Page 118 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“No,” I growl, resuming my advance toward the exit. “I could be the clone of others.”
“True,” Razgor concedes, falling into step with the others in my blazing wake.
“You’re like a clone fetishist, you know that?” Princesa huffs, arms folding beneath her ample breasts. “Freaking clone-atic.”
The glyph-engraved door swooshes open, and immediately a strange sense of déjà vu washes over me. I hesitate. Yet the corridor beyond resembles the last one. The same narrow, dark tunnel. No visible doors along its length.
Something pulls at me. A whisper of a memory, buried deep. A sense of knowing. Like I’ve been here before in another time, another life. I stride forward, boots striking the metal with steady force. The prickling on my neck worsens—a presence. Watching. Following.
My warvisor detects the myriads of deactivated plasma turrets hidden within the walls and ceiling. Without breaking step, I aim my arc blaster in smooth, precise motions. Molten plasma streaks through the air, sizzling, illuminating the darkness like light through water.
The warriors follow my lead. A cacophony of rhythmic zaps fills the corridor as our weapons glow in unison. Each shot finds its mark. Turrets melt from their housings, their arcweave armor liquefying into sludgy rivulets that slap the floor with wet plops.
The fortress of defenses only confirms my suspicions. They guard something important.
Then, a sudden flare of crimson light. The corridor glows red, bathing us in blazing, pulsing radiance. I halt. The warriors freeze. Our gazes sweep the corridor, searching for the source.
Then—nothing. The light blinks out as if it had never existed.
“Could be power surges,” Razgor mutters, fingers stroking his chin.
“I don’t care what it is, I just want it to stop.” Princesa waves her wrist console’s glow around her as if it were her divine barriers.
“Quickly,” I growl, hastening my pace, unease clawing at my gut. Goddess Aenarael’s parting words are no longer just a warning, but our desperate reality—the Voidbringer will soon escape.
We break into a march-turned-jog, armored boots pounding against the metal. Labored breaths draw in the scent of molten circuitry and scorched metal. The silence only broken by the searing heat of plasma fire tearing through the fidget, darkness.
Again. A blinding flash of crimson, illuminating the entire corridor. The once dormant glyphs now pulse with sickly green veins through their carvings—like the arteries of some ancient beast. A beast that is awakening. A beast that is about to devour us whole.
Then as quickly as it came, the light flicks off like a switch. Darkness returns.
The uneasy silence lingers—until a voice breaches my warvisor network.
“War Chieftain,” comes Jazreal’s thoughts, projected with cool precision. “We’re detecting strange, intermittent movement all around.” There’s confidence in his thoughts. But beneath there’s an undercurrent of concern.
“Death Herald, the beast awakens,” I project, the simplest metaphor, urging haste. “Inform Sarkoth. Take what surviving clones you have and secure our exit. Expect heavy resistance.”
A momentary delay lingers before Jazreal responds. “At once, War Chieftain. May you die a glorious death.”
“What the hell’s happening, babes?” Princesa asks, her beautiful face scrunched in frustration as she tries to pierce thedarkness. “If I could see anything, I’d summon barriers to help... whatever needs helping.”
But I barely hear her.
Because of the sight emerging before me—remnants from a distant past that haunt my every dream. Now vivid. Now real.
I stagger against the wall. Overwhelmed, my vision spins, my guts churning.
The room—this white chamber. I recognize it. Could never forget it. Not in a million years. Memories from a childhood that might be lies—real or implanted. Still, they sear into my mind, rank, raw—oozing terror and longing.
This padded cell. The large wooden chair. The Klendathian female with sad green eyes and flowing golden hair. Her soft hymns she would sing to me—I never understood the words, though I desperately wanted to. I yearned for her to smile. To see me. To acknowledge me. I tried; Oh, Gods I tried. But nothing. She seemed empty inside. In a state of hollow sleep. Traces of another being. Not the ghost she had become.
Was it my fault? Flawed? Defective? A disappointment? Not worthy of her affection?
And yet—she still sits there. Serene. Golden. Head downcast.
“Mother...” the words come unbidden, the faintest whisper.
My legs give way. Knees strike metal. Through the polymer window, I see her. See them all. The corridor ends in a series of cells. Dozens. Identical. Each one houses a single Klendathian female. This... I cannot believe it. They appear strange and alien—not because I do not recognize them, but because they are real. Not faded pictures. Not fond memories spoken from ancient tongues. They are here. Breathing. Living. More precious than every ounce of Elerium the universe could offer. More precious than a hundred worlds. A thousand. A million.
