Page 51 of Scorching the Alien Empire
She’s right. A gray orb zips through the air like a demonic baseball given life.
“A murder-bot!” I yelp, diving behind Sandra, pulling Todd closer for protection. “Look! It’s using a death ray!” I point over her shoulder at the horrible thing as it projects a yellow beam sporadically.
“Class!” Sandra exclaims with excitement for some unknown reason—probably terror-induced insanity. “It’s cleaning.” She gestures toward the drone. It hovers beside a long, rippling banner, its yellow beam vacuuming away dust like some hyper-efficient housemaid from hell. “Wish we had these back on Earth,” she adds with a chuckle, glancing back at me with a grin.
I frown at the drone, not trusting it for a second. It reminds me too much of the terrifying murder-bots from the Mortakin-Tok vision. A shudder runs down my spine as the memory surfaces—those people, swarmed by that green smoke. The way it ate through their clothes, skin, flesh, and bone until there was nothing left. Not even ash. It totally gave me MBSD—Murder Bot Stress Disorder.
“I still don’t trust it,” I mutter, my gaze drifting unbidden to a nearby viewport.
Beyond the glass, the void churns with chaos. Countless red-lensed murder-bot drones reflect the eerie pulsing light from the energy beams they nimbly dodge through. Massive ships, jagged and monstrous, lumber like evil space whales carved from obsidian—all of it framed against a planet so black it swallows light, belching green and blue fumes from crooked spires. The tips shimmer with almost imperceptible movement—like swarming colonies of metallic ants, an endless, seething tide.
Another shudder courses through me. “Yeah, no. Screw the murder-bots,” I mumble, reaching for the comforting warmth of Arawnoth’s blessing scorched into my chest and neck. I press harder, wishing the heat could drive away the chill creeping over me.
“Well,Istill think they’re class,” Sandra persists, grinning at the horrible cleaning drone like it’s a celebrity signing autographs.
As we pass, I give the thing a wide berth, practically hugging the wall. The last thing I need is for it to give me space cooties or ‘clean’ the flesh off me.
Sandra snorts. “What are you like?” she says, shaking her head as though I’m the crazy one.
I don’t dignify her with a response, just urge her along with a few extra nudges to quicken our pace.
Moments later, we find ourselves in front of an enormous door emblazoned with creepy, bleeding red eyes. I sigh, folding my arms. Who thoughtthiswas a good design choice? It looks like glorified gang graffiti. Maybe I can convince the big bore to redecorate. Something in pastels, perhaps, to brighten the place up...
“Hm. Sounds busy in there,” Sandra whispers, leaning toward the door with a hand cupped to her ear. Her expression shifts, nervous and uncertain. “Maybe we should come back later?”
“Not so fast!” I snap, grabbing her shoulder with enough speed to make Dracoth jealous. “There’s no way they’re not nearly finished.”
Sandra barely has time to protest before I seize her wrist and march us toward the throne room’s massive entrance.
“Come on! We don’t want to miss anything.”
Chapter 12
Alexandra
Homage
IpullSandraintotheexpansive throne room, its vastness immediately swallowing us. The towering throne of obsidian and bone looms ahead, set against a floor-to-ceiling viewport showcasing the void. Dracoth’s hulking frame fills the massive seat effortlessly, as though it had been carved specifically for him. It’s even crafted from his favorite things—volcanic rock and death—like the perfect birthday present.
The immense metal door swooshes shut behind us, drawing the sharp attention of every guard in the room. Even Jazzy is among their statuesque number, flicking a glance in our direction from beneath the long, slightly drifting banners.
Before Dracoth, a group of bone-through-the-nose space-knights stand clustered, their jet-black armor gleaming underthe eerie, pulsing light. They look laughably small beneath Dracoth’s massive presence. As we approach, they glance over their shoulders, their expressions a mix of confusion and awe.
Ignixis is standing to Dracoth’s left like some lingering shadow cultist, a smirk twisting his blacked scorched head as he glares at us.
What’s more surprising, however, is the sight of Drexios at Dracoth’s right hand. He’s miraculously upright and uninjured despite the brutal beating he received yesterday. The only signs of his ordeal are his ragged, torn scaled cloak barely clinging to his right shoulder, a black eye patch and the jagged cracks in the smashed marble floor beneath him.
His smirk is alive and well. His eye gleaming from under his shadowed brow, like he knows an embarrassing secret he’s bursting to reveal. I hate it. He should be in a hospital bed somewhere, licking his wounds and reflecting on what a rude prick he is. But instead of being grateful for his pathetic life, he stands there giving us the stink eye.
“Um...” Sandra’s voice squeaks beside me, hilariously small in this grand venue. “Hello... everyone,” she stammers, giving a nervous giggle and a little wave. Her freckled face turns as red as the Klendathians.
Poor, simple Sandra. She’s like a little lost ginger sheep. As her ever-fabulous shepherd, I really must teach her proper etiquette—assuming the murder-bots don’t get us first.
“As you were,” I cut in, loud and commanding, emphasizing my authority with a dismissive flick of my hand. My other hand absently strokes the sleeping plumpness that is Todd.
An awkward silence lingers. Their gazes remain locked on us, probably because we’re stunning, exotic beauties. But I don’t care. All but Dracoth are beneath me. With my head held high and my back straight, I stride toward the throne, Sandra trailing in my wake.
Finally, the attendees snap their attention back to Dracoth, and the low murmur of hushed mutters resumes.
