10. Xandor

Chapter 10

Xandor

Bash

W ith a rasping breath that stings my lungs, I jolt awake. Where in the void am I? This isn’t beautiful, Klendathor. Oh no, the dreary metal walls soon remind me I’m on the floating rust heap—the Mutalisk’s Hammer. The rhythmic low hum of the engines confirms the ship is once again engaged in hyperspeed, hurtling towards my destination Nebia.

The toxin must have worked on the Mutalisk. It was my last desperate attack, and it saved my life and the ship. Such a fearsome battle it had been. Grimacing, I still feel the crushing tentacle wrapping around my chest, squeezing the life from my lungs. Even now, with each breath, I wince as pain rakes through my battered body.

Slowly, I pull myself upright on the bed, anger flares within me at the memory of the gun jamming. Tiny Tyrxie said Mod and Triandale prompted her to bring it to me. Was it a random accident or did one of them tamper with it? My hands curl into fists as the foolish action almost cost me my life and the survival of the entire crew...

No one would be so suicidal? It must have been a freak malfunction, a more reassuring thought which prompts me to exhale and loosen my fists. Scanning the room, I notice I’m back in my master suite. The others must have judged my injuries minor to have left me here, alone.

Leaping out of bed assails my battered body with countless aches, but the absence of my armor and warvisor fills me with apprehension. The little Glaseroid engineer must be repairing them. I’ll pay him a visit soon enough.

My nose twitches at a scent in the air. Someone was here. Not long ago. As I move around the outside of my bed, the scent grows stronger.

I inhale deeply, following the trail.

Yes, the unmistakable aroma of a young female in heat curls around me. The musky sensation tickles my nose and stirs my cock. A tragic shame I was asleep. The scent must have come from Tyrxie or Hyanxa, paying me a visit. Why? I sigh, picturing the two with their diminutive physiques, neither robust enough for my needs.

Nevertheless, the idea of one of them sneaking into my room full of arousal is both curious and unsettling. If there’s one thing I enjoy as much as a fierce battle, it’s ruffling some feathers for answers. With haste I don my brown pants, a black shirt, both crafted from leather, and grab Tyrxie’s comical tiny pistol with a short laugh. A small gesture of goodwill may earn me some trust with the strange human.

I follow the enticing scent through the corridor. As it increases in intensity with each passing step, it’s apparent the trail is low to the ground... beneath the gangway, in fact. Aha! It’s Tyrxie who slipped into my room like a little sneaky varmint. Was it lust, a search for her gun, or something more sinister which drove her?

The trail leads me close to the crew quarters, that dark area beneath the floor shrouded in shadows where she often frequents. Indeed, narrowing my vision, I can just make out the gleam of green eyes widening in shock at my approach. Holding up my hands, I smile in what I hope is a friendly, open manner.

However, Tyrxie must be afraid... no, terrified, of friendly, as her expression transforms into one of horror. It’s as if I stand before her resembling a bloody Hemovyrn return from the dead to feast on her bowels. She bolts in a frantic dash, crawling through the gangway, our unfortunate history repeating itself.

“I just want to talk!” I shout, wincing in pain as the effort reverberates through my aching body. But my words have no effect as she scrambles, disappearing into the distance. Such a strange female she is. Waving a dismissive hand, I call out after her. “Next time I won’t be as injured!” But she doesn’t respond.

What have I done to this female to warrant this fear? What unknown offense have I caused her? Annoyance flashes within me. How dare she avoid me like this! Most females giggle and swoon at my approach, but not this one? Oh, no, she makes me feel shameful by daring to gaze upon her. An offense to nature. Gods, if I wasn’t so tender I would hunt her down and force her to speak.

A defeated sigh of exasperation spills from me as I sulk back towards the guest quarters, seeking Noroth and Logarn. Perhaps they can shed more light on what the void is going on around here. It’s not long before I find the pair in Noroth’s room. Both are engaged in push-ups, yet not a drop of sweat beads on their foreheads.

“Hail, brothers,” I announce as the door swooshes closed behind me. I observe the gray metal walls, undersized cot and oppressive low ceiling, which I would swear shrinks with each passing minute.

