2. Drasuk

2

Drasuk

"The famous Drasuk," I hear someone call out in a feminine rumble behind me.

When I turn to look, I see it's Neoval, one of the most battle-hardened females I've ever known. She's crisscrossed with scars, and I note the new ones since I last saw her, my already elevated respect for her cresting higher.

She has sacrificed as much as any of us to protect our citizens. She's just more successful than most.

My spines shift to reflect my feelings, and she sweeps an arm out to accept my show of respect.

"Yet another female was speaking of you," she continues in her needling rumble.

I haven't been able to dredge up any interest in a city female in a very long time. I suppose not in a Maj'Ra warrior either, but it's best to not share that part.

"Were they?" I ask, as if I don't already know what this conversation will be about.

Her spines show her amusement. "Yes. You are still spending all your time outside the city, Drasuk. They would like your strong hatchlings."

She glances up to see that my jutting blue spines are communicating my desire to avoid this conversation, hisses out a laugh, then continues.

"Is it still because of Nkisa? Your hatchlings would have been the best of the generation, but there are plenty more females wanting to continue your line. I'm sick of having them ask me, Drasuk."

"Maybe if you stop asking me, then they will stop asking you."

She snorts out a breath as she shifts her armor and weapons around. "Why do you avoid them? You aren't sentimental like a venom beast, are you?"

She says the last in a teasing tone, and I try to avoid letting my response quiver along the spikes on my forehead.

"I'm busy, Neoval. They have other options."

She gives me a look I don't bother trying to interpret and goes back to preparing for the coming fight, but her words keep running around my skull.

If only Neoval knew how many times my mind strayed to the bond manticorid mates have or how fascinated I am with it. Nkisa never understood my continued interest in her, any more than I did.

It isn't normal to focus on such bonds, and I'm spared the conflicted feelings rising, as they always do, when Neoval speaks again.

"Do you think this time we'll not only have off-worlders to swat out of the way, but a lesser species will somehow have entered?"

I let out a laugh. There's a running joke about how the percentage of easy kills rises each year, with the number of drakonid warriors from our neighboring planet steadily increasing.

She walks away, her spines twitching in amusement.

I shove past Gorak, our resident mountain of a Maj'Ra who complains good-naturedly about the jostling. He's always been my favorite, but I'd never admit it.

I flick my tail at him, and he smacks it out of his face with a huff, eliciting a rumble from my chest as I squint at him.

"Easy there, cave shoano ," I tease back, feeling a flicker of warmth replace the discomfort of Neoval's prodding.

Laughter bubbles up from another group stepping into the open-air arena.

Tough competition surrounds me, mixed in with the off-worlders looking distinctly out of place and nervous.

We're a motley gathering of drakonids in mismatched armor, some wearing the new high-flex bio-mesh, others bearing the old, scarred leather they swear by.

Today is looking to be yet another generic khufulle . A day-long mock battle where the only objective is to be the last drak standing by the time the red sun lowers to signal the day's end.

An opportunity for the softer draks come from the other planet in the system to play at being elite. Unless they hide to extend the experience, they never last past the morning.

They live in a paradise and it's reflected in their relative weakness, which is stupid beyond belief. There is a thriving market for the various body parts of the more genetically desirable denizens of the universe.

Listening to an itinerant spice trader tell you how much you're worth on the galactic black market is an experience I am still stuck with mixed feelings over.

I laughed at the time, right along with them and their supposed joke. They didn't laugh much longer.

Reaching the battle grounds, I see the simulated zone spread before us. A holographic cityscape sprawled beneath a dark green sky, dotted with crumbling towers and deserted avenues.

Hovering drones buzz overhead, ready to record our performance.

A thrill courses through me.

There's a chill skittering across my thick hide and down my tail, but it is little more than a vague sensation relegated to the back of my mind as I inhale the xerea fumes being pumped into the air via chutes buried beneath the start zone.

Nothing like a bit of delirium to make the fighters more sluggish and ensure a drawn-out fight.

The ceremony is part martial skill and part endurance.

Very few still bother to make xerea fumes, so the product is expensive, reserved for the more illustrious of our number who can afford the exorbitantly priced canisters of stimulating yet numbing smoke.

For the Darangul Clan to spend this much to douse us, it means some heavy spenders threw their weight behind making this year's event as entertaining as possible. They were always richer than my clan.

We wouldn't agree to the waste.

The stark increase in numbers compared to last year's live audience is telling enough.

From a glance, it seems like the usual mix of civilians, their proto-wing drapings and ornaments clearly marking them as non-combatants. Aside from the occasional disabled veteran, none of them know what it's like to fight for their lives.

My chest swells with pride that my efforts make that possible for them.

The scars on my hide are clear proof.

Our leader, Maj'Rasare Xallen, a grizzled veteran with a cybernetic arm that gleams in the morning sun, bellows the starting signal. The air crackles with the suppressed energy of fifty eager draks.

This year, I plan on lasting until the end.

The mock battle begins. We scatter through the holographic city as the countdown ticks down before we are allowed to fight, using the ruined buildings for cover. The drones whir, mimicking blaster fire as we prepare to engage in our simulated skirmishes.

I slip through an alleyway, navigating the debris with practiced ease. My reflexes, honed by years of patrolling and training, come into play.

A hulking figure rounds the corner. Thorg, another veteran with an axe the size of my torso. I roll out of the way just as the blade whooshes overhead, sparks flying against the stone under us.

"You're getting slow, Drasuk," Thorg booms, his laugh echoing through the alley.

I leap at him as I retort. "Just warming up, old friend."

We lock blades in a mock duel, the training bio-mesh groaning in protest.

We exchange a few playful blows. The temptation to use more lethal tactics is there, spurred on by my already intoxicated mind, but this is a mock battle.

