Disciple of the Dead (Seraphim Revival Book 3)

by Jacob Holo

  She snapped her sword out. The blade ignited with black energy edged in a sickly green nimbus. The vents along her chaos slipsuit began to glow.

  Veketon kept his stance low and held his sword away from Quennin. He occasionally used this posture for their duels, which allowed him to gather speed and strength in reaction to her attacks.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” he said.

  Quennin winked at him and planted her feet. At this range, Veketon could sense the spike of chaos energy within her body. She charged, moving so fast she blurred even to his chaos-enhanced senses. Veketon swung his weapon up to meet her downward attack.

  Their swords clashed in a flash of blue and black sparks then scintillated against each other. They broke, backpedaled, then attacked again. They fought amongst the strewn debris of the automatons, challenging each other’s strikes with skillful blocks, each familiar with the other’s strengths and weaknesses.

  They weaved through, over, and around the debris piles, fighting and slashing and jumping out of the way. To any normal human, they appeared as momentary blurs of color, moving too fast for the human eye to comprehend, their swords nothing more than vivid slashes of light against the retinas.

  Veketon and Quennin fought like this for over half an hour, neither tiring appreciably and both winning their share of short matches. Veketon felt the stress of the past few days melting away, and soon he began to grin from the exercise.

  He could tell Quennin wasn’t fighting all out. Her moves and stance carried a playful air, and though she fought hard, she did not fight to win at any cost. Veketon saw this and decided a little mischief of his own might be in order.

  Their blades locked between close faces, and Veketon moved one of his legs between Quennin’s. With a sharp jerk backwards, he hooked a foot behind her calf and pulled.

  Quennin lost her balance, arms flailing outward in one last bid to steady herself. She reached for him, trying to grab hold of his slipsuit or arms. Veketon dodged out of the way, but his long tail of brown hair was left hanging in space for a precious second.

  Quennin grabbed hold of his tail and yanked on it. Hard.

  “Ah!” Veketon shouted.

  They crashed into each other and fell to the ground. Veketon hit the sparring chamber floor on his back with Quennin on top of him. She turned over so that her elbows were on the ground to either side of his face.

  “Again with the tripping!” she said.

  “Who me?” Veketon placed his hands on either side of her narrow waist.

  “Yes, you,” Quennin said with faux-sternness.

  “I’ve told you. Swords aren’t the only weapons we have. You need to fight with every part of your body.”

  “Is that so?” Quennin asked, running her fingers through his hair. Warm breath caressed his face, and her damp locks tickled his neck. She leaned close, the full length of her body pressed tightly against his. Their lips met, and they shared a deep passionate kiss.

  Unfortunately, someone chose that precise moment to clear his throat.

  Quennin pulled back and looked over at the doorway. Veketon didn’t need to open his eyes. He knew precisely who it was.

  “As always, Fuurion, your sense of timing is impeccable.”

  “Thank you, venerable master.”

  “That was not a compliment.”

  Quennin stood up and offered Veketon a hand. He accepted, and she pulled him to his feet.

  Fuurion waited in the sparring chamber’s doorway, hands clasped behind his back, chin held high. The Fellerossi mediator was a small, bald man clad in long black robes. Complex orange swirls traced up either side of the robe.

  “My apologies, venerable master.” Fuurion bowed his scrawny neck. “But a matter has arisen that requires your immediate attention.”

  Veketon picked up his sword and sheathed it. “Go on.”

  “A messenger has arrived from an Outcast nation called the Disciples of Vayl. He says his message is for you personally and no one else.”

  “The Disciples of Vayl? I am not familiar with this nation.”

  “I’m not surprised, venerable master. They are a very minor player on the galactic scale, possessing neither strategic territory, nor considerable resources or manpower. They inhabit a small star cluster about a hundred light years above the main galactic rim. We regard them as a secretive and rather eccentric nation. The only noteworthy information we have indicates they are archeologists.”

