The Last Blade Read online

  Wings of the Seraph: The Last Blade

  An erotic space opera novella

  Published by Jade Fantasy

  Copyright © 2018 Sarah Hawke

  Cover Art by Warmics

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved.

  Dedication

  I want to offer a special thanks to all my wonderful supporters on Patreon, especially Joseph, Lamar, Michael M., David, Alan, Griffin, Ashur, Michael B., CK, Joe, Andreas, Jimmie, John, Timothy, Dumblindeaf, and Brandon. Because of your help, all of my books will finally have unique covers!

  Content Warning

  This erotic novella contains explicit sexual content. If you are offended by adult language, rough sex, and/or the idea of a harem of bisexual alien girls, then you probably shouldn’t be reading this! Consider yourself warned!

  And perhaps intrigued…

  Prologue

  Keledon

  The Crystal Throne

  1083.3 (Eighteen Years Ago)

  “Your arguments have been heard and rejected. It’s time for you to move on.”

  Wynn Mosaad, Blade of the Seraph, forced himself to relax and take a deep breath before he pivoted back around to face the old, wiry man leaning against the Crystal Throne. “With all due respect, Admiral, that decision is not yours to make. My words are for Emperor Falric’s ears alone.”

  Admiral Grayson smiled so thinly it almost looked like a trick of the dim lighting. “Really, Wynn, you’ve become tiresomely predictable. I will not allow you to manipulate the boy into doing your bidding.”

  “I’m not here to manipulate anyone,” Mosaad insisted. “I am here to present our sovereign with a plan to win this war. I’ll understand if that seems like a strange concept to you, given that you and the rest of the admiralty lost your will to fight years ago.”

  Grayon’s cheek twitched. “I would be careful if I were you, son. A man in your position should be trying to make allies, not drive them away.”

  “I’m only interested in allies who want to help me win this war.” Mosaad turned and scowled up at the throne room’s cavernous ceiling. “Unfortunately, these days everyone on Keledon seems more interested in protecting their position than serving the Dominion.”

  “Protecting our position is serving the Dominion,” Grayson said. “If you had ever bothered to learn the slightest bit about politics, you would understand that.”

  Mosaad scoffed. “I’m a warrior, not a politician.”

  “Everyone is a politician at one point or another. You may not like it, but it’s the truth. And you’re going to have to accept it sooner or later if you want to survive this mess.”

  Grayson glared at him for a long moment, his leathery face creased in frustration. The admiral wasn’t a bad man by any means, though this would have been a lot easier if he were. Dealing with monsters and psychopaths was straight-forward; dealing with people required patience and finesse.

  Which is exactly Grayson’s point.

  “Look, I appreciate what you are trying to do here, I really do,” the admiral went on. “No one would be happier to see the Rift Colonies liberated than I would. But there is no way in hell our fleet could push past the Convectorate blockade, not without a hundred more ships and a thousand more pilots.”

  “Their position isn’t nearly as fortified as you think,” Mosaad insisted. “The Vecs have stretched themselves thin—far thinner than the admiralty realizes. The blockade is a front to conceal how poorly-defended most of the colonies—”

  “I’ve heard this argument a hundred times by now,” Grayson said. “So has the Council, so has the military, so has His Majesty. But you know as well as I do that launching another offensive will sabotage any hope of an armistice.”

  “Good,” Mosaad said. “Because as far as I can tell, ‘armistice’ is just another word for ‘surrender.’”

  Grayson sighed and rubbed at his forehead. “Seraph save me from the young and the foolish…”

  “Eight billion humans have died in this war, Admiral,” Mosaad growled, taking another step forward. “Eight billion! And you’re telling me you want to surrender to the butchers who killed them?”

  “I want to save the trillions who are still alive,” Grayson countered, “and the only way to do that is to broker an armistice before the Vecs have time to rebuild and finish us off.”

  “The moment you sign that treaty, you tell every family in the Dominion that their children died for nothing.”

  “That would be true regardless, and no amount of parades or flag-waving will change anything.”

