Page 108 of Scorching the Alien Empire
All of them?
Some of the tanks have infants drifting in them. Little red toddlers, probably full of mischief and germs. Not to mention the claws and fangs. A terrifying thought really.
I mean, I’m far too young and busy to look after these kids. Look at them. There could be dozens of them. And these bone-through-the-nose space jocks can hardly look after them. They’d toss them a gun and send them toddling onto the nearest battlefield with a hearty slap on the back and an encouraging laugh.
“Gods, this tech is ancient,” Razgor the rude prick interrupts my thoughts with his inane grumbling. His head practically swallowed by the guts of plastic circuits and dusty panels.
Sandra!
Yes!Sandracan do it!
Even too-cute Toddkindof likes her. I mean, not as much as me, obviously. But she mentioned working on a neighbor’s farms or something, not to mention her disturbing skill with the snarlbrocs back on Scarn. So, what’s a few dozen little murder scamps for her?
Nothing is the answer.
Ah, I can already picture it—a massive grin splitting her freckled face, swarmed by lovely... sweet oversized toddlers, their claws clacking as they play at her feet.
Yep—a kindness really.
“Let’s try diverting the power couplings to my wrist console...” Razgor mutters, his voice muffled, now entirely swallowed by the tangled guts of the terminals.
Drexios shatters the tense silence with an exaggerated yawn.
Somehow—because it’s him—even that banal action makes my skin crawl, like fake nails raking glass.
“Tick tock, the tech mocks. I go to see if I’m truly me,” he sings, words lilting like some crazy-person riddle. Then, whistling to himself, he marches off into the maze of vats, cackling like the escaped lunatic he is.
“Take your time,” I call after him, my tone so sweet it could put syrup manufacturers out of business.
He only smirks, flashing a fang over his shoulder as he disappears behind a column. As if even the murder-bots would waste precious green goo cloning him. That would be like cloning a migraine.
...Gods. What if there’s more of him?
A whole gang of Drex-iots? The thought sends a shiver racing down my spine like ice water.
“Oh, it worked!” Razgor exclaims, sounding disturbingly surprised.
Holographic projections flicker to life, their crimson glow casting jagged shadows across the vast chamber. Razgor groans, squirming free from the mess of wires and circuits, his once-pristine black armor marred by dust. His wrist console is gone.
“Haven’t used that trick since my trainee days,” he grins, like a little puppy seeking praise. His smile dies on the altar of Dracoth’s unflinching, masked stare—Mr. Frowny Face incarnate. “Right. Okay, then. Let’s see what we’re dealingwith here.” He exhales sharply, hands darting over the glowing controls.
I, however, am more graceful. And besides, it’s always best to reward those who please me. “You’re very clever, Razgor, and you clearly know your way around this...” My eyes flick to the exposed panels, wires tangled like some demonic spaghetti dinner. “...stuff,” I add, lips curling with distaste.
“You’re far too kind, War Chieftainess,” he dismisses hastily, eyes glued to the display. But I don’t miss the deepening hue of his red skin. These nerdy types—all the same, whether from Earth or Klendathor. Big brains, fragile egos. They need stroking, or they’ll unravel faster than a discount-bin sweater.
Well, that’s how I got the original not-cute Todd to help with my homework.
“Females!” Razgor blurts, excitement spiking his voice like a frat boy on his first weekend bender. “Look!” He gestures wildly at the screen. I lean forward in Dracoth’s grasp, squinting at the display—seeing nothing but endless red.
“Wait, what?” He mutters, fingers flying over the holographic controls. “There was a chamber labeled ‘Active Females,’ but now... it’s gone. It’s showing no room at all. That can’t be right... then where does that door lead?” He jerks his chin toward the exit. “Great. Now, it’s showing this room as the main entrance.”
A chill slithers through my veins as Dracoth’s attention snaps to the exit. His anticipation flares in our bond, a barely contained inferno of impatience.
“Get these tanks open,” he commands, gaze flicking back to Razgor. “Quickly.”
“I’m trying!” Razgor snaps, his nimble fingers blurring over the shimmering red controls. “Someone—or something—is interfering. A remote user is overriding the system, scrambling commands.”
“Ugh, I remember when someone hacked my socials. Total nightmare. But you’re the admin, right? Can’t you just kick them out?” I ask, voice wavering like mother in high heels, betraying my growing unease. The shimmering red terminals glint in the dim light, suddenly predatory, like eyes watching from the dark.
