by Jake Stone
Ghosts of Korath
The Light Bringer: Book 2
Jake Stone
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
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
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter One
Amongst the Battle Saints—the fiercest warriors in the galaxy—I’m considered dangerous.
They say my history has made me reckless, that I’m a liability, that I’m consumed with my own selfish goals and that, because of this, I will one day cost the lives of my friends. Sadly, I fear this may be true.
I stand at the edge of our ship, The Redeemer, and stare out at the battle raging below us.
Korath is a frozen planet, a graveyard of bodies left over from the War of Darkness that still alludes the Republic to this day. According to intelligence, it’s ruled by some ancient and decrepit demon named Bantha, a lord of great renown who has vowed to take as many souls with him as possible before he’s exorcized. A real nice guy—one we need to kill.
To some, Korath is a historical site, a monument to a once bustling civilization before it was ravaged. To others, it is a sacred place and the key to this war. But to me, it is merely my seventh battle.
I watch through the deck’s wall-sized windows as our attacking ships push back what’s left of the demon fleet.
The demon fleet—a horrible thing. Worm-like creatures with dragon faces and sinewy wings that stretch out as far as a first-class cruiser. They speed through the blackness of space, able to outmaneuver our bulky metal ships with their flexible bodies. But they die just the same.
I watch as a mid-size destroyer blasts a round of torpedoes at one of the leviathans. The high-speed projectiles plunge into the monster’s side, drawing a shriek from the horrible beast that actually reverberates through the thick plating of our ship. Dark blood spills from the wound, its guts leaking into the void of space, where it quickly spreads out in a coagulated slop.
The sight of it brings a smile to my face, but it’s only temporary. Soon, there will be more. There’s always more.
The enemy is endless. A spew of filth and disease, of pain and sickness, of lust and greed that infects the galaxy with everything it touches. And even with all our might, even with all the resources the republic can muster from its thousands of worlds, our only hope is to keep them at bay. Keep them at bay…
“Damn Zendal and his monsters,” Petronelous says.
I turn around to find the beautiful redhead standing behind me, her blazing green eyes staring out at the violent space that threatens to engulf us with unflinching defiance. Her anger is unbridled, a side-effect apparently from the genetic enhancements we received at the monastery. The transformations are different for all of us, they say.
“We must face the enemy now!” she finishes, slamming a gauntleted fist into her hand.
Zorel shudders at the sound, her brows lifting in fear. “Maybe we should just send her out into space and be done with it,” she signs secretly to Chun Hei, who does her best to restrain a grin.
“Remain focused,” Atia orders, her face a stunning image of beauty and calmness. She stands impeccable in her golden armor, her blue eyes beaming amidst the statuesque features that make her look like a goddess of war.
This is my Fist-Unit—a squad of five members whose tiny existence is a mere cell of the body that makes up our legion. Fifty thousand battle saints, all armed and starving for the taste of blood.
We turn to the holocams as we see our leader, Cytax of Galantean, a warrior of great renown, appearing to address us. His eyes are stern as he speaks in the accented tongue of his planet, a lilt that is reminiscent of the Irish bard from earth.
“Warriors of the Seventh Legion,” he says, voice booming. “We stand at the edge of battle, ready to give our lives for the corfew. But do not underestimate the enemy. Lord Bantha is a demon of great power, with an army to match. We must strip them of this planet, we must erase their existence, and release the planet of Korath from hell’s grip! For the corfew! For the Republic!”
We match his cheer in strength, our collective voices like iron.
He ends the announcement by saluting us with a fist to the chest. It is the Fist of Honor, a gesture to signify strength and will. We reply in kind, our heads bowed in respect for our leader.
“Come,” Atia orders us. “Let us prepare.”
I fall in line with the rest of my squad as the healing monks of our ship—old men dressed in red robes and crowned with the bald heads of celibacy—begin to administer high-grade sedatives into our necks.
The burning fluid is meant to calm us, to clear our thoughts of worry and bring forth a relaxed focus that will aid us in our killing. But my muscles don’t like it. They spasm and jerk, reminding me that I’m not just a human anymore, but a permanent soldier who has been genetically enhanced into a weapon of death.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m still Xander Cross, the nerdy engineer who was thrust across space after my father’s hadron collider malfunctioned, the one whose best friend threw herself into hell to save him. But I’m taller now—a full four inches—and I have the body of a defensive lineman. My time at the Monastery has made me into something else. I have been reborn, they say, reforged and reshaped into something hard and sharp and ruthless—a Battle Saint.
I’m about to join my unit, when a giant of a man blocks my path. Tall with long red hair and a thick beard, he looks like a viking of old. But he’s not. He’s a Vestigan from the planet Malraka—a faraway world of frozen oceans and terrifying sea monsters that supplies the Republic with some of its bravest warriors. The reek of cranish trails from his lips, but no one dares make a complaint. For he is our Battle Father, officer of the Saints and overseer of our section of the legion. He holds me in his gaze, his eyes cold and stern.