  “Archeologists?”

  “Yes, as strange as it sounds. When the Disciples venture outside of their territory, they often will trade exorbitant amounts for historical records or items of apparently no worth. It is all quite puzzling, but our occasional contact with them has been peaceful and profitable.”

  “Do not be so quick to judge their actions as pointless,” Veketon said. “You might be surprised what time has scattered across this galaxy.”

  “As you say, venerable master.”

  “What is your threat assessment?”

  “Minimal. The Disciples have never shown military ambition in the past, and our analysts see no reason to expect one in the near future. They do have a standing military force, as do all spacefaring nations in this region, though the true extent of their strength is unknown since they so rarely engage in offensive operations.”

  “And the messenger?”

  “He and his ship were carefully screened for treachery before being allowed onboard.” Fuurion bowed his head. “Upon our honor, we would not allow him to approach if he could harm you.”

  “Very well. Have him brought to the throne bay. Quennin, please join us.”

  ***

  Fuurion waited to the side of the opening airlock and allowed Veketon to proceed first into the throne and archangel bays. The ceiling towered twenty stories over their heads and stretched out a full kilometer to both the right and left. A long row of giant humanoid weapons filled the interior space.

  Veketon’s throne stood before them like a white-armored giant. Even with the legs and lower waist obscured by the catapult pit, it loomed impressively over them. Its mask was a white humanoid face with muted but clearly male features, possessing an arrogant twist to its mouth that gave it an air of superiority.

  Unlike the six-winged seraphs, Veketon’s throne had only two wings. Both were halos suspended behind its back, disjoined from the main body. The larger of the two halo-wings spun gently, its circumference half again as wide as the throne’s shoulders.

  A complex interlocking pattern of arcs, half-moons, and circles filled the halo-wing interiors. The same pattern ran parallel to the vent-like chaos shunts on the thrones limbs and the sides of its torso, marking the throne with his personal heraldry.

  A fitting place to greet this messenger, Veketon thought, with the symbol of my power so close at hand.

  To the right of his craft stood Quennin’s personal throne, its lines lithe, fit, and clearly feminine, like those of a female warrior. Its black body and heraldry were an inversion of Veketon’s color scheme, as befit his protégé.

  That and so much more, he thought, glancing at Quennin.

  The rest of the space was filled by two dozen archangels standing in rows to either side, twin wings folded tightly against their back. Reflective Fellerossi plate armor clad the massive machines, giving them a resplendent gleam in the bright bay lights.

  The Disciple messenger approached, looking feeble next to the hulking Fellerossi warriors. Six of them flanked the Disciple, each in sealed assault armor and armed with heavy carbines and ultrasonic swords.

  By contrast, the messenger was a fragile and, if Veketon were any judge, quite frightened little man. He wore a dark red uniform with black trim at the cuffs and collar and a black stripe down the sides of his pants.

  The Disciple messenger saw Veketon and prostrated himself, touching his forehead to the cold decking. The air carried a chill from the cryogenic plants keeping their thrones sedate between uses.

  “You have a mess
age to deliver,” Veketon said, his breath condensing in white puffs.

  “Yes, venerable master.” Without looking up, the messenger reached into his coat pocket and placed a disc-shaped emitter on the bay decking.

  Light shimmered above the emitter, coalescing into a powerfully built young man. He was tall and muscular, with short black hair and deep blue eyes. Everything about him, from the sharp lines of his face and the fit proportions of his body, was the model of male physical perfection. The man wore a well-tailored black suit with red at his collar and cuffs. Seven blood rubies served as buttons down the front of his coat.

  Many might consider such a man dashing, perhaps even beautiful, but Veketon found his eyes the most intriguing part. They held a seasoned calm that clashed sharply with his early twenties appearance. Even worse, Veketon saw hereditary tells in the man’s face that he had long believed dead.

  “How can…” Quennin whispered.

  “What is it?” Veketon asked.

