Throne of the Dead (Seraphim Revival Book 2)

by Jacob Holo

  Jack put his shoulder down and crashed through the window.

  Plaerion detonated the grenade. Flames blew out the windows, sending a cascade of glass into the air. Jack plummeted ten stories to the ground, thumped hard, and rolled to a stop. He struggled to his feet.

  “Oh, damn. That hurt.” He opened a link. “Dominic!”

  “I think I found her. They’re taking her to the throne bays.”

  “What the hell is she doing there?”

  “How should I know? I’m sending you a route I think will avoid most of their troops. I’ll meet you in the bays.”

  Jack sprinted for the exit.

  The throne bays, he thought. Perfect. That should make our escape easier. If thrones could get in, so could his seraph. He reached out for his seraph, probing the light-years mentally.

  There you are, buddy. Just a single fold away, fully powered and in flight.

  Jack spent his last three grenades on another triple set of airlocks and followed Dominic’s prescribed route. He raced through the ship’s twisting corridors with chaos-infused speed.

  ***

  Nightmares had plagued Jack since he’d learned of Quennin’s capture. His pledge extended not only to Seth, but to Quennin as well, and she was in need of his help. The sins he had committed against them weighed heavily on his mind. The blood of their son drenched his hands. This was his redemption, his moment to set everything right, and he would kill any Outcast in his way to see it through.

  Jack was almost to the throne bays when the Outcasts ambushed him.

  Gravity shifted. The corridor he ran down became a vertical shaft. Jack fell, landed on his feet, and looked up. Three Outcasts knelt at the shaft’s top, their bodies barely exposed, guns trained on him. They opened fire.

  The ammo was different this time. Instead of the cutter bolts, these projectiles stayed whole, attempting to penetrate his barrier as solid depleted-uranium slugs. His barrier flickered with each hit, no longer staving off all harm. Pain cut through his mind and purple bruises formed with each impact.

  Airlocks around Jack sealed off, leaving him at the bottom of this pit.

  Jack let his sword extinguish into faint embers and gathered his strength. Chaos energy pulsed through his body, pounding in his ears. He began to climb.

  The walls of the shaft were not perfectly smooth, especially along what had once been the ceiling. Conduits, U-bolts, light fixtures, and construction joins all provided something to grab onto.

  Jack climbed.

  The Outcasts poured gunfire into him. His muscles ached and faltered from the relentless pummeling, but a dark fury now burned within him. He instinctively dipped into the sea of chaos energy, pulling in all his body needed, and he surged upward with a startling burst of speed.

  He neared the top of the shaft, and the Outcasts backed away. They lacked fear, but that mental omission did not make them foolish. One of them backed away just a little too slowly.

  Jack reached the top and catapulted himself at the first Outcast. With an open hand, he smashed through the Outcast’s faceplate and grabbed his head.

  With no effort, Jack crushed the man’s skull. He threw the slack body aside and sprinted ahead, sword materializing in his left hand. He began cutting through the Outcasts. Dozens awaited him, all in full battle armor behind makeshift barricades.

  Jack slaughtered his way through them, decapitating and eviscerating without thinking or caring. His only goal was to get through, to reach Quennin. Only that mattered, nothing else, and he killed and killed and killed until there was nothing left to kill. He transformed into a blur of corporeal rage. Implacable. Unstoppable.

  With the final Outcast still slumping to the ground, Jack crouched at the corridor’s end. His mind slowly began to grasp what had just happened, and he turned and looked behind him.

  Hewn bodies lay scattered everywhere, their armor torn or cut like paper. Bolt fire and hot slashes scarred the walls. Blood covered everything, even Jack. His right hand dripped. Every inch of his body sang with pain.

  The sound of gunfire brought him back to reality. He spun to face the source.

  From down a perpendicular corridor, an Outcast warrior backpedaled and went down. Dominic walked up calmly, fired another burst into the Outcast’s head, and turned to join Jack. He jogged over, carrying a carbine in each hand and enough ammo bandoliers to supply a small army.

  Dominic appraised Jack’s condition.

  “What happened to you?” he asked with a concerned look. “Are you all right?”

