Page 33 of Possessed by the Dragon Alien (Zarux Dragon Brides #6)
TWENTY-THREE
Madrian stood on the observation deck of the Zaruxian fortress ship, watching the stars twist and warp as another vessel dropped out of space fold near their position.
He’d clasped his hands behind his back and held his wings with military precision, but inside sloshed a tumultuous soup of relief and disbelief.
He’d commanded countless attacks, orchestrating the Axis war machine from sterile chambers and spotless command decks, but now he watched an actual rebellion take shape before his eyes.
“That makes seven ships in the past twelve cycles,” Rien said from behind him. She’d been tracking arrivals on her portable scanner. “Word is spreading faster than we anticipated. They’re not even using encrypted channels anymore.”
The latest arrival was a massive, angular craft that looked more like a flying mountain than a ship. Its hull was dark gray with deep ridges and crevasses that resembled stone. As it maneuvered closer, Madrian could make out weapon emplacements built directly into the rocklike surface.
“Dokkol,” he said, recognizing the design from Axis intelligence files. “I’ve never seen one of their war vessels in person.”
“Neither have I,” Rien admitted. “According to my contacts, they brought twelve ships total. All converted long-range trading haulers, reinforced and armed for combat.”
Madrian nodded, cataloging the tactical implications.
Dokkol ships were slow but nearly indestructible.
In a direct assault against Axis Central’s defenses, they would serve as excellent battering rams. The mental image of those stonelike hulls absorbing punishment while his brothers in dragon form struck at weak points sent satisfaction through his chest.
His brothers. Even now, the concept felt foreign.
He’d grown up believing he was alone, that the Axis had given him purpose and family.
Now he knew better. The six of them had been scattered across the empire, raised as weapons, or discarded, as Takkian and Razion had been.
Their true heritage had been buried beneath layers of conditioning and false memories.
But they were together now. And every ship that answered their call brought them closer to striking back at the empire that had stolen everything from them.
“Sir,” called Rek-tor, one of Stavian’s former miners, from the communications station.
The sapphire-scaled Zaruxian had integrated his former workers seamlessly into the ship’s operations.
They’d proven adept at military procedures and kept the Axis transport ship they’d escaped the mining colony with, having adapted it for combat.
“Incoming transmission from the Darkslip.”
Razion’s former ship. Or current ship, depending on the day. Madrian had been waiting for this. “Put it through to the main display,” he ordered.
The holographic projector shimmered to life, revealing Razion’s familiar gold-scaled features on the bridge of the sleek ship that he was clearly reluctant to let go of. His storm-gray eyes held the intensity of someone who’d spent years fighting a guerrilla war against impossible odds.
“Madrian,” Razion said without preamble. “The Vedd Syndicate arrived an hour ago with fifteen ships. Mixed crews of pirates and smugglers, but they know how to fight and will fight for us. Vedd’s asking for first salvage rights on any Axis vessels we destroy.”
“Agreed,” Ellion’s voice came from the speakers. He was down in the strategy room with the others, but his calm authority carried clearly. “What about the Sidran response?”
Razion’s expression shifted as satisfaction crossed his features. “See for yourself. They should be dropping out of fold space right about now.”
As if summoned by his words, the void ahead of them erupted in brilliant flashes of light.
Ship after ship materialized out of space fold.
Some sleek and some battered hulls gleamed under the starlight.
But these weren’t the industrial haulers or pirate vessels they’d seen so far.
These were proper warships, built for combat and bristling with weapons.
“Sweet stars ,” Rien breathed.
Madrian counted quickly. Twelve. No, fifteen battle cruisers drifted as their systems recovered from space fold energy drain. Their crimson hulls caught the light like fresh blood, and he could see the distinctive spear-shaped prows that gave them their aggressive profile.
“The Hecron War Council sent their one and only ship,” Razion continued, his voice carrying across the communication channel. “Yuric negotiated the alliance personally. They want a piece of the Axis for what was done to the planet they share with the Terians.”
“Status on the other arrivals?” he asked.
“Cyprian’s contacts came through,” Razion replied, shaking his head. “Viparia’s new mate, Warlord Ukaan, has sent five warships from his fleet. They arrived ten piks ago. Plus, Siku’s group brought three armed transports.”
