’s intelligence began adjusting the outer metallic weave to match her body’s contours. One size fits all.

  “We have made you aware of the dangers,” Dendolet said.

  Quennin pulled the suit over her waist. “I know.”

  “Real and immediate danger is a necessity of the process. There is a chance you will be killed.”

  “I understand,” Quennin said, doubt dissolving as she donned the slipsuit.

  Death here or back on Earth. What difference does it make? I am no stranger to death. I do not fear it, only my own uselessness.

  “You aren’t even afraid. I must admit I have my doubts regarding this matter. Veketon and I have been at odds over what to do with you, but he is First among us, and so we defer to him. You have him to thank for your soft treatment.”

  Quennin looked up at Dendolet. “What would you have done differently?”

  “Found something to use as leverage to ensure your loyalty. I dislike taking people at their word.”

  “Perhaps if you kept yours more often, you would see the value in it.”

  Dendolet acted as if she’d heard nothing. “For now, we’ve decided to trust Veketon’s judgment. Do not prove us wrong.”

  “I gave my word, and I will not break it.”

  Dendolet sniffed. She brushed an imaginary piece of lint off her sleeve. “Yes, that is a trait among you pilots. Proud and honorable. It is a source of great strength for you. But you must surely realize that honor constricts as well as strengthens.”

  Quennin sealed up the slipsuit’s front and closed the neck clasp. Her neural link joined with the slipsuit’s computer, providing her mind’s eye with detail biometric data.

  “I disagree,” she said.

  “As you wish. This way, please.”

  Quennin followed the hologram through airlocks and more security, coming out into the Glorious Destiny’s perplexing halls. They traveled a short distance before arriving at a spacious rectangular room. It looked like a training simulator. It probably was. Human or superhuman, the Outcasts still needed practice and training to keep their skills honed.

  A dark blue floor met dark blue walls and ceiling, all laced with a tight grid of red lines. Various blocky structures were arranged into fake buildings with fake blown out sections and fake rubble clogging fake streets. Quennin noted pockmarks on the walls and buildings where weapons from previous training sessions had taken their toll.

  Veketon waved a greeting from the center of the urban landscape. He wore his white slipsuit and carried two thin tubes on his shoulder.

  Quennin hurried over, only to have Veketon catch her off guard by tossing her one of the tubes. It slipped through her fingers, rattled to the ground, and began to roll awkwardly. She picked it up and examined it. One end had a textured grip large enough for a two hands. The rest of the tube had a slight bend to it.

  “Go on. It’s not sharp.” Veketon placed both hands on either side of the grip. He pulled the tube apart, revealing a long single-edged blade with a subtle, elegant curve. The black metal shone in the training hall’s light.

  Veketon tossed the scabbard aside.

  “Go on, Quennin.”

  She grimaced, wondering what gave him the right to address her so informally. But for now, she set this annoyance aside and pulled the scabbard off. With great care, she touched the edge softly… then harder… then ran her finger up the length of the blade. It was as dull as a spoon.

  “The scabbard is only there to help carry it. The blades are quite resilient.” Veketon swung his sword into a pile of simulated rubble. The sword bounced off and thwanged musically.

  “And what do you want me to do with it?”

  “This.” Veketon closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Quennin noticed vents on his slipsuit for the first time. Coarse diagonal lines along his arms, legs, and the sides of his torso began glowing faintly blue.

  Veketon exhaled sharply. The sword’s edge ignited, filling the training hall with blue light.

  Quennin squinted at him.

  Veketon swung the sword again, this time swishing it cleanly through the rubble. The cut edges glowed. He propped the sword’s inactive edge on his shoulder. “Now you try.”

  Quennin looked down at her sword and shook her head. She remembered how easily the flow of chaos came inside her seraph. It didn’t require effort. It was simply there, on demand, waiting for her to summon it. But that talent was gone. How could they expect her to activate this sword?

  Veketon frowned. “Can’t you do it?”

  “Of course I can’t!”

  “Hmm, very well then.” He lifted the sword off his shoulder and lowered his stance. “I suggest you defend yourself.”

  Quennin’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean—”

  Veketon lunged forward: a blur that was there then suddenly here. His sword struck hers with such force that her arms completely gave out. The flat of her own sword hit her chest, and she flew back, tumbled across the ground, and landed with her face on the floor.

  Quennin moaned and pushed herself off the ground. The slipsuit reported several minor bruises but no major damage.

  “I felt something there.” Veketon walked over, slow enough that Quennin had time to recover. “I could feel your blade resisting.”

  Quennin found her sword and picked it up. Veketon’s attack had notched it. A cleft halfway up the blade hissed, and the air around it smelled faintly metallic. She gripped it tightly, stood, and held the sword between herself and Veketon.

  “This is insane!” she shouted. “I can’t fight you!”

  Veketon rushed in, his sword arcing high and across as if to decapitate her. Quennin felt her mind slip into something faster and primal. Time stretched, and her perception of Veketon’s attack slowed.

  It slowed, but only just. She backpedaled, then practically fell over. Their swords clashed in a brief spray of sparks, and Veketon’s attack sailed over her head. She stood no chance against him! Not even an Outcast warrior could move that fast!

  Quennin stopped the fall with her free arm and scrambled up into a low run. She darted for cover. Anything to put between her and Veketon. Just as she was about to round a large pile of blue boulders, something grabbed her leg and yanked her back hard.

  Quennin lost balance. Her arms and face smacked into the ground. She twisted and looked behind her. Veketon had her by the leg, his grip like iron. Desperately, she brought her sword around. But what could she hope to do? It wasn’t e
ven sharp!

  “Whoops!” Veketon let go and dodged back.

  Quennin scurried to her feet and ran for it.

  This time she made it past the rubble pile close to one of the fake buildings. The simulated damaged to this building had created an uneven slope to the second story. Quennin saw it as a way to minimize Veketon’s approach options, for whatever good that would do. She hurried up the slope.

  Bits of blue debris rolled down, but she persevered, not realizing just how inhumanly fast she pumped her legs. At the top of the pile, she turned around, sword ready.

  Veketon wasn’t there.

  Quennin looked around, frantic, found a set of stairs going up, and decided to use them. The more vertical distance between herself and Veketon, the better. She sprinted up the steps, taking them three at a time.

  The third story had gaping holes in the walls and floor, giving Quennin a good view of the surrounding area. She hunted for any sign of Veketon.

  Something landed behind her. Quennin wheeled around at the sound.

  Veketon had somehow jumped in through a third story window. The landing barely slowed him, and he charged across the room, swinging. Quennin answered his attack, and their swords met in a spark-filled flash. The impact forced her back. She stumbled, lost her footing, and fell through the building’s missing wall.

  Quennin plummeted three stories and hit the ground at a bad angle. Hard. The fall broke her left leg and dislocated her hip. Her neural link flared with red indicators. Nano-cilia extended into the wounds, feeling like an army of needles hunting underneath her skin.

  Quennin cried through clenched teeth.

  Veketon jumped down, landing with catlike grace next to her. Somehow, Quennin still gripped her sword. She raised it to defend herself.

  Veketon attacked, his sword becoming a glowing arc of energy. He cut into her blade where he’d made the first notch. The impact shattered her sword in half. He stopped a hair’s width from her neck.

  Quennin breathed in quick pants, sweat beading on her face. She looked down at the blade next to her throat. Its hot, glowing edge singed her skin.

  She looked up at Veketon, into a face full of cold disappointment. Clearly, he had expected better.