Page 110 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“Kill the aggressors!” My voice thunders above the chaos.
The air erupts with screams. Growls of suffering and ecstasy. The sickening wet sounds of flesh being torn apart.
Rush-fueled maniacs rip into each other like wild animals, their bodies already oozing rivers of green blood from a dozen skin-flapping claw slashes. Others sink fangs into throats, tearing flesh from bone even as life drains from their victims’ eyes. But there are no victors here—only butchers. The moment one clone rips out a throat, another descends, gouging out his eyes, feasting upon the still-warm flesh.
My gut churns with revulsion. Honorable battle reduced to a mockery of the lowest savagery. Below even beasts—they fight not for food, purpose, or even survival, just a murderous instinct twisted to insatiable heights by the Scythians. They corrupt all that is sacred, taking our essence and warping it into the grotesque.
Only the blistering heat from hundreds of my disciplined berserkers’ arc blasters grants me a shred of relief. The air shimmers with the relentless hail of plasma fire, each bolt slicing through the crimson carnage.
Azure bursts strike like miniature suns, melting the lunatic clones as if hurling ice into the volcanic chasms of Scarn. They squeal in pleasure as they dissolve, their lifeless faces frozen in monstrous ecstasy as their bodies liquefy into steaming, red-blue puddles of organic matter.
The acrid stench of melted flesh and burning blood floods my lungs. The rhythmic thrum of zaps and death screams echo in my ears. I lift my own arc blaster, aiming at the charging lunatic clones, their attention turning to us, the source of their destruction.
Princesa summons her barriers with arrogant elegance, first separating the attackers, then halting their advance with translucent shields at ankle height. How clever my little human female is. She does not block our fire—only their charge, tripping them into a churning mass of snarls and flailing claws.
With each murderous clone devoured by the heat of a thousand suns, she screams in glee, demanding more. Her intoxicating pleasure roars through our bond like something primal—something insatiable, ravenous, alive. A Goddess of Death, reveling in slaughter.
It is absolute.
My warriors—the finest in all the galaxies—do not balk. Even amidst this depravity, they fight with precision. Every blast is measured, every plasma shield an unbreakable seamless barrier of protection. Brother guarding brother. The bonds that bind us, forged in the crucible of war. This is honor. This is battle.
Not a single lunatic clone reaches our ranks. Their forms melt away under our relentless fire, leaving behind puddles of molten goo. A moat of suffering surrounding us, the closest one steaming many feet from our position.
A tense silence lingers, punctuated only by the hushed breaths as warvisors sweep the area, confirming what my instincts already know. No more threats. Only the docile clones remain—thousands of them, wandering aimlessly, bending down to inspect their fallen kin, their faces unreadable despite the bloody carnage all around.
“I got that Omoth right between the eyes!” Drexios barks a laugh, lowering his arc blaster, tension loosening in hisshoulders. “So much for being reborn in Arawnoth’s divine image,” He smirks, shooting Princesa a mocking sneer as he waves a hand over the cooling river of multi-colored glop. “Unless Arawnoth’s divine image resembles a puddle of steaming goo. Hah!”
Princesa stiffens in my arm, her fury igniting white-hot. “You dare blaspheme, Drex-iot!” she shouts, her eyes glinting dangerously, simmering with silver-red fumes.
Drexios doubts the depths of Princesa’s religious zeal. But it plunges deep into her core. I can feel it blazing through our bond, through her very soul. It’s entwined in her essence now, an inseparable part of her being.
He plays with fire. She could crush him in an instant with her divine powers. She would laugh while doing it, and no one—not even I—could stop her.
With Arawnoth weakened, my gifts are gone. Perhaps never to return.
Yet Drexios, the reckless fool, continues. “Void your blaspheme—”
“Silence!” I roar, my voice shaking the metal beneath us.
Drexios’s red eye flares with defiance, his fangs poking out from curled lips. But I am molten, unyielding as the peaks of Scarn. He finally averts his gaze, feigning to inspect his arc blaster.
“You,” I command, gesturing to Drexios, Razgor, and the warriors flanking him. “Follow me.” My gaze sweeps the lingering clones, still milling about, dazed. “The rest—escort them back to the ships.”
“War Chieftain!” they respond in unison, clamping their fists to their armored chests. Without hesitation, they disperse, moving to herd the wandering clones together like snarlbroc farmers.
Through my warvisor, I project my thoughts to Jazreal and Sarkoth. They, too, encountered cloning facilities—forced to purge the lunatic clones after Razgor released them. I order them to bring back the survivors and to search this accursed labyrinth for more.
There could be tens of thousands of trainable clones left, soon to be packed into theRavager’s Ruinand my old Scythian Battlebarge. Enough to seed new warbands. Perhaps there are other stations like this one hidden in the backdrop of space?
Or are these the last?
A sobering thought. Am I staring at the final remnants of my people? Extinction, the cost of our folly, our cowardice? Now I’ve truly rejected the Voidbringer’s twisted offer, will it erase us entirely?
By Arawnoth, I will not let it.
I swear on the ancestors—I will lead the shattered remnants of my dying people against the Voidbringer. It will rue the day it created me. The day it corrupted my predecessor. The day it was spat into existence.
Princesa shifts in my arms, gaze flicking over the steaming carnage. “As much as I’ve enjoyed this... riveting experience, babes.” Her voice is laced with sarcasm, but her eyes are sharp. “Now that we’ve got what you came for, how about we get the hell out of this creepyplace?”
