Page 60 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Dracoth

A Million Worlds

T he corridor flares red, deep crimson flooding everything, casting long, twisting shadows over concerned faces.

It happens immediately after my words. Almost mocking, calculated.

My heart hammers. I scan the corridor, praying the light will flicker off again, as it did before.

But this time is different. This time, it strobes.

The glow pulses—bright ruby blinding, then plunging us into blackness—again and again, flickering in a rhythm.

Like a bioluminescent insect signaling danger.

Worry shortens my breaths, eyes sweeping over the huddled Klendathian females.

Hunched over. Trembling. Hands clutching the worn fabric of their gowns as if it might protect them.

So fragile. So precious. The weight of our entire species’ survival rests on my shoulders.

A sputtering ember, cradled in my hands, about to be plunged into an ocean of blood.

“Quickly!” I bellow, my voice rumbling like thunder.

My six berserkers react instantly, moving with haste—arms spread wide, herding the females forward. However, they barely move. Their eyes remain downcast. Their bare feet shuffle across the cold metal, slow and reluctant. Like a herd of stubborn snarlbrocs.

I grimace beneath my mask. They’re oblivious to the danger. To everything. With so few of us, we cannot carry them all. No, we must press on slowly, for now.

With agonizingly sluggish steps, we travel down the flashing corridor.

The etched glyphs, threading with pulsing green.

Tendrils of light sprawl from the floor, creeping upward, winding toward the ceiling like twisting veins.

The crimson glow vanishes. Then, in an instant, it returns. The cycle begins anew.

“Yeah, home sounds good right now, babes,” Princesa muses, silver-crimson eyes tracking the writhing tendrils.

We pass the remnants of our earlier destruction. Melted turrets. Sliced droids. Puddles of solidified blue-gray matter, fused to the floor.

Among an eviscerated droid lies Drexios. He sits with his back to a wall, surrounded by severed insectoid droid limbs, staring at the twin blades in his hands.

“Aww, did the little puppy get lost?” Princesa coos in a mocking soft tone. “I mean, I don’t know much about Klendathian military laws, but you look like a deserter to me. And back on Earth, they shoot those.”

Her lips curl into a twisted smirk. Drexios springs to his feet, face darkening—a venomous sneer forming on his lips.

But then his eyes dart to the shuffling females.

Suddenly, his expression shifts. The rage drains from his face.

His shoulders loosen. The leather of his blade hilts stops squeaking in protest.

“I... I—” he stammers, eyes downcast.

“How embarrassing!” Princesa bursts into laughter, leaning forward, silver-red fumes wafting from narrowed eyes as she drinks in his discomfort. “Where’s the big tough—”

“Fall in,” I cut through the time-wasting nonsense with a growl. “Escort the Revered Mothers,” I nod past him.

Drexios doesn’t argue. He simply slams a fist to his chest plate and inclines his head with a solemn expression I’ve never seen before crosses his face. He moves swiftly, falling into formation with the others, urging the females forward.

After what feels like an age we pass through the cloning chamber with the five vats.

My broken, twisted clone brothers still mar the blood-soaked floor.

Somehow, more disturbing. In the flashing crimson and sickly pulsing green, their features vivid.

Their brows no longer shadowed. Their suffering is no longer hidden.

My face. My pain. Reflected for all to see.

With my heart encased in the thickest arcweave, I step over the grisly remains. No second glance. No hesitation. Only a vow—to destroy this place. To reduce this netherworld fortress of agony to ash. Let it burn in Arawnoth’s cleansing fire.

“Ugh, gross,” Princesa mutters under her breath, eyeing the gore before craning her neck to peer at the females behind us. “We’re going to need more red taxis. Like a giant red bus at this rate.” She sighs, impatience pricking through our bond.

We emerge into the next corridor. It stretches endlessly. The walls converging, disappearing into the distance. The length dotted with the smoldering ruins of ancient battle droids. Their destruction is a balm. A reminder that I was right not to trust their slumbering presence.

Then, I notice it. The crimson illumination doesn’t flicker.

It stays solid. Red and locked. My heart skips a beat.

I hesitate, wondering if it’s the product of my troubled mind.

The others stop. Watching. Holding our breath.

Waiting for the flash. But there isn’t one.

No flicker. Just the deep red and the throbbing green tendrils crawling inexorably from floor to ceiling, like cords of a sickly net closing in around us.