  Mosaad continued glaring at the older man, a well of acrid bile rising in his throat. He wanted to lash out—he wanted to stride before the Council and bludgeon them all into submission. But apparently he would have had an easier time blasting through a Convectorate blockade than convincing a handful of old fools to fight for the future of humanity.

  Grayson sighed again and paced around the throne. “I know you don’t want to accept the inevitable, son. I didn’t either. But we both know this war has been over for a long time. The Vecs can build drones and mechs faster than we can destroy them, and they’ve convinced half the bloody galaxy to side against us. Fighting until the bitter end may satisfy the dead, but it won’t help the living.”

  “All I’m asking for is a chance to prove you wrong,” Mosaad said. “Keep the Vecs talking if you must—stall them while I move the rest of the Blades into position.”

  “And then what? You wave your hand and turn the tide?”

  “The Rift Colonies aren’t like the Outer Territories; they’ve only been occupied for a few solar cycles. If we can rally the locals—if we can prove to them that the Tarreen aren’t as entrenched as they believe—”

  “You will start a rebellion that will get a lot of good people killed for nothing,” Grayson said. “At best you annoy the CDF into wasting resources hunting you down. At worst you fail miserably and prolong a war we cannot win.”

  Mosaad hissed through his teeth. “You really have so little faith in the Seraph’s chosen warriors?”

  “I respect the role of the Blades as much as anyone,” Grayson said. “But we both know you don’t have a leg to stand on here. You failed to stop the Vecs at Krosis. You were routed by Admiral Ferron on Torias IV. And you weren’t able to protect Falric’s father when the assassins boarded his ship and murdered him in his sleep.”

  “That’s not fair and you know it,” Mosaad said, gritting his teeth.

  “Fair or not, it is the truth.”

  Mosaad turned as a young human man in flowing blue robes emerged from the concealed door in the back of the chamber. Emperor Falric Tisarys was twenty-five cycles old—an adult in every sense of the word—but Mosaad refused to look upon his new sovereign as anything other than a petulant child. The war against the Convectorate had been raging for longer than he had been alive, but Falric hadn’t fought in a single battle…or commanded a single soldier to die. Yet now he was in charge of what had once been the greatest fleet in the known galaxy, and even the Seraphim Council seemed unwilling to stand up to him.

  “Your Majesty,” Mosaad said with a short bow. “I am humbled by your presence.”

  “Somehow I doubt that very much,” Falric murmured as he took his seat upon the throne. “You were expressing regret at your failure to uphold your sacred charge. The Blades of the Seraph are the sacred protectors of the Crystal Throne, yet you failed my father in his hour of need.”

  Mosaad felt his cheek twitch. “His loss was a dark day for the Dominion.”

  “Yes, it was. Our people lost a great man…but more than that, they lost faith in one of our most
sacred institutions.”

  “Your Majesty—”

  “But you needn’t worry,” Falric interrupted with a wave of his hand. “I have already forgiven you and your kin.”

  Mosaad shared a quick, confused glance with Grayson. “You have?”

  “Of course. It was a great tragedy, to be sure, but all men make mistakes. And one failure in four centuries of service is hardly worth dwelling on. The past is behind us, and only a fool clings to realities he cannot change.”

  An awkward silence settled over the chamber, and Mosaad tried and failed to read the younger man’s face. He was obviously up to something—he was always up to something—but he was surprisingly adept at concealing his true motives. For all his obvious failings, Falric had inherited his father’s cunning.

  “I know why you are here, Wynn, and I am sorry I will have to disappoint you again,” Falric said into the silence. “But Admiral Grayson has undoubtedly conveyed my position. An armistice is our best and likely last opportunity to stanch the bleeding, and I intend to take it.”

  “Your Majesty, I must implore you to reconsider,” Mosaad said. “This is our one and only opportunity to—”

  “I’m afraid the decision has already been made,” Falric said pointedly. “The negotiations will continue, and you and your men will stand down and await my orders. Do I make myself clear?”