Lethality is frowned upon.

I tail whip the defensive Thorg into a nearby pool marked as poison, a shrill chirp letting me know it counted as a kill. I sheathe my blade in the holder on my under-armor plating and take off on all fours in search of new opponents, my heart pumping out my excitement.

As I do, I feel the xerea settle in my lungs and the roof of my mouth like a magnetic cloud that fills me with equal parts thrill and lethargy.

Long moments slide by.

I dispatch three more competitors, feeling a pang of regret each time, even though it is simply a way to sharpen our skills and they aren't harmed. No one wants to imagine the death of a fellow drak. It happens far too often.

A few hours later, the battlefield thins.

The remaining ten are the most formidable, with tricky tactics and strategies used to good effect to stay alive.

I stalk through a deserted plaza, eyes scanning the rooftops. A flicker of movement catches my eye. A figure clad in black armor, wielding twin energy blades, leaps down from a building.

It's Anyla, the youngest in our group, but his agility and ruthlessness make him a formidable opponent.

We lock gazes, then pandemonium breaks loose.

The simulated city flickers, distorting. A high-pitched whine fills the air.

Before I can react, the holographic world dissolves around us, replaced by the harsh glare of a crimson sun.

My stomach lurches.

We're not in the khufulle simulation anymore.

Ships. Dozens of them, sleek and sinister, emblazoned with a sickly pink sigil, descend from the sky.

I feel the growl even before it bubbles past my lips like a rolling storm.

Genali ships. Specifically, genali raid lancers.

Those slime-covered parasites. A guttural bellow escapes my throat.

The void-suckers have periodically harassed us ever since we settled down and renounced our warlike ways. It's been millennia, and they still decide to periodically return.

Back again to pick more at the carcass.

Panic surrounds me.

The civilians, used to the safe confines of their protected cities, scramble for cover. But there's nowhere to hide.

The genali ships launch a volley of energy blasts, painting the sky with streaks of green fire.

I turn my head to the side and instantly regret it as a barrage of energy blasts descend on a group of unsuspecting civilians, eviscerating them with consistent pelting until they are too disassembled for their nanites to overcome.

Chaos erupts.

The simulated battlefield becomes a real one.

A few of my brothers and sisters, caught off guard, are obliterated by the overwhelming firepower. Bellows of pain fill the air, punctuated by the booming explosions.

Fury rises in my chest. These cowardly genali would use this training exercise to attack us?

The mock battle has been completely abandoned.

It's time to crush them.

I scan for the nearest genali ship, a low-flying lancer that seems to be focused on mowing down a Maj'Ras trapped in the quicksand pit.

A roar escapes my throat.

I activate my jump jets, the familiar power surge coursing through my body.

I can see other Ras shaking off their surprise and closing in on other ships. The slimes might have held a momentary advantage, but there are still plenty of us to make them regret such an ill-conceived plan.

The ground rushes away as I propel myself upwards, toward the unsuspecting ship. It spots me at the last moment, its laser cannons pivoting toward me.

I dodge the blasts with a spikes' breadth, adrenaline masking the fear that threatens to cripple me.

I reach the ship, my armor shimmering as the lasers graze past.

With a roar that would make the ground tremble if they tried me in a fair fight planet-side, I slam my armored fist into the cockpit window. The reinforced glass shatters inwards, spraying the pilot with shards.

There's a flash of gray and pink, a glimpse of the genali's grotesque form before rage takes over. I reach in, ignoring the searing pain that shoots up my arm as the genali's protections burn through my gauntlet.

There's no room in my mind to assess that new development, more content to let the rage take over.

Grabbing the gelatinous creature, I rip it from its control console, its amorphous form writhing in my grip as I squeeze a delightful scream out of it before releasing it to plummet down to the unforgiving ground.

I roar again, a challenge to the sky, a promise of retribution burning in my core. The cockpit alarms blare, a cacophony drowned out by the pounding of my heart.

As the lancer arcs downward, I sweep toward another, this time feeling the burn of a laser across my side before I'm able to move inside their guard and send another pilot screaming toward the ground, trying unsuccessfully to engage the jets I was sure to crush as I flung them.

Another quick darting maneuver and I have another slime in my claws, this time holding on to them and their ship for a moment to give my rage an outlet before it overtakes my good sense.

I search for another target, pleased to note that my brothers and sisters have already significantly thinned their numbers.

This won't last much longer.

Before I can even think, another lancer swoops in, firing a thick, dark-green cloud of gas. It engulfs me, the acrid fumes filling my helmet.

Why wouldn't they just simply blow me apart with their advantage?

My vision swims, the world turning into a swirling vortex of green. The crushing grip I had on the genali loosens as it overtakes me, its amorphous form slipping free.

A roar dies in my throat, replaced by a choking cough.

My lungs constrict, and the world turns on itself as the lancer flings me off as it careens downward to its destruction.

I land with a muted plume of dust, coughing up blood and greenish-pink gas as my unfocused eyes take in the world around me.

The simulated battlefield has become a scene of carnage.

Drak bodies litter the barren landscape, some twitching in the throes of genali paralysis gas, others still.

The few remaining genali ships sweep down to scoop up bodies, then flee, their mission complete. Smoke rises from the twisted wreckage of downed lancers, taken out by Maj'Ras bellowing out their victory cries.

The genali weren't here for conquest. Of course not. That would require a goal beyond quick profit.

As a ship scoops me up, my limbs won't respond, and I'm lifted into the air as it continues to pump green gas in my face.

Maybe that spice trader really will get the last laugh.

The last thought that runs through my tapering out consciousness is a white-hot fury that simply won't dissipate even as the world dissolves to black before my eyes.