  “It’s not mine,” Jack said blandly.

  Dominic glanced down the corpse-strewn corridor. His eyes widened in shock. “What the hell?”

  Most words failed Jack at that moment. All he could think to say was, “They figured out where I was heading.” With that, Jack headed the throne bay.

  Dominic hefted his carbines and followed. “Remind me to never ever piss you off again.”

  The pair stepped into the throne bay. A dry, chill air hit them, the product of the throne’s cryogenic storage systems. Only a single Outcast warrior was present, a man clad in a white slipsuit. He didn’t even have a gun. Dominic raised one of his and fired.

  The shots bounced off, flashing blue where they hit.

  “The hell?” Dominic muttered, ceasing fire.

  Jack stared at the man. His own face stared back. This close, even without the aid of his seraph, he could feel the man’s power. It boiled through him and around him. Vents along the man’s sleek armor glowed blue. He placed a hand atop his sheathed sword.

  Jack pointed with his energy blade. “Who are you?”

  The man grinned, all arrogance and superiority. “Greetings, Bane Donolon. It’s been a while.”

  It was Jack’s own voice, and yet it was not. The man spoke with a sharp and abrupt accent, one Jack knew all too well. He recalled Vierj using it, and also the Original Eleven. Images moved through his mind: the archangels and thrones, the opulent estate within the ship, and the command throne in this very bay.

  Jack glanced up at the throne. It dominated the bay as a giant of white, marked with that peculiar geometric heraldry.

  Veketon’s heraldry…

  Veketon…

  Oh, you have got to be kidding.

  Jack shook his head at the man. “Hello, Vek.”

  “Who?” Dominic asked.

  “Veketon,” Jack said. “First of the Eleven. In the flesh, apparently.”

  “WHAT?” Dominic blurted.

  Veketon gave them a shallow bow.

  Jack smirked. “Like the new face, Vek. Good choice.”

  Veketon waved his hand indifferently. “It was really the only one available.”

  “You don’t seem frightened.”

  “And why should I be? Just as before, you have less power over me than you think, Bane.”

  “How about I peel that smug face of yours right off your skull?”

  “Do you really think it would be that easy?” Veketon drew the sword with his left hand. He snapped it out, igniting the edge. “It’s a pity my throne has not yet awakened. Otherwise, I’d crush you like an insect.”

  Dominic hurried back to the throne bay entrance. “Jack, we’re going to have company soon! We need to finish up and get out of here!”

  “We’re here for Quennin,” Jack said.

  “Obviously.”

  “Return her to us, and I won’t kill you.”

  “You? Kill me?” Veketon’s voice oozed unflappable confidence. “Do your worst, Bane.”

  “I intend to.”

  Jack charged his opponent, bringing his sword down in a powerful overhand stroke. Veketon retreated, but only just. His stance lowered. His sword came up defensively, and the two blades clashed. Blue sparks showered from the contact point. Jack pressed in, feeding his sword with every iota of strength he could spare. But his injuries had taken their toll, and Veketon did not yield.

  Veketon pushed back hard and spun out of his defensive stanc
e, turning and rising as his sword came up toward Jack’s side. This time Jack fell back, and the two swords clashed again. Veketon tried to force his way through Jack’s block but found the defense rock solid.

  Neither combatant held a distinct advantage.

  The two fighters broke away and regarded each other, pacing around in a slow circle.

  Dominic pressed himself against the wall near the bay entrance. He fired a carbine down the corridor, pulled a grenade off a bandolier, and chucked it around the bend.

  “Jack! Company’s here! I can’t hold them off forever!”

  “Where’s Quennin?” Jack asked.

  “You will not take her away from me,” Veketon said.

  “Want to die again?”

  “Hardly.”

  Veketon rushed in. Their swords sparked against each other, and Jack pushed him back. Again and again, the two men clashed, neither giving much ground, but always with Veketon giving up a little more than Jack.

  Jack shoved Veketon’s latest attack away. “What’s wrong, Vek? Not as easy as you thought it would be?”

  Veketon took a step back. “It matters not. My throne is nearly awake.”

  “Oh, really? Thanks for the reminder!”

