Page 55 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

I nearly choke on the absurdity of her words. How can the razor-sharp wit of my Mortakin-Kis house such inane nonsense? A maddening contradiction that shouldn’t exist. Parents to a pointless grub? A solitary creature experiencing loneliness? Supposing intelligence where none exists? Ridiculous.

Past the shimmering red terminals, I stride forward, Princesa’s softness nestled in the crook of my arm.

Drexios, Razgor, and four of the warband move behind me.

The approaching doorway is smaller than the entrance, still engraved with glyphs—faintly visible in the dim glow, their details sharpened by my warvisor’s-enhanced sight.

Behind me, my warband bark orders, voices sharp with command and impatience. The hairs on my neck bristle. We are being watched. A presence oozes from the walls, unseen but suffocating—like the hungry gaze of a stalking venefex, dissecting our every move.

The door swooshes open as I near, revealing another corridor.

Engraved walls lined with more archaic battle droids, their weapon limbs raised, frozen in time.

Deactivated, they gleam blue from Princesa’s wrist console.

With not a trace of dust or corrosion marring their polished surfaces, they contrast the dilapidated station—like they do not belong.

“Kill them,” I growl, striding past without pause, eyes locked ahead.

Drexios sneers with delight, unsheathing twin plasma blades in a blurring flash. He and the berserkers descend upon the inert droids. The corridor ripples with shimmering blue energy, the comforting whizz of plasma fire mingling with the acrid scent of molten metal.

Each severed droid crashing to the floor, each hissing puddle of liquefied arcweave, lessens my unease. It would be a tactical error to leave behind potential enemies at our back, flanks exposed as we plunge deeper into the unknown.

Jazreal and Sarkoth’s groups carve through more deactivated defenses. But this accursed station is a labyrinth—endless corridors, endless rooms. No, time is running out. Better a surgical strike than an exhaustive extermination behind enemy lines.

Suddenly, the dim corridor flashes with vivid crimson, lighting the space like a flare in the night sky—then vanishing just as fast.

I halt my advance, adrenaline and Rush flooding my veins, eyes alert for any danger.

“Is it just me, babes?” Princesa stirs in my arm, blonde hair tousled as her head darts side to side. “Or did this creepy place just wink at us?”

“We must hurry,” I rumble, unease returning with laser focus, burning deep into my mind, hastening my steps.

“Well, that’s as reassuring as a deflated life jacket.” She sighs, fingers absently tracing the blessings scorched into her skin.

Amusing. She seeks reassurance where none has existed. A place where countless prayers went unanswered, where desperate souls were twisted into broken, wretched things.

Unlike the previous halls, this corridor does not diverge or split. Narrower, shorter—more tunnel than passageway. No doors line its walls, only deactivated turrets and more silent battle droids. Whatever lies beyond must be important to be guarded so heavily.

Then, another door. My warvisor scans—but detects nothing.

Strange.

No matter which vision spectrum I cycle through, I cannot pierce its surface. As if something lines the metal, reflecting even the blessed sight of the Gods.

This can only be the work of a malignant intelligence. The Voidbringer.

Cautiously, I raise my arc blaster, inching closer. The other warriors follow my lead, moving in unified precision. The door swooshes open. More darkness greets us. Yet my warvisor cuts through the black, revealing five open clone vats, each with a disabled terminal beside it.

But what draws my attention are the large figures sprawled across the floor.

Klendathians.

Four of them.

Two lying in pools of rapidly cooling green blood, their bodies torn apart.

What happened here?

Curiosity and impatience hasten me inside. With my weapon raised, I quickly scan the corners of the room—nothing. I kneel, inspecting the bodies. hulking male Klendathian forms, as large as I am. I flip one over. My molten blood turns to ice.

It’s me.

An identical face stares back. Lifeless eyes. Expression frozen—twisted in fury and pain. My guts clench. My hand snaps back as if stung.

No... this can’t be.

Princesa gasps, her hand flying to her mouth as realization dawns. “Dracoth...” she murmurs, caught between disbelief and concern.

I knew I might be a clone, but some part of me—some desperate, stubborn part—clung to the faint hope that it was a cruel lie. That I was more. That I was real.

Now, that fragile hope shatters, obliterated like the broken bodies of my brother’s. To face them. To face myself. To stare the bitter truth in its cold, dead eyes—it is almost too much to bear.

But I cannot look away.

Without thinking, I turn over the other versions of me with trembling hands. I shouldn’t. It’s a mistake. But I cannot stop myself. I must see them. I need to see them. What I was. What I could have been. What fate might have chosen instead.

