15. Xandor

Chapter 15

Xandor

Flux

“ H as your strength returned, Noroth?” I ask, examining my war brother, inspecting the intricate web of strange-colored polymer straps and bandages that adorn him. The scent of sharp, pungent chemicals sting my nose that clings to the material somehow infused into it.

Noroth shuffles back and forth, testing his thick limbs with circular motions, a pained grimace contorting his features. “Better brother, but still far from my best,” he replies through gritted teeth, his flat face twisting with pain and effort.

Relief floods over me at the sight of his progress. A stark contrast to the fear that gripped me mere days ago, when he was slipping from this universe to join the ancestors. “Amazing what the little Glaseroid achieved, with his archaic methods,” I remark, my hand tracing the contours of my chiseled chin.

A flash of terror caresses Noroth’s expression, a jarring sight on the brutal barrel of muscle. “Gods, I’ve endured countless trials across a hundred battlefields, but none compare to the torment inflicted by that little netherworld spawn,” he says with heat as his blue eyes grow wide.

“That spawn of the netherworld saved your life,” I reply with a chuckle. “I saw his instruments. You might have more arcweave in you than Gorexius had,” I jest, tapping his broad chest with a knuckle, testing for sound.

Noroth furrows his brow, patting all over his body as if he suspects it might explode at any moment. “I am defiled?” his eyes meet mine full of earnest sincerity. “I’d rather rest with the ancestors,” he adds in a solemn tone.

“I jest brother. Besides, you won’t be saying that for long,” I declare with a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of my lips. “We’ve stopped at a station. And we’re going to find a pleasure house that will nurse your wounds and reignite your spirit, Noroth.”

“Oh?” His hard face softens at my words. “I’m still pained, but I’m sure I can be roused,” he remarks, his laughter mingling with the whistle of his flattened nose.

“I don’t doubt it,” I reply, still wearing my grin. “Quick, don your armor, the crew has already left, and I’m keen to find Tyrxie...” My words trail off, but even before the words leave me, I know I’ve spoken in error, causing me to grimace.

Noroth raises a curious red eyebrow, glancing to Logarn beside us, who is motionless as the void of space. “Are we not headed to a pleasure house?” Confusion etches itself on Noroth’s broad face as he begins to don his armor.

“Uh... I misspoke,” I confess, scratching the back of my neck, overcome with a surreal confusion that lingers like the remnants of a vivid dream. “I’m not sure why I said that.”

“Are you mating this female?” Noroth asks with casualness, while clamping his arcweave greaves to his ankles, almost fully armored now. “You mentioned her before, but I’ve yet to catch sight of her,” he gives a short laugh, meeting my gaze. “Are you certain she’s not a figment of your imagination?”

I scoff. “If she were, she’d wouldn’t act like some shifty knife-happy varmint,” I retort, eyeing the spot on my hand where she took her last swing.

“Knife?” Noroth asks with a look of confusion.

“Nevermind,” I dismiss, waving my hand, wondering if I may need the soothing comfort of a pleasure house more than Noroth. “Come, Job mentioned he left my armor in his workshop,” I state, turning to exit the room.

Striding toward Job’s workshop through the narrow corridors of the ship, now eerie silent, lacking the hum of the engines or the bustle of the crew. Prompts a pang of anxious worry to grip me, hoping that my armor and warvisor are intact. My warvisor, worth a fortune and often coveted, alone is a blessing from the Gods themselves.

The workshop doors slide open as I step inside. I release a deep exhale at the sight of my armor laying upon a bench. The thick arcweave plates, gleaming in dull silver, linked via a tight mesh of minuscule weaves. Approaching, I run my hand over the arc blaster and arc shield gauntlets, happy to see they remain intact.

Next, my gaze flicks to my warvisor that dangles from the many latches attached to the belt. Its black eye slits regard me with blankness. As I peer deeper, I feel nothing, an absence...