  Mosaad tossed another imploring glance at Grayson, but the admiral refused to make eye contact. “Perfectly clear, Your Majesty.”

  “Good. I respect the Blades and their sacred charge, and I know how difficult it must be for you to accept defeat.” Falric paused for a moment. “That is why I must ask for your solemn word that you will obey my orders and allow the negotiations to continue without interference.”

  Mosaad forced himself to nod. “You have it, Your Majesty.”

  The Emperor stared right back at him for several seconds, his thoughtful eyes a stark juxtaposition to his youthful face, before he eventually grunted and gestured towards Grayson. “What do you think, Admiral?”

  “Master Mosaad is a Blade of the Seraph, Your Majesty—his word is his bond,” Grayson said. “He also happens to be one of the finest men I’ve ever had the pleasure of serving with.”

  Falric nodded soberly. “You’ve no idea how much I wish that were enough.”

  Grayson frowned. “Your Majesty?”

  Falric tapped a button on the arm of his throne. The massive chamber door whooshed open, and eight heavy sentinel mechs—all armed with military-grade stun rifles and shock batons—stomped inside. The thunderous clatter of their armored feet was so deafening Mosaad barely even noticed the two soldiers slip in behind them.

  “I’m sure you are aware that my grandfather was once considered the most powerful seer of his time,” Falric said, signaling for the soldiers and the mechs to wait. “He could often see the future as clearly as the present, and a spark of his power was passed down to me.”

  Mosaad kept his hands and arms perfectly still. Since the mechs weren’t armed with lethal weapons, they were likely programmed to fire at the slightest provocation. And the two soldiers—special Intelligence Directorate bred and trained commandos—always had a hair trigger.

  “I want to believe you, old friend, I really do,” Falric said. “But I’m afraid I’ve already foreseen exactly what happens here: you lie to my face, I mistakenly trust in your sense of honor, and then you ignore my orders and rally your allies anyway.”

  “Your Majesty, please,” Grayson said, holding out his hands. “Let’s not do anything rash...”

  Falric smiled faintly. “The admiral here isn’t the only one who respects you, Wynn. I’ve no doubt there are thousands of men and women across the Dominion who would gladly flock to your banner. Like you, they don’t want to accept the truth…and I can’t say I blame them. Admitting defeat is never easy, but I refuse to allow stubborn pride to doom our people.”

  “If you kill me, all those men and women will still flock to my banner,” Mosaad said. “But this time, they’ll be coming after you instead of the Tarreen.”

  “Do you really think so little of me?” Falric asked, shaking his head. “You honestly believe I’d have you killed just like that? I am not a monster—I am a peacemaker. I want to save as many lives as possible.”

  The Emperor sighed heavily and stood. “These fine gentlemen are going to ensure you stay out of trouble for the next few weeks while the peace process plays out. After the armistice is signed and the demilitarization begins, Admiral Grayson here will assign you to a new post. I’ve no doubt it will be somewhere pleasant.”

  Grayson glanced between us. “Your Majesty, the military does not dictate how or where the Blades serve.”

  “Yes, I am aware of that, Admiral,” Falric said with a grunt. “But while I suspect we’ll be able to talk the Vecs out of several of their demands, the abolition of the Blades will not be one of them. The Hierarchy has been quite adamant on that particular point.”

  “Abolish the Blades of the Seraph?” Mosaad hissed. “Are you insane?”

  “On the contrary, I am merely being practical,” Falric said. “I appreciate the importance of tradition as much as anyone, but we are about to enter a new age of galactic politics. The Blades are an anachronism, I’m sorry to say.”

  Mosaad grimaced. “The Blades of the Seraph have faithfully served the Crystal Throne for almost four hundred years!”

  “But as you can see,” Falric said, gesturing to the soldiers around the room, “the Throne no longer has need of your protection.”

  On the surface, the young man was the picture of poise; he had the calm, collected veneer of a philosopher king posing for a statue. But Mosaad could see the subtle sneer on the young man’s lips. He was enjoying every moment of this.

