Page 210 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“Herhair’ssolovely,”Sandra murmurs, watching me comb Dracoth’s mother’s hair. The bright plastic comb glides through golden liquid silk like it’s brushing sunlight.
“Reminds me of yours,” she sighs, fingers trailing over her own fiery mop. “Ah, I wish mine wasn’t so dull.”
“Dull?” I shoot her a look. “Really, Sandra? Your hair’s brighter than these lights.” I wave at the bizarre orange-and-blue glow drenching the room’s opulent, undersized furniture.
Typical. One minute I’m a circus midget—next, I’m the elephant woman.
“Not the color,” Sandra says, limbs spilling off the edge of a floating bed, clearly not designed for human proportions. “The shine. Yours and hers—there’s this gloss to it.”
“Nah, hers is way nicer,” I mutter, rubbing a long strand between my fingers. “Right, Mrs. Dracoth?” I ask, knowing she won’t answer. She never does. The poor Klendathian women—none of them have shown any signs of improvement.
She sits awkwardly on a too-small stool, towering like an adult on a child’s swing—nearly as tall as me standing. She doesn’t respond—just begins her eerie humming again. A whisper of words buried deep in the tune.
“Aww, that’s my favorite,” Sandra perks up. “Sounds so sweet. So... loving.” She hops upright. “But shouldn’t we give her a proper name? ‘Mrs. Dracoth?’ is kinda cold.”
I snort. “And what if we get used to calling her Rose for six months, only to find out her real name’s Ivy?” I pause, thinking deeper. “...Wait. What even is Dracoth’s last name? Does he have one?”
“You don’t know?” Sandra giggles, turning my face into a fresh tomato wearing a blonde wig. “The Klendathians take their father’s names,” she explains, smug as lame old-human Todd would. “He’s Dracoth, son of Gorexius.”
“Bone-through-the-noses. Of course it is.” I stroke Todd’s squishy plumper self. “Well, we’re not calling herMrs. Gorexius, that’s for damn sure. Not after what that prick did to her—and the others.”
While I’ve been out here bossing it—saving the universe, spreading Sacred Words. You know, typical Lexie things—Sandra’s turned full nerd, glued to her wrist console, devouring knowledge like me two months ago devouring cinnamon rolls.
A sudden horror strikes me.
“Wait...” I whisper. “Does that make me...Alexandra Gorexius?” I whirl to Sandra, eyes wide in despair. “Great. I sound like an STD.”
Shehowlswith laughter. Obviously not grasping the severity of the situation. “This isn’t funny, Sandra!” I snap, brushing Mrs. Dracoth’s hair with righteous fury—like I’m trying to comb the smug out of Sandra’s face.
“We can call youGore-Lexiefor short,” she teases, laughing harder.
“So rude,” I grumble.
“No, no,” she says finally, wiping tears from her eyes.
“Oh, you’re back with us, are you?” I sigh without turning around. “Thought we’d lost you to the land of crazy there.”
She only smiles, all sweet and innocent in the way only she can. “From what I’ve read, the Mortakin-Kis—the bonded female—keep their original family name.”
Her words land like a warm, rich cup of mocha on a cold morning. “Oh, praise Aenarael. Ah, such a relief.” I exhale loudly, feeling the weight of a hundred sleeping Todds lift from my chest. “Could you imagine?” I giggle.
Alexandra Gorexius. Ugh. I’d rather face a horde of murder-bots wearing jelly heels.
“It’s kind of sad,” Sandra says, hopping off the bed. It bobs gently behind her. “We don’t even know their names. Not really. Just Ruzeta. And she doesn’t know the others.” She fusses with the pristine white robes, adjusting the strangely pointed, stiff shoulder section on Mrs. Dracoth’s gown. Her expression clouds over as she gazes at the woman’s distant, unfocused eyes. “What if they never recover?”
I don’t know...
“They’ll be fine,” I assert, more confident than I feel. “I mean, the Nibs have all that fancy alien tech, right? They’ll be able to help.” I lower my voice, eyes wide. “They even have en suitebathrooms.” I pause for emphasis. “With toilets, Sandra. Actual sit-down toilets.”
Although they’re freaking small.
“I know, right?” Sandra beams, glancing around the room with its too-low ceiling painted an overcompensating royal purple. “I even ordered spaghetti last night—it was amazing.” She says it like she hasn’t just sold my entire wardrobe.
“You ate spaghetti?” I blink, disbelief dripping from my mouth like the pasta I haven’t seen in months.
“Yep.”
“Like actual spaghetti? Not Nib goo pretending to be spaghetti?” I demand, mouth maybe watering.
