Page 173 of Scorching the Alien Empire
I frown. Rude. Did I go too far? What if... what if he doesn’t like me anymore? An icy dread plunges my heart into my stomach.
Fuck, I must stilllikehim... but at the same time I still resent him.
My mind is a muddled mess of contradictions, a tangled hairband of longing and fury, and itinfuriatesme. So much so, I could tear out my hair and join Dracoth’s Shorthairs. Well. If they weren’t creepy space-hobos.
Heat crawls up my cheeks, embarrassment curling inside me like a serpent. I haven’t been this confused about aboysince I was a teenager.
But what’s a Divine Daughter to do?
“What about these ones?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay steady as I gesture toward the blinking white mass trailing us like Casper the Not-So-Friendly Ghost.
“Seeker drones,” Dracoth grunts, his fingers brushing across the holographic display, sending ripples through the interface as he expands the sensor range.
“Murder-orbs?” I frown, watching the glowing dots pulse ominously. “Why do they look so big here?”
“Because there aremillions,” he replies, as casually as if he were ordering a mocha.
My stomach plummets. “Millions?”
The image of a vast, shifting ocean of glinting red lenses stretches through my mind, an unstoppable tide of metal descending upon us. A cold shiver slithers down my spine. If that many reach us, I doubt if even my divine shields would be enough.
I swallow hard. “Uh... maybe we couldhurry the ship up a little?” I glance over my shoulder at the bone-through-the-noses hunched over their terminals, half-expecting one of them to besecretlysabotaging our speed. “Like... go from confetti-speed to disco ball-speed instead?”
“There is no... disco...ball-speed” Dracoth grimaces stumbling over the words. “We are at maximum.”
Confetti-speed is the fastest?His words are streamers of shattered dreams. I stare at the swirling colors outside the viewport, watching the blurred streaks of hyperspace flash past.
Before I can process my disappointment, something pricks at the edge of my awareness.
A faint, almost imperceptible sound.
Scratching.
Like static whispering from a distant radio—so quiet I nearly dismiss it as nothing more than the product of an overworked, stress-head.
Then it returns.
Louder.
Creepier.
A slow shiver creeps down my spine.
Oh, no, no, no.
That horrible eerie static crackling like a distant laugh. The last time I heard it was back near the murder-bot planets. I thought Dracoth had gotten rid of it. But now, it’s back growing louder with each pounding heartbeat.
“Corsark, cut comms,” Dracoth orders, a rare hint of concern threading through his voice.
But I already know the answer before Corsark even speaks.
“They aredisabled, War Chieftain.”
The ghostly cackle intensifies as if it’s feeding off our fear, feeding off our silence.
Then, Dracoth’s terminal pulses red. A whining alarm shrieks through the chamber, nearly launching me out of the throne. I barely manage to grab the bone-infused armrests as the display flares with light.
New markers begin to appear. First ten. Then twenty. Then a hundred. Then thousands.