  “I recognize this man. But I also know I’ve never met him before. How can that be?”

  Then it may be as I feared, Veketon thought.

  “Honorable ancestor,” the hologram bowed his head ever so slightly, “allow me to introduce myself. I am Zophiel, a Disciple of Vayl.”

  He addresses me as his ancestor. No, this is not good at all.

  Zophiel’s hologram looked up, and his eyes focused on an unseen point somewhere behind Veketon.

  “First, please accept my heartfelt congratulations for your victory against the Bane. News of Vierj’s death has reached even our reclusive nation. Whether you performed the deed yourself or employed some underling is moot. I am sure we have you to thank for this momentous occasion.”

  He knows Vierj by name. Veketon clenched his teeth tightly and listened.

  “With that out of the way, let us turn to business,” Zophiel said. “It has come to my attention that you possess one of the lost portal lances. I wish to open negotiations for its purchase. Of course, I understand the great value of the artifact in your possession, but I believe we can both profit in this venture. You will find I have much to offer you, perhaps more than you have to offer me.”

  Veketon scoffed.

  “The Disciples of Vayl possess knowledge and technology beyond any other nation, and I am sure we can reach an acceptable exchange. As proof of my word, I present you with a small sample of our advanced technology. To whet your appetite, of course. I am sure you will find it most fascinating.”

  The messenger sat back onto his legs and removed a brass ingot etched with a large eye from his coat pocket. Veketon knew the marking all too well, and seeing it again sent a chill down his spine.

  The messenger rose and stepped forward, clearly intent on laying the ingot at Veketon’s feet. But the Fellerossi warriors sprang into action and shoved him to the ground so hard he cried out. One of them placed his carbine barrel against the messenger’s head.

  “Do not approach without permission!” the warrior’s augmented voice boomed.

  The Disciple messenger mumbled a rapid string of almost incoherent apologies.

  “We both serve to profit from this mutual exchange,” Zophiel’s recording continued. “But please understand that, above all other considerations, I must have the portal lance. I cannot elaborate on the reasons why, sadly, but I must have it. And I will have it.”

  Veketon raised an eyebrow.

  “One way or another. This outcome is inevitable.” Zophiel smiled, but the expression held no warmth, no sympathy. Only confidence in the inevitable. “But there is no need for this to end in conflict. Let us reach an agreement where we both win. I am sure you can see the wisdom in such a choice, my honorable ancestor.”

  Zophiel dipped his head one last time and then vanished.

  “Get up,” Veketon growled.

  The messenger raised his head uneasily but did not stand. After a few seconds, a warrior stepped over and bodily lifted the Disciple messenger to his feet.

  “Is there a response you would like me to convey for you, venerable master?” the messenger asked cautiously.

  “Indeed there is.” Veketon gripped his sheathed sword. “You may take this response back to your master.”

  He drew the blade, ignited it, and slashed through the Disciple’s neck in one continuous motion. Quennin gasped and turned away. Blood fountained from the messenger’s neck, and his head rolled across the ground, leaving a long visceral trail before stopping.

  The body flopped limply to the deck, and blood pooled underneath it.

  Veketon didn’t take his eyes off it.

  “Fuurion.”

  “Venerable master?”

  “Place the messenger’s head in his ship and return it to Disciple territory.”

  “This will disrupt our diplomatic relations with the Disciples.”

  “This Zophiel has all but declared war on me. Trust that I know what I am doing and follow my orders.”

  “As you wish.” Fuurion motioned to the assembled Fellerossi warriors. One hefted the body effortlessly with one hand while a second retrieved the head.

  “Have the ingot transported to my laboratory,” Veketon said. “I will examine it personally.”

  “Of course.” Fuurion made a second simple gesture. Another warrior picked up the ingot with a gauntleted fist and carried it away. “Venerable master, please reconsider sending the messenger’s head back to this Zophiel. There are other ways to disapprove of his demands.”

  “Mobilize the fleet before you send the message.”