Madrian absorbed this information with the part of his mind that still thought like an Axis strategist. First, he knew very well who Warlord Ukaan was, and managed to hide his surprise.
The Axis had done plenty of business with the warlord of the Hinn-7 trade station.
Either Ukaan was utterly smitten with this ex- courtia , or he believed the Axis’ days were numbered, to choose a side like this. Perhaps it was a combination of both.
Other courtias who had been fond of Cyprian when he was the director of Erovik had been excellent for infiltration and intelligence gathering. Many of them knew high-ranking Axis officials intimately and had access to security protocols, ship layouts, and personal habits.
“What about the miners?”
“Stavian’s people have done a wonderful job of recruiting,” Razion said. “Latest count is eight industrial ships. They’ve been busy converting mining equipment into weapons. Some of those ore processors can punch through heavy armor like it’s diatha paper.”
Movement caught Madrian’s attention through the observation deck’s massive viewport.
Another group of ships was approaching. These were smaller and faster than the Dokkol vessels.
As they drew closer, he could see some bore the distinctive modifications that marked them as converted civilian craft.
Extra armor plating, improvised weapon mounts, reinforced hulls.
Two others looked like they’d once been luxury transport craft, but the markings were burned off and they’d been outfitted with plating and weaponry.
“Who are those?” he asked.
Rien checked her scanner. “The ones in front are from Agricultural World Kepler-9 and the other two are calling themselves the Jaak Collective, which is made up of ex-fighters from the Slarik Arena. They say to give Takkian and Sevas their regards. Both are requesting permission to dock for a supply restock.”
Madrian nodded. Farmers and agricultural workers. Miners and ex-arena fighters. All people who’d spent their lives subjugated by the Axis.
“Grant permission. Ellion and Turi are in the hangar and can get them the supplies they need.”
As he watched the farming ships maneuver toward docking ports, Madrian felt something he’d never experienced during his time with the Axis.
These people weren’t here because they’d been ordered to fight.
They weren’t following commands or serving a military hierarchy.
They were here by choice. They’d left their homes, their safety, their normal lives to stand against the empire that had oppressed them.
The Axis didn’t pull this level of loyalty.
Not even close. Not even from their upper ranks.
The communication channel crackled again. This time it was Cyprian’s voice, smooth and amused as always. “Brothers, we have a situation developing that requires your attention.”
“What kind of situation?” Ellion asked.
“The kind where we have more volunteers than we can accommodate. I’ve got seventeen different resistance cells requesting permission to join the fleet. Mining collectives, transport guilds, manufacturing cooperatives. Even a few Axis defectors.”
Madrian’s tactical mind immediately began calculating logistics.
Food, fuel, ammunition, coordination. Managing this many disparate groups would be a nightmare under the best circumstances.
In the middle of space, preparing for an assault on the most heavily defended installation in the galaxy, it bordered on impossible.
“We need organization,” he said, stepping closer to the communication array. “Clear command structure. Standardized procedures.”
“We need more than that,” Stavian’s voice added from wherever he was on the ship.
“We need a strategy that accounts for all these different capabilities. The Dokkol can absorb tremendous punishment but they’re slow.
Most of the modified ships are fast enough, but they can’t take hits from their flanks.
The pirates are excellent at hit-and-run tactics but terrible at following orders. ”
“And the miners?” Takkian cut in from another deck entirely. His deep voice carried the weight of someone who’d fought in the gladiatorial arenas.
“The miners are fekking mad,” Stavian replied. “But they’re not soldiers.”
Madrian found himself thinking about the problem the way he would have approached it as High Chancellor Madrian. Different assets, different strengths, different weaknesses. How to coordinate them into an effective force?
“We don’t need them all to be soldiers,” he said slowly. “We need them to do what they do best, but in service of a larger plan.”
The observation deck’s doors whispered open behind him. Nena stepped through, her green hair catching the reflected starlight from the viewport. She moved to his side, her presence immediately settling something restless in his chest.
“How many ships now?” she asked quietly.
“Thirty-eight,” he replied. “Too many and not enough.”