“Ah, excellent, your war gear is repaired?” Noroth interrupts my thoughts.

Stepping back, I cast an appreciative glance over the entire armored suit. “A miracle the Glaseroid’s have done such fine work. And no one’s been double crossed,” I quip, tracing a finger along the chest plate. “The dents and gorges are completely removed.”

Without hesitation, I equip my armor, the weighty tight plates a familiar comfort, like an old friend who’s been with me through every brutal battle. Finally securing my belt, I stand ready. “It’s time to spread our wings,” I declare, flashing a broad smile that reveals the glint of my fangs.

Exiting the docking hatch ramp, the sight of the gleaming white crystal central mega-structure assaults my eyes, towering above, further plagued by the countless annoying drones that spew iridescent hues of blinding brightness over the expansive landscape. “This place resembles cosmic vomit spewing rainbows,” I comment, my voice full of disdain.

Undeterred, we continue through the clean, white paved ring, which stretches for hundreds of miles. “I find it pretty,” Noroth remarks, his gaze drawn upward to the ethereal green dome that arcs overhead, and the graceful dance of ships navigating through the space above, reminiscent of languid sea creatures.

The darting drones steal my attention as I attempt to keep track of them, each one no doubt capable of defense. Already, the sensation of an oppressive, watchful presence prickles the hairs on the back of my neck. “This place dazzles with colors, but it’s devoid of life, devoid of meaning,” I retort, sweeping my gaze across the sterile emptiness and vibrant hues. “Lifeless and soulless, doubtless the creation of technocrats and merchants, their imaginations as shriveled as their cocks.”

How would I overcome these defenses? A bombardment from our warships, knocking out the central drone controls, followed by a ground assault? It would be a massacre.

Noroth scoffs, interrupting my joyous thoughts. “I still find it pretty,” he remarks with a casual shrug. “What say you, Logarn?” he turns toward the blond youth.

Logarn fixes his gaze ahead. His eyes narrowed, betraying a hint of discomfort. “The light hurts my eyes,” he states, his tone betraying no hint of emotion.

“Hah! That settles it. Two to one,” I exclaim, clapping my hands. “This Omega Flux Station is an offensive gaudy shit,” I finish with a smile directed at Noroth.

A colossal crystal white wall looms at our approach. It appears to wrap around the entire ring on this tier like a fortress guarding its boundary. Standing before it, nothing happens and the only sound is the buzzing of the annoying drones overhead. “Should we climb over it?” I consider aloud as my eyes scan the featureless wall for any clues.

“Void it,” I declare, extending my natural razor-sharp claws, that gleam with the iridescent hues from the drones. I thrust my hand into the garish crystal walls that offer sparse resistance to my power. Just as I’m about to hoist myself up, a large square materializes to my right, prompting me to drop to the ground.

“Ah, a door,” I remark with a casual shrug, retracting my claws. “Of course.”

“You lack patience, Xandor,” Noroth chides, disbelief etched on his face.

“Patience is for those resting in the catacombs of Nardune,” I retort, stepping through the entrance. The sight of an array of battle drones hovering with a promise of violence, puts me on edge, poised to unleash destruction at the first hint of trouble.

Noroth also regards the space with suspicion, inspecting the drones with inquisitive glances. He gives one machine a playful thump, sending it skidding to the floor, twitching in a heap. “Do they intend for us to battle these for sport?” he wonders, inspecting another drone.

“It would be poor sport,” I answer, my tone laced with impatience, thinking I should have kept climbing over the wall. “Probably for inspections, but really is a pathetic show of strength and intimidation.”

Noroth folds his thick arms. “I’m shaking,” he mocks with a smile.

Just then, on the other side of the crystal enclosure, another entrance reveals itself, accompanied by a diminutive figure clad from head to toe in garish iridescent armor, his face obscured by a helmet. But my eye follows his pulsar rifle attached to his leg, a step up from ballistic weapons, but still no match for our plasma.