When the threads meet. Winding. Tightening.

Wrapping from top to bottom, a rumble, deep, guttural, resonates through the walls like a colossal beast awakening.

My warvisor pulses with alerts. Movement, all around, layered where metal surfaces should be.

Nearby, the muffled groan of servo gears churns through the walls—whirring, spluttering to life.

I raise my arc blaster, poised to rain death upon whatever emerges. Within the walls, panels spring open. But where plasma turrets should be are only the melted, ruined stems of shattered machines. Liquefied defenses, smoldering husks. Their teeth have been broken.

“FUCKING MURDER-BOTS!” Princesa’s shriek shreds through the air. Her hands shoot up toward a spasming droid, its movements erratic, unnatural. Its red lenses flicker, struggling to stay lit beneath its flat head. Its severed limbs twitch and jerk, straining—reaching for us.

Shimmering silver shields materialize from thin air. They slam into the droid from every direction. “DIE!” Princesa hisses through clenched teeth, hatred dripping from every syllable.

The machine buckles. Its armor crumples under the unrelenting force of her divine barriers. Casings pop, erupting open—sparking circuitry exposed. Polysynth boards splinter.

Its red lenses shatter into pieces. Its life flickers out.

But Princesa’s doesn’t stop. Her fingers tighten.

The walls of force crush inward. Metal screams. The droid collapses in on itself, until there is no longer a machine—only a twisted pillar of fused wreckage—a monument to the Scythians’ destruction.

“Don’t just stand there!” Princesa’s head snaps up, silver-red eyes wide. “There could be more of these pricks coming.” Her gaze sweeps frantically over the ruined droids and turrets. “It’s like that creepy Mortakin-Tok vision all over again,” she adds whispering.

She’s right. There is more. Hundreds. Thousands. My warvisor floods my senses with new awareness—every microsecond revealing new threats. They’re spilling forth from every direction. Moving to intercept. Converging toward our docked shuttles.

Urgency drives me onward, my armored boots thundering against the trembling floor. However, the others linger behind. My berserkers struggle to corral the females. Some stoop, tracing fingers over the ruined droids—lost in shattered memories. Others wail, trembling, desperate to turn back.

A sickness grips me. A rage not at them, but at what was stolen from them. Their confusion. Their fear. Our females reduced to a shadow of their former selves. The noble, proud heart that beats in every Klendathian, stolen.

My ears twitch, the faint sound of distant battles reaching me.

The searing zaps of plasma, metal skittering on metal.

The bellowed commands of warriors holding the line.

My blood ignites, molten Rush scorching my veins and quickening my breath.

Fingers coil into trembling fists, aching to strike.

Every instinct demands I lead the charge.

To crash into their ranks like a meteorite.

To rend brutal vengeance upon the machines.

But I cannot. The females must be protected. No matter the cost.

Finally, we reach the corridor’s exit. Every muffled shout, every faded clang of metal an agony to be endured. And worse—beyond this door lies the vast cloning vats. My warvisor-enhanced senses inform me of the hundreds of machines roaming within.

I glance back at Drexios and the others. They know what’s coming. They sense it. Their masked gazes are locked ahead. Weapons poised. Rush leaking from their warvisors.

No matter the cost.

I will pay it.

“Wait here,” I growl, bending to lower Princesa.

“No, you wait!” Princesa protests, arms tightening around me, clinging like her pet cyloillar.

Her eyes narrow. “You’re thinking of doing something stupid, aren’t you?

” Her voice is low, accusing. “I can feel your Mr. Frowny Face energy being extra frowny.” She grimaces, head tilting to peer at the door behind me.

“What? Is that room buzzing with murder-bots or something?”

She glares up at me, expecting an answer I will not give. She finds only a stern, unreadable expression hidden beneath my mask.

“I fucking knew it!”

Failure.

“Brilliant! A horde of murder-bots.” A shudder wracks her from head to toe, her entire body coiling with disgust. “Beep, beep, put me down.” A loud, exaggerated sigh follows.

I lower her gently, stretching my arm to remove the stiffness, as she slips from my grasp.

“Ugh, it’s cold now,” she complains, hugging her black robes tighter, shoulders hunching slightly.

“Right. Okay.” She strides toward Drexios and the warriors, waving them aside with a dismissive flick of her hand.

“Forgive me, ladies. This is a bit rude. But you don’t need me to tell you—this is better than the alternative. ”