“War be with you, my son,” he says, voice rumbling with violence.
Glaring up at him, I feel as if I’m standing before a mountain, one that could collapse upon me at any moment. I swallow in fear. “War be with you as well, Father,” I reply, with a slight nod.
He holds me under his glare, brow arched as he examines me in suspicion. “Tell me, my son. Are you ready to fight for the Republic and lay down your life for the corfew?”
I linger in my answer, unsure of what to say. “Um, actually, I was kind of still hoping that I might be able to get out of this shit.”
His eyes flare with anger as he grips me by the collar, yanking me forward and holding me mere inches from his face. Frightened that he’s about to rip off my head, I wince. But instead, he leans into my ear and whispers conspiratorially, “Do you really think I’d still be here if there was a chance?”
We burst out laughing, our hands clasping into a warm shake.
Chopra is unlike any Battle Saint I’ve ever met before. A reformed killer whose talents were too deadly to waste, he was forced into the monastery by Republic drafters, where he quickly rose on his own merit. But his is a dark past. He never speaks of it, n
or does he want to, choosing to cloud his memory with bottles of cranish and hallucinogenic plants that are so strong you forget your own name. Believe me, I know from firsthand experience. But that’s why I like him. He, like me, is not a believer, but a survivor.
“Here,” he says, handing me the scepter of the corfew.
I take the iron shaft in my hand, admiring the golden standard that glints against the lights of the battle outside. Blessed by The Sisters of Her Light, the scepter is a holy weapon, one only to be used against the most powerful of demons.
“Just in case,” Chopra says with a wink. “Who knows, you might just be the lucky one who ends up running into the demon lord himself.”
“With my luck, I wouldn’t doubt it,” I say, balancing the scepter in my hand.
“Nevertheless,” he adds with a biting sense of sarcasm. “Only the most pious may wield it. So make sure you let one of the lovely ladies use it, eh?”
“Will do,” I reply.
He hands me a bottle of holy water, and I see out the corner of my eye Atia peering at us from the side. She disapproves of our relationship. Not because she finds it inappropriate, but because she covets his rank. To her, there is no greater honor than to be recognized for duty. Frowning, she turns away.
“She’s a hot one,” Chopra says, arching a brow at her magnificent shape. “All fire and duty. Still, wouldn’t mind getting a little burned.”
“More like charred,” I say.
“I take it you know this from experience?” he asks.
I glance at the angelic beauty, lingering in my view as I admire her high cheekbones and stunning blue eyes. Even when she’s pouting, she’s gorgeous. “Hell no!” I say, “Nor would I want to,” I quickly add.
“Liar,” he says laughingly. “Now come here!” He takes me into a strong embrace, and I feel as if my armor is about to crack. When he’s done, he lingers for a moment, a slight hesitation as he regards me longer than he does any of the other soldiers.
“Be careful, eh?”
“I will,” I promise.
As I turn to leave, I find Chun Hei standing behind me. Her long black hair is raised into a bun, revealing a round face with pouty lips that makes me want to kiss her every time I see her. The deadly sniper studies me with her purple eyes, a look of concern on her beautiful face as she takes a step closer.
“Is everything okay?” she signs, watching Chopra as he marches away. Forced into slavery at a young age, Chun Hei has developed a mistrust of people. It takes a lot to crack her shell.
“It’s fine,” I say, dismissing the Battle Father with a wave. “He’s just old. It makes him sentimental.”
“And what about you?” she signs, glancing up at me innocently. “Are you … sentimental?”
“Only when I have to leave you in the morning,” I say, shooting her a wink.
She grins. “Come,” she signs. “Atia sent me to get you.”
“Uh oh.”
“Relax,” she signs. “There’s too many witnesses for her to kill you.”
“That’s never stopped her before.” I follow Chun Hei as we join the rest of our unit, fitting into the tight-knit circle that they’ve formed by one of the larger windows, where we imitate the other dozens of fist-units spread out along the ship’s deck.
Battle Saint tradition demands a moment of solemn promise, a gathering of fist units to pledge allegiance and fealty to each other before entering the jaws of battle. We do so willingly.
“You’re late,” Atia scolds. She draws a plain cylinder from the magnetic holster on her back and, with the click of a button, activates it into a long spear that glints at both ends.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Apologies are not permitted amongst the sainthood,” she reminds me. “Disobedience must be punished. You’re lucky I don’t inform the council of your neglect.”
Taken aback, I glance at the other women, hoping that one of them will lend me their support. But they all look away, clearly unwilling to throw themselves before the lion that is Atia. It’s so bad that Zorel actually glances up at the ceiling and begins to whistle. Ridiculous.
“Fine, I won’t do it again,” I promise.