“Gods, look at this one, like a broken mirror reflecting multicolored shite,” I grin at Noroth, causing him to laugh, his voice echoing off the spectral walls.

The male of unknown origin clears his throat with tentativeness, hoping to interrupt us, but we continue. Then he approaches us with cautious steps, like a frightened puffrio before a venefex. “Klen ... Klendathians?” he stammers out, his fear obvious despite the muffling of his voice.

“Hail, my garish friend,” I greet him with a broad grin, towering over the—whoever he is.

“Great, just what I need, voiding Klendathians,” he mutters under his breath, almost inaudible, but not for my sensitive hearing. “No drone directed you here?” his head shifts towards the broken battle drone that still twitches near us. “Wait, what happened there?” he points.

I shrug, my golden eyes locking onto his visor with an intensity that belies my casual demeanor. “It just fell over when we got here,” I glance towards Noroth, who nods in agreement while Logarn stands as impassive as a drone himself.

“Voiding brilliant,” the garish one says, shaking his head as his hands navigate his wrist console projection with deftness. “I’ll have to answer for this,” he says resigned.

“The Gods work in mysterious ways,” I offer with an insincere smile, though the tiniest twinge of guilt tugs at the corners of my conscience.

“Seems your Gods keep voiding my ass,” he mutters with bitterness, his surprising openness causes Noroth and myself to erupt with laughter.

The garish one looks between us, perhaps with confusion as our shoulders shake with mirth. “I like you,” I declare, nodding towards him. “Take some credits to make up for your terrible luck,” I offer, attempting to send him currency via my wrist console, however he declines it.

“Thanks, but I can’t accept gifts,” he explains his head, glancing between the other battle drones, the implication clear. He exhales before continuing. “So, from what ship did you arrive?” he inquires, his monotone professionalism now restored.

“The Mutalisk’s Hammer, but don’t let the name fool you,” I reply, already growing weary of his questions.

“I have already cleared their crew and cargo. However, I can add you as stragglers,” the garish one informs us, his gaze sweeping over our trio. “Do you have any goods to declare?”

“We are the goods,” I proclaim, spreading my arms wide with a confident smile.

“I see...” Yet his tone implies he does not. “Void the scan. You may proceed. You don’t have any cargo with you, anyway,” he sighs and clears his throat before reciting. “Please enjoy your stay... At Omega Flux Station, where all your cosmic dreams become reality, may the flux be with you,” his agonizing stiff delivery only enhances this soul-crushing spectacle.

I yearn to shake some life into him, but he is no war brother of mine, and I’ve wasted too much time here. “Indeed. Tell me, do you recommend any pleasure houses? My friend is in terrible need,” I jest, casting a playful glance at Noroth, who responds with a disapproving frown.

“Pleasure houses? I couldn’t afford such luxuries,” the broken one answers with a hand under his helmet. “But others rave about Fluxom Paradise.” He pauses, playing with his wrist console. “Here, I’ve given you the coordinates,” he says, as my console emits a soft beep.

“Thank you, broken one,” I acknowledge, nodding with a fanged smile, taking out a credit chit worth one thousand credits, flashing it in a blur. “I have a feeling this might get lost. Just over there,” I hint, pointing to a spot just beyond the opened exit.

With haste I exit the crystal inspection barrier, intent on reaching this ‘Fluxom Paradise’ that, judging from the coordinates, lies straight ahead nestled deep within the ring in the commercial sector. As I pass the indicated area, I drop the credit chit to the ground, hoping that the broken one isn’t too broken to accept the offering.

The expanse of white-paved emptiness stretches out before us, a surreal display set against the backdrop of the boundless void of space, contained by the green atmospheric dome that arches overhead like a celestial canopy. As we proceed, the scene undergoes a transformation, giving way to an industrial sector bustling with activity. Colossal machines clang and hum, their movements synchronized as they deposit raw materials into epic-sized processing plants. The sheer scale of the operation is nothing short of awe-inspiring, matched only by the cacophony of noise that surrounds us.

