Page 218 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Catokar laughs, too quickly. “Ah, well... you see, they are forourprotection. After all, you Klendathians are—how shall I put it—gifted in certain... areas we are not.”
“Disarm,” Dracoth commands. Stern. Unyielding. Extra Frowny.
Without hesitation, he unclasps his right vambrace with a hiss and holds it out before a Robo-Nib. But the machine doesn’t take it, instead a murder-orb glides in, making me flinch like it’s a horde of killer bees after some Lexie-honey.
It emits a black beam that somehow supports the hunk of metal, before it darts off into a sliding compartment in the wall.
“Arc blaster. Twelve plasma grenades. Two plasma knives,” Drexios lists off like he’s reciting his shopping list as he holds out an unending array of weapons for the murder-orbs to take.
Dracoth moves forward again—but a purple Robo-Nib raises a whirling hand.
Big mistake.
Dracoth’s hand closes around the machine’s wrist. They lock in a colossal meathead arm-wrestle. Gears screech inside the Robo-Nib’s limb while Dracoth smirks, neck muscles flex with slow, effortless power.
I watch, biting my lip,veryaware of the heat pooling in places that shouldn’t be heating up during a security check.
“Stop!” Consul Catokar flails his stubby arms like someone trying to turn down the music at a house party. “We only need to scan theunknown lifeform!”
He points dramatically at Todd.
My Todd.Like he’s a war criminal.
Sleeping. Innocent. Angelic. Wrapped around my neck like a bloated rubbery neck brace.
“It...” Catokar waves his hand like he’s shooing away a fart. “Might be... contagious.”
“Outrageous!” I snap, stepping forward. “Look he’s even wearing a bowtie! Abowtie, you ungrateful blueberry!”
“Be that as it may,” Catokar sighs. “It must submit to a scan. The process will only take a moment.”
Dracoth releases the Robo-Nib, I almost laugh when the pilot inspects its arm, noticing the huge distorted dents my Red Murder Mountain has crushed into its forearm.
“... four knives, two graviton disruptors. A little Scoomer—never know when your last puff might be,” Drexios mumbles behind us, still unloading gear like a hoarder at a garage sale.
“Consul, the creature appears to have already expired,” one of the Nib soldiers mutters, eyeing Todd suspiciously.
We’re definitely conquering these guys.
“How Rude,” I sniff, giving Todd a little shake. “Wake up! You have guests,” I hiss at him, rubbing his back like he’s a magic lamp. Todd lets out a low croak, stretching his spindly legs and twitching his mandibles.
“Behold,” I announce, lifting my chin proudly, “theDivine Cherub.”
Consul Catokar tiptoes closer, face wrinkling like he’s just sniffed a diaper. “Intriguing... fauna.”
A murder-orb hovers beside Todd, bathing his majesty in an emerald beam of suspicious science. Todd stirs, offended, his clackers clacking at the drone like it’s floating jelly stick.
“Divine, um... Cherub is cleared,” the Nib soldier declares the obvious, stepping back like Todd might combust at any moment.
“Yeah, that’s everything,” Drexios grunts, patting his belt, chest, thigh plates—basically swatting himself like a man covered in fire ants. He strides forward.
A murder-orb stops him, green light aimed squarely at his crotch like the opening scene of the worst X-rated alien movie ever made.
“It appears,” Catokar sighs, gesturing with a lazy flick of his wrist, “you’re still armed.”
“What?” Drexios looks confused for all of half a second. Then—smirk. “My cock?” He cups his crotch like Michael Jackson. “Jealousy, is it? ’Cause you popped out your mother’s ass looking like a blue limp zarberry?”
He thrusts forward like this is a Chippendale show I can’t escape. “Yep. One hundred percent Klendathian cannon. I bet you Shorties haven’t seen anything like it.”
