Page 107 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Then—the clone moves.
It unfurls.
SNAP.
A wet slap against the glass—blindingly fast.
My heart leaps, though not as far as Drexios and the others.
They curse, stumbling back, weapons raised. But Omoth the clone doesn’t attack. He just blinks, slow, eerily, eyes flickingbetween the shocked space-knights without a single hint of emotion.
Drexios leans forward cautiously, rapping his knuckles against the vat, moving as if worried Omoth might burst out to choke him to death.
One can dream.
But the clone barely reacts, content to watch Drexios with unsettling indifference. “Omoth always was as boring as a dying snarlbroc,” Drexios sneers, head tilting between the warriors like he’s waiting for them to agree. “Slow voider too. Got turned into goo.”
The space-knights chuckle, but the sound rings hollow, strained, the echoes swallowed by the sheer vastness of the chamber. They move away from the vat, but their gazes linger. Some wander deeper into the maze of metal stalks, their steps slowing, their muffled voices trailing off into silence.
I realize why.
They recognize more faces.
More friends.
Maybe even themselves.
A macabre museum of horrors, their camaraderie fades into an oppressive hush.
All except Dracoth.
He strides ahead, unwavering, his fuming red-silver gaze locked forward. We reach the raised semicircle of terminals. My nose wrinkles. The dust is so thick, a single sneeze could probably dislodge centuries of neglect. Dracoth waves a hand over the consoles, seeking to activate them only for them to remain silent, dark.
His frustration, rage, and impatience are palpable through our bond, a twisting flame lashing against mine. But what does he expect? It’s obvious no one has touched these computers in years. Then a realization strikes me like a clipped nail.
“Who—or what—controls the vats?” I glance at the countless tubes snaking up the towering metal stalks, a sickly, tangled vineyard of depravity.
“They’re clones!” Razgor announces the freaking obvious, slicing through the tension like a giggling child at a funeral. He sweeps his wrist console over a nearby vat, eyes glued to the glowing blue runes.
Drexios’s head whips toward him, a sneer already curling his lips. “Of course, they’re clones, you voiding imbecile!” He throws up his hands. “What, you think this is a Scythian vegetable garden? Or do you need your little scanner to tell you the sky is voiding black too?”
“Ah... yes. Well, no actually.” Razgor stutters, noticing Drexios leering over him with a menacing snarl. He inhales sharply, shoulders squaring before he continues. “Now I’ve confirmed and logged it.” He lifts his wrist console, displaying flickering data. “Besides... I’ve also ascertained that they are dying. Their fluids aren’t being filtered. They’ll die of oxygen deprivation within the day.”
“They’re dying?” I echo in disbelief.
So many—tens of thousands—about to drown in the very fluid that sustains them. It’s hard to believe looking at the fetal figures. They float languidly, almost peaceful in their grotesque sleep. Oblivious. They don’t know what they are. They don’t know they’re dying.
“I’m afraid so,” Razgor replies, drawing my attention back to his shaking head. “This whole facility has been shut down. It’s only thanks to Scythian ingenuity that they still live.” With pressed lips, he glances at a nearby tank.
Crap, we’ve caused this. When Aenarael trapped the Voidbringer.
My breath hitches, eyes snapping to Dracoth, a silent plea that he can fix this, that something can be done.
His masked visage tilts toward me—then shifts to Razgor. “Power the main controls and release them,” he growls, an order resounding like a war drum.
“All of them?” Razgor blinks, eyes wide with surprise directed at my red dragon who stands as rigid and unyielding as brow freeze gel. “At once, great War Chieftain.” The words leave Razgor in a hushed mutter, as if only now realizing who he dared question.
He rushes to the terminals, waving his hands over them as Dracoth had done. His brow creases when they remain dark, unresponsive. Muttering, he retrieves a tool from his belt, wedging it into the metal panel housing the controls.