  Jack launched a flurry of attacks. He slammed into Veketon’s sword with strike after strike, his boundless power chipping away at the man’s defense. Veketon tried to counter, but Jack swatted the attack away. He struck over and over again, and soon Veketon wasn’t on the offensive at all. Jack drove him back, wearing him down piece by piece. Sweat beaded on the clone’s face.

  “Not so confident now!” Jack brought a brutal swing home, almost causing Veketon to lose balance. Sparks shot into the air with each blow as if their swords were hot metal striking an anvil.

  The rattle of gunfire played out nearby, a side show as the two men fought on. But suddenly the gunfight stopped.

  Jack’s received a priority hypercast containing Dominic’s KIA code.

  He broke away and quickly glanced at the bay entrance. Dominic lay on the ground, blood pooling under him. A woman stepped over his corpse, silhouetted by the bay portal’s light, sword in her hand. She walked towards the two fighters, her long red hair swaying gently behind her.

  Jack’s mouth fell open in horror. “Oh God, no…”

  Quennin stopped a few paces from Jack, and it hit him. He felt her power as vividly as he felt Veketon’s. She wore a slipsuit like the clone’s, only black. Her sword shone with an eerie black light, edged in sickly green.

  “Quennin, what are you doing? You killed him! He was here to rescue you!”

  She raised her sword, her intent unmistakable. But she hesitated, just for a moment, then lowered the sword slowly.

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” she said.

  “Stop this! Please!”

  “I wish you hadn’t come,” Quennin said, her eyes suddenly full of regret and doubt.

  “What are you doing, Quennin? Seth’s outside right now! We can still save you!”

  For some reason, Quennin’s face hardened upon hearing Seth’s name. Her sword came up, fury extinguishing doubt.

  “You’re five years too late for that,” she said, her voice suddenly strong with old anger. Quennin moved in slowly, stepping around Jack until he was between her and Veketon. Jack backed away to avoid being surrounded.

  Veketon hesitated, his eyes on Quennin. Jack could see Veketon wanted Quennin to attack first. He wasn’t sure that she would.

  I can still get through to her! he thought. Hope swelled in his heart, but it was short lived.

  Quennin gritted her teeth and lunged at him. Their swords met in a flash of blue and black energy. Veketon attacked from the side, and Jack hurried back to avoid being cut down. Escape was now his only option.

  Jack reached out with his mind, finding that other pearl of consciousness. His seraph was close, in this system, and rushing to his aid.

  He only had to survive.

  Jack backpedaled, finding the throne’s splayed hand behind him. The throne’s arms rested like a man sitting in an armchair, with the forearms angled slightly down. Frost cracked and tinkled on the armor. Jack stepped up onto the large digits and backed away along the forearm. Veketon and Quennin followed single file.

  Jack treaded back, halfway up the forearm, and made his stand. With the narrow space and a long drop below into the throne’s launch chute, Veketon’s options were limited. Only the clone could attack him. Quennin couldn’t get past.

  Jack swung at the copy, but Veketon set his feet and blocked. Energy erupted from their blades, and they struggled against each other. Behind them, Quennin back away to the bay ledge. She sheathed her sword and gauged the distance.

  The shunts in her slipsuit flared with black light, and she took off in a run no Outcast warrior could match. At the last moment, she jumped, sailed through the air, and stuck her landing at the throne’s elbow, directly behind Jack.

  Quennin rose, drawing her sword.

  Jack had only three choices: block Veketon and be killed by Quennin, block Quennin and be killed by Veketon, or jump.

  He jumped. The launch chute and its various gravity cranes and robotic arm cluster rushed past him.

  “Craaaaaaaap!” Jack shouted.

  Halfway down, Jack landed hard on a gravity crane. He wobbled back and forth, trying to regain his balance. Though long and flat on the top, the crane was extremely narrow and bobbed gently from his landing.

  A metallic thunk echoed within the bay. Jack faced the noise, being extremely careful with his footing, and spotted another gravity crane seesawing. Quennin knelt on top of that crane.

  Something struck the gravity crane Jack was on, and his edge surged up. He crouched to regain his balance and turned to see Veketon on his crane’s far end.