Undeterred by the deafening clamor, we press onward with long strides as aliens of various species come into view, bringing with them the noisy throng of trade and commerce. Heated voices fill the air as negotiations unfold, while onlookers await the outcomes with eagerness, their eyes fixed on the massive green screens projecting goods at auctions.

We tower over them all like demi-gods, indeed many of them whisper and gasp in awe as we pass, the legends of my kin reaching far and wide, a heavy burden to carry. Yet within me, my ancestors reside, and I will not dishonor them.

The dome above now shows the tiered ring looming with oppressiveness above, obscuring the sight of the mesmerizing beauty of space. As we draw closer toward the crystalline shard at the heart of this station, I scan the crowded merchant stalls and kiosks hoping to catch a glimpse of the Mutalisk Hammer’s crew, of Tyrxie... but I find only disappointing longing.

Why does this treacherous pining grip me so? With ruthless determination, I suppress the emotion, burying it deep within my skull. Encasing it within a cage of resolve woven from arcweave and scornful neglect, hoping it withers and dies. The eager attentions of willing females will serve as the funeral pyre to lay this unwanted sentiment to rest, as I hasten my pace propelled by the thought.

The noisy clamor of the crowd lessens and the open merchants’ squares shift, becoming straight streets with buildings of various sizes, many of them displaying holographic signs of multiple colors advertising their wares or services. Some merchants stand hawking, beckoning us to enter their establishments, but my gaze falls on the tall building coming into view.

Amongst the sea of white and crystal buildings stands a sleek black structure laced with golden intricate details and lewd statues, hinting at the carnal delights inside. Emblazoned upon it’s the name ‘Fluxom Paradise,’ not projected in holographic form but crafted in flowing gold letters, a touch of natural artistry that elicits a smile from my lips.

“I think this will do nicely,” I announce, grinning at my companions, unable to hide my excitement.

Noroth’s eyes roam over the building, an ever-increasing smile creeping over his lips. “Looks alright,” he concedes. Meanwhile, Logarn stares unemotional and blank as if he stands before a mere latrine, but I refuse to let anything dampen my mood.

Steep black stairs with gold railings lead upward towards the entrance. I ascend each step like a challenge, like I’m entering a new temple on Klendathor completing a different type of Proving—one more fun.

Reaching the top, massive golden doors that dwarf even me bar our path. Engraved with intricate details, flanked by two guards.

The bulky Tuskarian and the shifty-eyed Jungarian exchange a nervous glance at our approach. Immaculate black and gold suits almost obscure their arms and armor. But I see them, the threat they might pose. I judge them inconsequential.

“Hail, trivial friends,” I introduce myself with a broad smile looming down at the pair.

“Trivial!” the ebony furred Jungarian sneers, bristling with evident disdain as I regard him with mild amusement.

The Tuskarian, a head smaller than me, taps his friend on the shoulder. “What are you, crazy Luskin?” he exclaims, his deep voice full of worry. “My apologies,” he snuffles with his tusks, making a placating gesture. “Do you carry any weapons? If so, we must ask that you surrender them here.” He points towards a cabinet protected by a green pulsar field.

With a subtle flex of my sharp claws and a grin that reveals my formidable fangs, I respond. “Just myself, but I have no intention of being confined to your little cabinet,” I lie, maintaining my grin, staring with intensity into the Tuskarians’ brown eyes. Few species, especially civilians, would know what our Klendathian armor is capable of. The plasma shield, claws and blaster locked within my gauntlets.

“Of course not,” the Tuskarian snorts, a faint smile flashing across his features. “Welcome to Fluxom Paradise. Please enjoy your stay,” he declares with a deferential bow, while the other guard taps on his wrist console. The huge golden door’s part down the middle, opening with a smooth motion. Drawing me towards it like an entry into the vaunted gates of some celestial realm.

Will I find salvation or damnation within?