Page 195 of Scorching the Alien Empire
A sharp pang of jealousy tugs at me, lips pinching as I consider summoning a barrier to flick Balsar into the lava. They should be bowing before me. They should be weeping over my radiance. My divinity. But then I remember, they are smelly Mad Max background extras who forgot to change costumes. Dracoth can keep them. Bone-through-the-noses should stick together, after all. Honestly, it’s actually kind of cute—big boy Dracoth with his little toy soldiers.
“Rise, my loyal Shorthairs,” Dracoth commands, stepping down from the dais to loom over the still-kneeling creeps.
“You have earned great honor among us Klendathians.” He reaches down and grips Balsar’s oversized lapel with surprising gentleness, lifting him to his feet.
“Because of your actions, many lived. Not only those here—but across all the Clans. You fought against the Scythians, a foe even empires have fled from. But you? You stood firm. You showed no fear. You held. Arawnoth’s fire burns in your veins. Each of you may stand tall this day.”
Then it happens—Dracoth lowers his frowny, boulder-head.
Not much. Barely a fraction of an inch. But from him? That’s like catching a holographic Charizard.
The thousands of space-knights respond instantly, slamming fists to chests with a deafening war cry. “Shorthairs!” The sound hits like a shockwave. My heart nearly jumps out of my ribs.
“Shorthairs!” They chant again, this time with uproarious laughter.
Some of the space-knights clap the Shorthairs on the back with all the meathead grace of a wrecking ball, nearly sending them tumbling into the dirt.
Many of the space-hobos really should have baby bottles—being actual crybabies. Tears of joy burst out as they take in the sight. Others glance among the cheering crowd, beaming smiles, splitting their alien snouts, muzzles, scaly lips, mouth slits—all sorts of horrible features.
A revolting insectoid, oozes yellow-tinted liquid from slits in its flat... head? Leaking into its respirator, snot bubbling out like molten glue.
Ugh. So gross.
I tap my foot against slag, impatience bubbling like the lava pits around us, while Dracoth waits for the sob-fest to subside.
“A gift for your bravery,” he says, handing Balsar a credit-chit. His beady eyes flick between Dracoth and the small plastic rectangle like a light switch on the fritz.
I click my tongue with annoyance and stroke Todd’s rubbery back for emotional support. Dracoth always spoils these creepy space-hobos. Such a waste of resources. These drooling goons can barely tie their boots without tripping over the laces.
“Great... War Chieftain?” Balsar stammers, clutching the chit between stubby hands like it’s the golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s interstellar chocolate factory. “I... I cannot—”
“You will.” Dracoth crushes his wobbly protest like a bug under a rockslide. He whirls around with surprising speed,scaled cloak snapping dramatically as he stomps back up the twisted wreckage-turned dais like some not-so-jolly red giant.
“I release you from my service.” His voice lands with the finality of a judge’s gavel.
For a second, no one reacts. The words hang in the scorching heat like a noose awaiting its victim. A death sentence that takes too long to register on the less-than-brilliant space-hobos.
“But we areyourShorthairs, great War Chieftain!” a spiky-headed alien pleads, though it’s hard to be certain with his unsettlingly blank milk-white eyes. “We bear your insignia; we’ll follow wherever you command.”
His blue-tainted scaled hands tug at the rainbow-colored plastic bag that dares have the audacity to be a coat with an emblem emblazoned. A roaring red beast with its head shaved, surrounded by a wreath of fire.
If you tilt your head and squint, it kind of looks like Dracoth. You know... if someone peed in his morning mocha.
“Where I go, you would not follow,” Dracoth growls, not angry—just stating a fact. “Spend your riches in comfortable, bloated decadence. A kindness, for your bravery.”
He flicks a dismissive hand and turns like he’s tossing out second-hand fashion. And instead of cheering? The creeps look devastated. Some collapse to their knees like toddlers dropped off at the wrong daycare. Others stare around in horror like someone dyed their favorite Chanel suit pink.
I don’t understand. Despite his poor phrasing.Bloated decadencesounds amazing. But nope. Not to the rapey space hobos. They’re devastated. Like their happiness depends on violence and trauma. Whatever. At least we’ll be rid of the creeps soon.
“Begging your pardon, great War Chieftain,” Balsar snorts, words slicing through the muttering. “We’ve already followed you into a Mutalisk’s arse-end, and bet your last credit—wecrawledback out the voider’s gaping maw, didn’t we?” He glances at his fellow degenerates, that stupid, tusked grin spreading across his muddy face. “Ain’t that right lads?”
The horde of space hobos straighten, emboldened by whatever fermented trash they call courage. They nod, mutter, puff up like peacocks on their first date.
“Truth is, War Chieftain... at first, we served out of fear. Then for the credits.” His fingers flutter, the credit-chit dances between his digits like a rectangle-shaped gymnast. “Not that there was much going around back then, eh?” He chuckles like a fool, staring up at Dracoth with zero awareness that his deep brows are carved from subterranean rock at the core of Bore Mountain.
The chuckle fades faster than my patience, clearing his throat before continuing. “Then we saw how you command. Those... things you can do.” His voice drops—like tens of thousands of people can’t hear him, despite the echoing silence. “Some say you’re a god. A god of fire and fury made flesh that cannot be defeated. We want to be part ofthat. Of the impossible.” He leans forward, reverent, hopeful. “We’ll follow you anywhere. Just lead the way.”
The words settle in the air, smoldering like the lava-threaded cracks in the ground. I study Dracoth’s unreadable expression, silently praying he evicts them like ten-month-overdue tenants. But my prayers turn sour—a stinky curse.