  Veketon had yet to regain his balance, and Jack saw an opportunity. He rose, ignited his sword, and rushed across the crane’s top as fast as safety allowed.

  But not quite fast enough. Veketon steadied himself, planted his feet, and swung his sword upward to parry Jack’s attack. Their swords met with a flash of brilliant light.

  Jack pressed in, angry flickers spitting out of his sword. The clone had made a reckless mistake, and Jack now exploited it. He poured everything he had into his sword, every last drop of strength still left in him and even a little more. His sword flared with renewed vigor. Veketon’s own blade wavered, its edge becoming unstable, a sure sign of his faltering strength.

  Jack only needed a few more seconds. Just a few more and he’d rid the universe of this obscene copy forever.

  The gravity crane shook with another impact. Someone had taken control of the two cranes and had brought them together! Quennin was behind him, and she rushed at him with complete disregard to caution. Somehow, her footfalls stayed true, and she brought her sword up.

  Jack whirled around, his sword blocking downward.

  The two blades met. Sparks showered as if from a forge, and Quennin’s blade slid on. It struck him in the chest and buried itself deep in his heart. The radiant power of the blade, now past his barrier, seared his organs. Blood boiled. Flesh cooked. His heart charred and stopped.

  Jack’s sword vanished, a shower of blue cascading off the gravity crane. Quennin withdrew her blade.

  He fell to his knees and looked up at Quennin, straight into her eyes. There was a sad emotion behind those green eyes, as if she regretted killing him. But she’d done it all the same.

  Jack’s legs gave out. He tumbled off the gravity crane, falling towards the sealed bay doors below.

  But something was on the other side of those doors. Even now, even in his current state, Jack could sense its presence. His seraph heard its master’s call and knew its master desperately needed help. Powerful blows thundered on the far side of the bay doors, bulging them upward. A crack formed down the middle. White digits forced their way in and pried it apart.

  His seraph reached up for him, a six-wing giant of white armor, its shunts
glowing brightly with power.

  Jack settled smoothly into the seraph’s outstretched hand, cushioned with loving care by its barrier. The seraph brought him tenderly close to its chest. Now on his back, Jack looked up at the face of his seraph. The machine looked down at him. Both views were visible within his mind, ever present, but distinct and separate.

  He felt strangely at peace and closed his eyes.

  Long seconds passed.

  He opened his eyes.

  I’m not dead? he thought.

  The seraph placed him next to the open cockpit, watching him expectantly.

  Jack leaned up and looked at his wound. No blood flowed from it, but that might have been because the flesh was cauterized. Jack tried to stand and found his legs shaky and unreliable. He steadied himself against the seraph’s thumb.

  And then a horrible revelation came to Jack.

  I’m not breathing…

  No, that can’t be… I’m not thinking straight. I’m injured, and I’m not thinking straight. That’s all.

  Jack crawled into the cockpit, grabbed an edge of the pilot alcove, and hauled himself up. The cockpit hatch rose and sealed.

  Above him, Veketon’s throne powered up.

  Chapter 11

  Death’s Invitation

  Seth brought his sword through the archangel’s waist, cleaving it neatly in two. All around him, the battle roiled. The Glorious Destiny loomed above, its multitude of railgun turrets and beam cannons pouring out fire in every direction. Archangels continued to disgorge from its hangars or fold in from other systems.

  Knight Squadron pulled away from the Glorious Destiny, having successfully escorted Jack’s seraph to the ship. They fired their rail-rifles, fusion cannons, and missile pods desperately, holding back wave after wave of enemies.

  In a corner of Seth’s mind, he registered the destruction of yet another Alliance warship. Their rescue fleet dwindled with each moment, dying under heavy Outcast fire. Only ten frigates and two wounded dreadnoughts remained. Soon, nothing but seraphs would be left.

  The Renseki flew about distant enemy formations, targeting negators and wrecking considerable havoc for only six seraphs. Their silver machines flowed from engagement to engagement, perfectly coordinated and absolutely deadly. But for all their prowess, there were only six of them, and hundreds of enemies swarmed their positions.