Noroth leaps to his feet, thumping his fist to his chest and bowing deep. “Hail, Xandor, Slayer of Mutalisks,” he declares, his voice stern. Logarn follows suit, performing the Klendathian salute with none of the emotion shown by Noroth.

“You honor me,” I reply, scratching the back of my neck. “But it was the Glaseroids toxin that slew the monster.”

“Nonsense!” Noroth bellows with a meaty slap to my back. “You survived to deliver it and earned much honor. Gods, how I wish I could have fought the void-born alongside you, but I was puking my guts out with the disgusting sight of that Glaseroids meal.” He nods again, a chuckle escaping his lips, a broad smile on his face, yet I cannot share in his jubilation.

“I almost puked myself, spitting in the eye of the revolting mass of void filth. What of the human Tyrxie?” I ask, my gaze darting between the pair, eager for any hint of information or news.

“Tyrxie?” Noroth scrunches his face, exchanging a look with Logarn, whose expression is passive and unreadable as usual. “Don’t think I’ve even led eyes on that one. Should we watch her?”

“No, no,” I reply, as my voice trails off, an unsettling sensation washes over me at his words. Why did I ask about her? What’s happening to me? With a determined effort, I tear my thoughts away from the strange human back to more pressing matters. “Do you know where Job or Mod are? I must retrieve my war gear. Knowing Glaseroids, they’re probably in the process of selling it,” I say, my face laced with contempt.

Noroth’s face turns more serious, while Logarn remains motionless, like an eerie statue. “Your warvisor too?” Noroth asks, shaking his head. “Last I saw the tiny Glaseroid with the goggles, he was at the cargo hold making repairs.” He points toward the door, and I nod, grateful for the lead.

“Let’s pay our little friend a visit,” I say, marching out of the room towards the cargo hold. “It’s a bit chilly without my war gear,” I add, our heavy footsteps echoing through the cramped corridors. As I look at the gaps beneath the gangway, I wonder if Tyrxie is hiding and watching us even now.

The potent scent of burning plasma and melted arcweave assail my senses as we draw closer to our destination. The Mutalisk attack did sufficient damage to the ship, so stubborn and deep it clung to our hull. It’s either impressive repairs or foolhardy recklessness that the ship is already roaring back to hyperspeed.

The cargo hold door appears before us along with the buzzing and snapping sound of repairs. This is where we’ll find the little engineer and, with any luck, maybe even Tyrxie...

Entering the vast metal room reveals a contrast. On one side an organized array of boxes and crates with smooth even surfaces, the other total chaos with trade goods and wooden crates smashed and strewn around. Even the very floor and walls are covered in deep gorges and tears.

The bulky green simpleton with the four arms is singing to himself something about “bashing” as he stacks and organizes goods from one side to the other. While hidden in the corner is the Glaseroid engineer, hefting an oversized bolt gun that appears huge in his fragile hands. “Ah, there you are, my little spindly friend!” I shout, to be heard over the noise as I throw open my arms, attempting to appear friendly.

My attempt fails yet again, as the Glaseroid almost leaps with surprise, his arms flailing and antennae twirling. “I almost bolt foot to hull! Seems Job is very popular today. Yes?” he shouts, a strange sound from one with such a fast and high-pitched voice.

He turns with anger until the realization dawns, his antennae droop, his bolt gun falls to his side and narrow beady eyes widen. “Oh, giant mammaloids!” His gaze darts to the exit, and for a moment, I fear he might flee. “You scare me. Yes?”

“You frighten easily. I only came to ask you a question,” I say, maintaining a smile and pleasant demeanor. Job relaxes at my words. Gods only knows what fate he thought I was here to deliver upon him. “Do you have my war gear? I hope you do because if not, I’m honor bound to hunt and kill whoever took it.” I hold his gaze with piercing eyes, watching for any hint of betrayal or deceit. “Which would be a shame, as I’m growing fond of some of you.”

The little Glaseroid shows no heightened fear at my words, a positive sign, for his sake. “Yes, yes, your war gear back in lab.” He kicks a spindly foot-like limb at the misaligned repairs he’s started. “I’m busy, but once I finish here, I fix your armor. Yes?”

