Page 40

Dracoth

Hostile negotiations

I stand in the war room, waiting, seething.

That one such as I must wait to speak to such weak, defeated enemies boils my blood.

They should already be strung up on my belt, joining their pathetic brethren in bone.

The belt jangles almost in agreement as I pace across the room.

Let them see the Hemo-Tok; let them cower before it, a reminder of what happens if they dare to cross me—even for an instant.

Perhaps I should have their heads shaved as a mercy—a mercy that still shames me.

I brush a hand over my short crimson hair, and rage twists my mouth.

The hair of an untested youth, not one who’s bathed in the blood of countless enemies!

It sickens me. My father’s hair was said to reach nearly to the ground, despite his immense height—the hair of an undefeated warlord.

Mine will be the same one day. It can’t grow fast enough.

The large table dominates the center of the room—a console, in truth, with chairs neatly arranged on either side.

In a real war, this room would be a hive of activity.

Maps and schematics would be covered with battle plans and the shifting positions of warriors and enemies, potential attacks glowing in blue, cascading across the screens like a deadly dance.

Now, it shows nothing. There is no grand war, just pathetic junkers and human madness.

A day has passed since the strange encounter with Princesa in the shower.

The memory flashes through my mind, vivid and visceral, demanding an answer that continues to elude me.

It’s clear she seeks to manipulate me, despite her obvious fear.

Lies flow from her as freely as the blood of my enemies.

And yet when challenged, she expresses not shame, but anger?

She should’ve bowed her head in dishonor, so marred in falsehoods.

But instead stood almost proud, shrouded in her disgrace like a regal cloak. .. drawing closer.

The memory of it stokes my molten blood—her pale nakedness, the submissive look in her eyes, how her plump softness felt against my body—so close to my male-hood.

Why should I care if the female lies? I need only one of them to complete the Mortakin-Tok, not an honorable, honest Elder.

No, it wasn’t her lies that stayed my hand.

The truth lurks deeper, in the darkness of my soul, hidden and suppressed.

Fear...

The thought sickens me. I could roar in frustration. The word itself is a curse to my very being. I banish the image from my mind, like a vipertail lurking in the shadows, its stinging tail buried deep in my subconscious.

Princesa and Sandra... they’ve seen too much of me. Like Krogoth. If only I could remove them, as I’ll remove him. Then my honor would be restored, my vengeance satiated.

The swoosh of the doors behind me signals Ignixis entering the war room, drawing me from my troubling thoughts to his troubling presence.

We haven’t spoken since I repaid him for his.

.. tender care. He greets me with an irksome smile, his yellow fangs gleaming in the purple light, framed by the blackness of his face and robes.

“Hail, young Dracoth,” he says, his tone annoyingly jovial.

No hatred, no sneering, not even the tiresome title of ‘boy’? His pleasant demeanor is even more grating.

“Did you find the healing pod to your liking?” I remind him, studying his face, hoping to see some hint of displeasure in the old gas-cloud.

“Oh, yes!” His face lights up, if such a visage spawned from the netherworld could ever hold light.

He rolls his shoulder with a relieved sigh.

“I must thank you, really,” his green glowing eyes snap to mine.

“You see, one of the sacred exemptions is having technology forced upon you. And you were very forceful. I think we can both agree.”

A flicker of disappointment crosses my face, betraying my thoughts.

“How strange... I thought this news would please you,” the old gas-cloud says, cackling like a half-mad victim of space madness.

I frown, contemplating if it’s worth venting the tiresome fool out of the airlock. His laughter halts with a jarring abruptness, his expression twisting into something feral. “The females... tell me, how do your endeavors fare?” He studies me, a twinge of loathsome uncertainty rippling through me.

“That well?” Ignixis mocks, and not for the first time, I wonder if he can read my thoughts.

The subject annoys me—a constant source of consternation that occupies too much of my mind.

Things were simpler before these females arrived.

A life of battle and death—the death of my enemies, delivered with brutal efficiency.

A glorious destiny as War Chieftain, bathing the galaxies in flames.

Now smothered by a shroud of weakness and fragility that cannot be dismissed, but must be navigated.

“When does this... captain arrive?” I change the subject, the word captain catching in my throat—too good for a cowardly space junker.