“Make sure that you don’t,” she says. “Now, let us begin.”
Drawing our blades, we hold them out over the center of the circle where we begin the oath of Sainthood: “The hardest of the hard. Strongest of the strong. We do not cower in the dark, we do not hide behind the weak. We stand our ground, and we fight, until the enemy is dead, or we are but dust.”
I’m not a religious person. But I’ve approached my indoctrination into the corfew like I have with everything else in my life. I study like a good student, use what I can to succeed and do my best. So far, I’ve done okay.
Withdrawing our blades, we march toward the drop pods, where I see Teema, our pilot, waiting for us with a grin. She’s short and stocky with wild black hair that curls around her puffy face. A Battle Saint herself, she has the type of forearms that could crush a man’s skull. I guess that’s what makes her such an excellent pilot.
Teema grants Atia and the girls a charming grin as they pass her by, oblivious to her wandering gaze. Teema’s all smiles until she sees me. From there it’s all crap.
“Ah shit.” She sneers. “Look what we’ve got here. The little boy with his little dick flipping and flapping this way and that. Look at you, trying to look all pretty.”
“Teema,” I greet in a flat voice.
“Yeah, whatever.” She sniffs. “So what’s the plan? You think you’re going to go down there and kill a bunch of demons?”
“That’s usually how it goes.”
“Yeah, well, I’d be there too if it weren’t for my exceptional piloting skills.” She admires the back of her gauntlet. “So I guess that makes you lucky. Not having to worry about me stealing your thunder and earning me a night with one of these lovely ladies back here.”
I snort. “Just pilot us down safely this time, will you?”
“Don’t I always?” she asks, offended.
“If you call crashing into the ocean, and getting us stranded in a jungle of demons safe, yeah, I guess so.”
“I still got us out of that death trap, didn’t I?”
“Whatever,” I say, walking past her.
“Remember,” she warns me with a pointed finger, “wherever you are, Xander Cross, I’ll find you.”
“And I you, Teema Daxtrus,” I say, just as threateningly.
Inside the pod, I take my seat across from Atia, who quickly looks away, choosing to recheck the pressure system of her armor. She still hasn’t warmed up to me, not like the other women, even after twelve months of training. In all honesty, I think she hates me. But what can I expect from a woman who lost her entire world at such a young age?
The pod’s lighting system activates as we’re seated, and I hear the computer’s voice come on like that of a commercial pilot flying an airplane.
“The drop will be approximately 300 miles long. Please fasten all safety harnesses and prepare for departure.”
Orbital drops are extremely dangerous. Anything can go wrong. Internal malfunctions. Coordinate errors. An angry atmosphere that bounces us back into space. I try not to think about it, assuring myself that it’ll be fine. But deep down inside, I know there’s a real chance that I’ll die before I even reach the planet.
Our mission is simple—slip through the planetary shield, locate the generators and destroy them at all cost. Once the shields are down, the rest of the fleet can land on the surface, where they can begin the bulk of the invasion. A dangerous task indeed. But one that needs to be accomplished, regardless of the price.
I take in a deep breath as I feel the cruiser angling toward the planet. The sudden disorientation in this artificial gravity reminds me of when I was a kid on a rollercoaster seconds before plummeting to the bottom, and I’m quickly put on edge.
The bay doors lift with a rumble, opening us to a scattering of burning
ships and dying monsters. My gauntleted fists tighten around the security handles, using them to stabilize the fear pulsing inside of me. I don’t like being shot out of anything, much less a massive cruiser orbiting a mid-sized planet in the heat of battle, but this is my job now.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “Here we go.”
The ship’s thrusters activate with a roar and we’re thrown against the backs of our seats, struggling against the sudden velocity that rips us from the safety of our cruiser. Even with the pod’s thick walls and my armor’s dense plating, I can still feel the weight of our propulsion, and I have to actually struggle to breathe.
We zoom toward the planet, inexplicably avoiding the thousands of space mines orbiting the atmosphere, and through the tiny window of the planetary shield that has been temporarily disarmed by a stealth team on the surface.
Good job, Teema.
The pod shakes as we plunge into the planet’s atmosphere, piercing through the hellish layer of fire and carbon dioxide, only to meet a freezing snowstorm that bats our trajectory with frightening winds. The impact sends our hearts racing, and we do our best to secure ourselves.
But not Zorel.
The elemental lets out an excited scream, filling our hearts with terror.
“For heaven’s sake!” Petronelous calls out. “Will you stop!”
“Oh come on,” Zorel replies, laughing. “This is the best part!”
I shut my eyes, my thoughts drifting to Rachel as they always do just before I’m about to die. I can still see her face, the smirk of a best friend, the laughing eyes of a young woman with plans to live longer than the twenty-two years she has. And I’m overcome by a deep sadness that weighs me down in my seat.