“You have my—” I begin.

“I bash you!” The Barlyxian interrupts, leaping beside the four of us with a broad smile covering his face. “I’m best basher now, and you cheated last time,” he accuses, stalking closer and peering up at me, that simple grin etched on his features.

I smile at his approach, ignoring his insult to my honor, because it’s clear he lacks the wit to know better. “Arms, was it? I’m all bashed out.” I clutch my injured ribs for emphasis. “We’ll spar in the future.” When I’m long gone in Nebia.

“I’m Quad,” the bulky Barlyxian corrects, before hanging his head, his joy now evaporated. “No one wants to bash,” he says with a gloomy attitude. Then his face lights up again as he looks to Logarn. “What about you?” He asks, knocking and pumping his fists together.

Logarn gives no response, as his cold brown eyes follow Quad unblinking. “I wouldn’t recommend that unless you want your innards becoming your outards,” I interject with haste. If Logarn lost control, they’d be cleaning this cargo hold of Quad’s guts for the rest of the journey.

“Pfft! You all afraid!” Quad spits, forcing me to sidestep nimbly to evade his barrage of sputum. He flexes his meaty hands that are wrapped in cloth, gazing up at us as if he’s just beaten us all in single combat.

“Gods, I can’t listen to his bleating any longer. I’ll spar with him,” Noroth bristles with an impatient tone. “Although this contest dishonors me,” he says, already flexing and stretching his thick limbs and shoulders.

Quad doubles over in excitement. “A good bash at last!” he bellows out with his deep voice. Then squares up to Noroth, who stands half a head taller, broader, and more muscular.

I chuckle at the prospect of such a mismatched contest. “Go easy on him,” I say, glancing at Noroth, who nods before cracking his knuckles.

“I’m the best basher now. You see!” Quad roars as he throws two wild hooking punches from his left, prompting me and Logarn to jump out of the way to give them space. The effort irks my injury, causing me to grimace.

Noroth too leaps out of the way with a surprising speed given his hulking size. “You’re a dirty fighter, little Quad,” Noroth whistles through his flattened nose. “I wasn’t ready,” he smirks.

“I was ready!” Quad counters before charging headfirst towards Noroth, showing no hint of technique or even basic regard for his own safety. Noroth sidesteps out of the way and slaps his opponent on his back with a resounding smack. But that’s the least of Quad’s problems as his charge carries him crashing into crates and barrels.

“You don’t smash cargo hold after me repairing? Yes?” Job shouts, barely audible over the ensuing chaos.

We three Klendathians watch as Quad flails his arms, attempting to reorient himself amongst the boxes and debris that he’s buried himself into. Noroth smiles, offering a hand to his ridiculous opponent, but Quad refuses with a spiteful slap to the outstretched hand. “You don’t bash!” he complains while clambering to his feet, “You run!”

Noroth frowns in response while I laugh. “Who could’ve guessed bashing had so many rules?” I direct my question towards Quad, who doesn’t look much in the mood for explaining as he resumes another headlong charge with arms flailing.

This time, Noroth sets his feet, intending to meet the attack. They come together with an impressive clash that echoes through the vast metal room. But it’s Noroth who dominates with his massive, powerful physique, overpowering Quad with ease, locking the foolish, brave opponent into a tight headlock.

But Quad doesn’t give up. He twists and wiggles, trying with desperation using his four arms to pull open Noroth’s crushing embrace. Yet he cannot overcome his opponent despite his best efforts. Then, just as I’m about to call an end to this charade, Quad delivers an awkward punch into the side of Noroth that ripples and distorts the very air, emitting a strange sound.

Something’s not right here! I leap towards the embattled pair, witnessing Noroth’s body shudder and shake as he collapses to the ground as if the weight of a battlebarge has fallen on him. Then Quad lifts his arms in triumph, bellowing, “See, I’m best basher!” I twist my hips, thrusting a brutal punch into the treacherous Barlyxian’s midriff.