“Patience, young Dracoth,” Ignixis replies, his withered fingers steepled as he takes a seat at the table. “And keep your... fiery blood in check. No need to go painting the walls again,” he adds with a sneer.

“They’re fortunate I let them keep their pathetic lives!” I snarl, my hand crashing down on the table, anger flaring at his audacity to command me. “And they dare request an audience with me ! As if they have earned the honor.”

Ignixis remains silent for a moment, then exhales deeply. “There are a hundred and twelve ships remaining. Fifty with actual crews, such as they are. All light fighters and modified transports. I’ve had the young warriors dock the empty ones, scouring for anything of value.”

“Anything of note?” I ask, expecting little.

“Few credits here and there. They’re junkers.

I’m amazed they had the Elerium for such a horde,” Ignixis explains, his words irking me.

Such a waste of time, offering nothing new.

Why should I concern myself with this? This is the realm of logistics and quartermasters.

I should be training in the halls or... checking on the females. ..

I almost balk at the intrusive thought. Why did that come to mind?

“You have this well in hand, Ignixis,” I mutter, turning to leave as the war room door swooshes open, revealing three rag-tag aliens.

A cream-skinned Tuskarian in an oversized coat and two Argorians clad in dirty polymer pants and jackets.

Their eyes travel up my form as I glare down at them, my contempt twisting my lip.

Their mouths move soundlessly, betraying their frightened hearts.

Can they sense it? The souls of their fallen brethren clinging to my waist. Yes.

Their eyes reveal much. This is what the other pathetic junkers saw before I snapped their spines and added them to my belt.

Any excuse, and I will reenact that joyous slaughtering.

“Sit,” Ignixis spits, gesturing to the trio with a smile that doesn’t reach his glowing green eyes. The three move to obey, glancing nervously between him and me.

“I’m Captain... Balsar, and these two are—” the Tuskarian mutters as he takes a seat. I remain standing, pacing behind them like a stalking venefex.

“What is it you want, Balsar?” Ignixis interrupts, drumming his retracted claws on the table. “We are rather busy.” He turns to me with an ominous smirk that oozes menace. “There are pressing matters of the heart to contend with.” My anger flares at the old gas-clouds tiresome provocations.

“Matters of the heart?” The Tuskarian exchanges an uneasy look with his brethren, who offer him nothing—hardly surprising.

I can hear their hearts pounding in their chests, smell the stench of fear oozing from their glands.

“Well… I’ll not take much of your time.” He nods, as if trying to convince himself.

“See, me and the lads were talking... about this... ah... situation.” He emits a nervous laugh that hangs awkwardly in the air, alone and dying.

He reaches into his long jacket, and my claw is at his throat in a nanosecond. His two so-called brethren recoil, abandoning him. Pointless. I would kill them too.

“Peace,” the Tuskarian mutters, his hands raised in meek surrender. “My top pocket, a gesture... of our... commitment,” he wheezes, my sharp claw pressing into his neck, forcing him to remain deathly still.

“I do enjoy gifts,” Ignixis claps his hands in exaggerated excitement, startling the two Argorians. “Sadly, if you’re fortunate enough to reach my age, gifts are few and far between.” He lets out an exaggerated pained sigh.

“That’s... everything we have...” Balsar glances at his companions.

The two Argorians beside him, despite their blank, white eyes, seem to wish they were anywhere but here.

“And our... those patches... they’re to show we’re no longer part of the Orphanage.

” His frantic eyes darting between Ignixis and me.

I retract my claw, letting it trace across his oversized collar and shoulder with deliberate slowness. Balsar shudders under my touch, his tusked, snouted face quivering.

Ignixis leans in, his expression twisted in exaggerated scrutiny, savoring every moment of their discomfort. Typical of the old gas-cloud, always prolonging the torment when he senses weakness.

“Oh, I was hoping for something... tastier,” Ignixis purrs, flashing a yellow, fanged grin that hovers menacingly in the dim light. Balsar offers a shaky smile in return, but it melts away as Ignixis’s face shifts to a sudden predatory glare. “Let’s see how sweet your gift truly is,” he sneers.

With a flick of his withered, tattooed hand, Ignixis snatches the credit chit and scans it with his wrist console. I watch the old gas-cloud carefully—our meager resources have dwindled, neither of us being wealthy enough to fund my ambitions.