  “How many battle groups?”

  “All of them,” Veketon said. “Which of our aerial fortresses is closest to Disciple territory?”

  “The Vigilant Sentinel, I believe.”

  Veketon trawled his mind, recalling fleet dispositions, fold engine timescales, and the Vigilant Sentinel’s last location. “Yes, that will do fine. Consolidate the fleet within one light year of the Vigilant Sentinel. We will launch our attack from there.”

  “Venerable master, I wish you would reconsider this course of action.”

  “Your concerns are well founded, Fuurion, but you know I would not react like this rashly.”

  “But… venerable master, the Disciples?”

  “No, not the Disciples. Not their ships and their warriors, at least. But Zophiel? That is a different matter.”

  “Surely one man…”

  “Would you say that I am merely one man?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then carry out my orders and mobilize the fleet. I will explain the matter fully to you in due time.”

  Fuurion bowed. “As you wish, venerable master.” He and the remaining Fellerossi left the throne bay.

  Veketon approached Quennin. “Something is troubling you.” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  “Yeah.” Quennin stared at the bloodstained decking and hugged her own arms.

  “You said you recognized him.”

  “I did,” she breathed.

  “Tell me about it, please.”

  “It’s hard to put into words. I know I’ve never met him before, but he just felt so familiar. It’s like a part of me knows him intimately, like family, and the other part has forgotten him completely. I don’t understand it.”

  Veketon nodded. “It is exactly as I feared, then.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve never met this Zophiel. Of that I am sure. But Vierj must have known him well.”

  “You don’t mean…”

  “We both know that parts of Vierj emerge within you from time to time, just as parts of Jack Donolon emerge within me, despite my best efforts. It is the price we pay for our power, and this is merely another example of Vierj’s scattered memories surfacing within you.”

  “But what does it mean? Who is Zophiel?”

  “It would appear that I have a grandson.”

  Quennin turned to him, a look of horror in her eyes.

  “That’s right,�
�� he said. “It seems that Vierj, the Bane of Ittenrashik and the most powerful seraph pilot of all time, also gave birth to a son.”

  Chapter 2

  Destroyer and Empath

  Jack Donolon stopped halfway across the two-tiered bridge and crouched in the shade of a diagonal support strut.

  He gazed across the Omniscient Seer, a sprawling Fellerossi aerial city now half-submerged in the cottony fluff of a passing cloudbank. Black orthogonal towers rose up or down from his position, joined into a rectangular grid by thick pedestrian and groundcar bridges. A fierce white star hung overhead, dividing the city into sections of glaring heat and relatively cool shade.

  Eight lanes of traffic rumbled along the bridge beneath him, and scores of pedestrians traversed the much narrower bridge above him. Jack resumed his slow, crouching walk along the utility conduits slung underneath the pedestrian bridge, making his way towards the Governance Tower at the far end.

  With a thought, Jack opened his stealthsuit’s status. Visual, thermal, and sonic signatures unfolded in a corner of his mind. The suit drank in his body’s excess chaos energy, powering its omnioptic skin to mask his presence almost perfectly.

  But it was hot inside. Really hot and getting hotter. In the helmet, sweat matted his hair and dripped down his face. The built-in thermal plant worked hard to keep him cool, but it wasn’t like it could just dump the waste heat for all to see.

  Jack triggered his neural link and connected with Tesset Daelus.

  “I thought Outcasts like their worlds cold,” he grumbled.

  “Not really,” she said. “They just radiate less waste heat than true humans. I don’t think it bothers them much either way.”

  “Next time, I want to infiltrate an ice planet.”

  “Well, too bad. I don’t pick the time or the place.”

  “Are you sure this is the right building?” Jack asked.

  “Absolutely sure,” Tesset said. “I saw the courier enter the Governance Tower on floor two-twenty.”

  “You certain about it this time?”

  “Stop doubting me, will you? I can see the whole city from here.”