“Come on Dracoth,” Princesa shifts in my grasp, failing to mask the fear and doubt warring in her voice. “Didn’t you say we needed to hurry?”

I barely hear her.

Two of my brothers are malformed—mutilated mockeries. Limbs bent and twisted at impossible angles, joints where none should exist. Ribcages concaved. Faces warped, asymmetrical. Slanted, vertical eyes and noses little more than slits.

It should disgust me. It should repulse me. But it doesn’t. Only the deepest sadness remains. They could have been me, and I them. Where is their glorious destiny? Did I steal it from them? Nothing but mere chance? A chaotic flip of a coin?

What makes me special? What gives me the right to wear this armor? To lead these warriors?

The answer is obvious— nothing.

My fingers brush over their deformed faces as my eyes drift to the fourth corpse. Much like the first. Or maybe I am the first. Or the last.

This one is whole, an exact replica of myself—yet his body is torn by brutal claw wounds. Did the two healthy ones murder each other, like the lunatic clones before? Did captivity drive them to madness? To rage?

As it would me, given the circumstances.

My brothers... my selves.

“Hah, would you look at the state of this,” Drexios scoffs, his voice laced with cruel amusement. His boots echo as he strides closer, the other berserkers flanking him.

“A War Chief for every warrior,” he sneers, scanning the bodies.

“This one mine. His name is War Chief Floppy!” he barks a short laugh, stomping his foot on the ground performing a smooth salute.

“Drexios, Magaxus Second reporting for duty! What are your orders, War Chief Floppy?” He bends down, cupping an ear toward one of the deformed clones. “Uh-huh. Interesting.”

Drexios straightens, his vertical scarred eye glinting with wicked mirth. “Floppy concurs—I was right all this time—clones leading clones, a sight so sad to see.”

He exhales dramatically. “Well, at least, I think that’s what he said. Hard to tell, you know, on account of Floppy’s sideways mouth— ”

“ RAWR !”

A bestial bellow cuts through the air, drowning out Drexios’ endless prattling.

Instinctively, I tighten my grip on Princesa and whirl in a blur of motion. A thing —a monster— me —erupts from the shadowed corner behind.

A clone. But not a corpse. A survivor. The murder.

Eyes burning like crimson coals, naked, hulking, slabs of muscle bristling beneath his scarred flesh. His claws drip with fresh gore.

Princesa sucks in a sharp breath. “Holy fuck.”

Razgor and the others turn too slowly.

The clone barrels into them like a fiery meteorite, sending warriors flying. Armor scrapes against metal, bodies crash against vats and walls. Groans of pain echo in unison.

The murderous clone roars with unbridled rage, leaping atop Razgor in a blur of motion, raking razor-sharp claws against his chest plate, tearing at the armor, frantic—desperate—to rip him apart. Sparks fly, illuminating a snarling, bloodstained face.

My face.

Razgor screams in terror and desperation, flailing pathetically, his meager strength no match against one such as I.

I leap forward, delivering a boulder-breaking kick, aimed for the clone’s midriff. His burning, Rush-fueled eyes snap to mine. His arms rise—too fast.

My speed. My instincts.

Any ordinary warrior’s bones would snap like kindling under such a strike. But not him. Not me. We are titans of war. Far surpassing even my blessed kin.

The force of my kick only staggers him, forcing him back a step, but not breaking him.

Razgor sprawls on the floor, armor gouged and shredded, chest heaving with panicked breaths. I waste no time, grabbing the wide-eyed, panting scientist and sliding him away from the fray.

But my gaze remains locked on the clone, searching, praying for any shred of understanding or reason.

His broad shoulders rise and fall in slow, measured heaves. Crimson mist coils from his burning eyes, fangs bared, muscles rippling and taut, ready to erupt with murderous rage. His claws twitch—eager, restless. He steps forward. A predator scenting blood.

“Stop brother!” The words rip from my throat before I can think, surprising even myself. It’s not just a plea for him. It’s a plea for me.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow.

He prowls forward, breathing ragged, misting the frigid air like a warrior lost to bloodroot’s intoxicating fury.

“For void’s sake!” Drexios groans, springing to his feet. Twin blades flash in his hands, sparking to life. “I’ll do it.” He spits a glob of blood onto the floor, a wicked smirking twisting his expression.

“He’s mine.” His gaze sweeps the warband, most still struggling to their feet. “I’m going to enjoy carving out the eye you stole from me, you big bastard.” He taps the flat of his blade against his eyepatch.