His eyes bulge as he crumbles to the floor, gasping for the air I stole from him. “Get him to the healer,” I command, looking at Logarn and pointing to Noroth, who remains motionless. The heartbreaking sight stokes my fury as I kick the whimpering Quad onto the ground. “What have you done, you simple moron?”

Quad scrambles away from me, terror stamped into his deep-set eyes. He tries to placate me with pathetic wrapped hands turned in submission. Yet something catches my eye within the white cloth, a bump protrudes. “What in the void is that?” I demand, snatching one of his arms with a grip as hard as arcweave.

Despite Quad’s feeble attempts to stop me, I pull off the cloth, revealing a handheld graviton disputer. My fury boils even higher at this disgrace, a weapon forged with Gorglaxian gravity displacing technology. “You might have killed him with this!” I roar in his face as I rip off the other wraps on his hands, each one revealing another concealed weapon.

He snivels and recoils at my fury, at my hatred. My heart twists with murderous anger, thinking such a noble warrior as Noroth may die because of this... this loathsome disgrace, disguised as a bumbling fool. My claws extend, their sharp edges reflecting the terror etched in Quad’s deceitful face.

With my hand poised to strike, a soft voice pierces the tempest of molten blood in my veins. “Please don’t hurt him.” I turn to see the human Tyrxie rushing from an opened grate, concern and fear painting her expression.

The surprise at her arrival almost overcomes my anger, which seethes hot and heavy. “You would protect one such as this?” I sneer down at the weeping Quad, who cowers with his arms covering his head. “Do you see what’s he done here?” I gesture towards the graviton disrupters laying at my feet. “Noroth might die because of this!”

Despite my boiling anger, Tyrxie stands with defiant posture before me with arms spread wide. So tiny she is, I tower over her, my eyes glowing with a white-hot Rush that leaks wisps of golden fury. Yet Tyrxie doesn’t flinch, Tyrxie who flees at my mere approach, Tyrxie who hides from all, Tyrxie with the sad green eyes. But now they lack any sadness, replaced by a steely resolve that glares back, robbing me of my righteous fury.

My claws retract as my arms fall to the side, yet my eyes never waver from the strange human. “Thank you,” Tyrxie exhales, her relief obvious, before turning to the squirming and weeping Quad who shrinks like a beaten borack. “You’ll be okay, Quad,” she says with a soothing tone while stroking his back. Quad clutches onto her with his four arms, his weeping intensifying.

I grimace at his pathetic crying, and at the whole sorry event. How could a trivial spar spiral into such chaos? Why did I not refuse the Barlyxian’s request? It appears everything on this cursed ship conspires for our downfall.

With a heavy sigh, I reach down to pocket the handheld graviton disputers. They’re black handled devices that curl around my hand, covering the knuckles with a layer of bumpy arcweave. Pressing the activation button, the devices hum, and the surrounding air distorts and vibrates. Only the Gods know how much gravitational force hit Noroth.

Tyrxie’s gaze follows the devices as I tuck them away. “Quad, where did you get those?” she asks, still soothing the simpleton.

Quad snivels, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Triandale, give me the Smashers,” he answers, a raking cough shaking him. “He said, it make me best basher,” Quad stirs, now standing up, leaning over, and clutching his stomach. “But Scary, still best basher.”

Triandale the Gorglaxian, whose eyes follow me like a vengeful spirit. It makes sense, his people’s tech, and the desire for revenge, delivered, and disguised in the form of the unassuming Quad. Fury stirs within me, heating my blood at the thought. If not for this ship and my need to reach Nebia, I’d tear off every treacherous tentacle from his deceitful visage. But how would Captain Kaanus and the rest of the crew react?

Tyrxie interrupts my troubled thoughts, her soft, gentle voice contrasting with my heated unease. “Come, let’s get you to Mod,” she says, turning to lead Quad away.

Witnessing her leaving again stirs an unfamiliar angst within me, a feeling of something missing, a hungering void that I never knew existed. “No,” I command, although I don’t recall deciding to speak. “He can make his own way.” My eyes bore into hers. “You and I have a lot to discuss.” The words spill from me, though I can’t recall why. Tyrxie freezes on the spot, her concerned expression transforming into one of wide-eyed dread.

Why does she fear me so?