  “The Blades are a symbol of a hope of purpose,” Mosaad said through clenched teeth. “And we can still win this war for you.”

  “I truly, earnestly wish that were true,” Falric said. “Now please, allow my men to escort you to your new quarters. I promise you will be quite comfortable.”

  The two commandos crept forward until Mosaad shot them a glare so cold it froze them in their tracks. They weren’t afraid of him—the Intelligence Directorate had undoubtedly bred the capacity for fear out of them altogether—but they had obviously been given very specific instructions not to harm him. For all his faults, Falric wasn’t a complete fool; he knew he couldn’t afford to turn Mosaad into a martyr. At least, not yet.

  “I have foreseen this as well, you know,” Falric said matter-of-factly. “With any fewer than five guards, you try and fight your way out of this—and often succeed. But with ten, you come to your senses and realize you have no choice but to do as your sovereign commands.”

  Mosaad studied the mechs again. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but they had all been equipped with magnetic stabilizers. Originally, the devices had been designed specifically for zero-g combat, but they had the added bonus of making the mechs virtually immune to telekinesis. He might have been able to throw one or two of them, but he wouldn’t be able to dispatch all eight.

  Thankfully, he wouldn’t need to.

  “Your grandfather was a revered seer,” Mosaad whispered. “Thirty years ago, he foresaw a quick and easy victory over the Convectorate. How did that turn out?”

  Falric’s lip quivered ever so slightly. “Please don’t make this more difficult than it has to be. I do not wish to harm you.”

  “Don’t worry—you won’t.”

  Mosaad moved. A pair of searing blue-white swords sprouted from his hands, and he pounced at the nearest mechs like an enraged yewl cat. His psi-blade carved through their reinforced armor as easily as a laser-cutter through plastic, and their headless bodies clattered to the ground in a pile of sparking circuits and smoldering thorotine plates.

  A squad of normal soldiers might have been horrified enough to panic and give him an opening, but mechs and commandos weren’t cowed so easily. They insta
ntly unleashed a withering salvo of stun blasts, forcing Mosaad to tuck himself into a ball and roll across the chamber. Even with his psionic abilities boosting his speed and senses, he knew he wouldn’t be able to avoid them all for long.

  Which was precisely why he had no intention of fighting. Popping back up into crouch, Mosaad reached out towards Falric and telekinetically pulled the young man straight into his arms. The mechs and commandos instantly stopped firing, and for a long moment the only sound in the chamber was the faint hum of his psi-blades as they crossed over Falric’s throat.

  “No!” Grayson yelled, throwing out his hands. “Wynn, don’t!”

  “You honestly believe I’d kill him just like that?” Mosaad muttered, echoing the boy’s words from a minute ago. “I’m not a monster, but I’m not a peacemaker, either. I want to save as many lives as possible, and the only way to do that is to destroy the Tarren and their Convectorate before they destroy us.”

  Falric grimaced as he stared down at the blazing blades near his throat. “I always knew you were a traitor,” he hissed. “You probably let my father die, didn’t you?”

  “Your father was a good man, and his death will forever haunt the Blades,” Mosaad said. “But unlike you, we are not about to capitulate to his enemies. We are going to honor his memory by avenging his death.”

  “You will never leave Keledon alive,” Falric spat. “The Council will—”

  “The Council will fall in line once we have shown them the path to victory,” Mosaad said. “I’d like to believe that you will, too.”

  Falric growled and tried—futility—to wriggle free. “What are you going to do, carry me all the way to your shuttle? You can’t keep me hostage forever, and the moment you let me go you’re a dead man!”

  “For a child who claims to be able to see the future, you have a remarkably poor grasp of the present.”

  Mosaad reared back and hurled one of his psi-blades towards the statue mounted on the far wall. The weapon burned through the supports, and a mighty groan echoed throughout the chamber as the enormous chunk of stone shook free and started to fall. The two mechs standing in its path quickly retreated back to the door rather than push the human soldiers out of the way—they were programmed to avoid danger without harming or inconveniencing their sentient masters. It was an imminently sensible decision.