21. Xandor

Chapter 21

Xandor

Hunt

“ I forgot how voiding annoying Gorglaxian tech is,” I remark, kneeling beside the unconscious Logarn, thankful to see his rhythmic breathing. “Although this is the first time I’ve seen a warrior charge headfirst into a graviton orb,” I add with disdain, shaking my head at the pitiful sight.

Noroth frowns. “Damn youngster, charged in like a hydralith pup, despite my warnings,” he says, peering down at the blond-haired youth. “You think he’ll pull through?”

“It’s not your fault, brother. Our youth are corrupted with bloodlust, as you know,” I reply, removing Logarn’s warvisor and reattaching it to his belt. He appears almost peaceful, with a serene expression at odds with the bloody, gruesome scene surrounding us. “He’ll be fine,” I declare, delivering a series of gentle slaps to Logarns face. “Wake up, sleepy!”

Logarn stirs, mumbling before his eyes snap open, revealing an ominous, misting brown gaze. My senses tense in anticipation of danger as he lunges for my throat with a clawed hand, his face contorted in a murderous snarl.

With a swift, precise movement, I catch his wrist, halting his mindless attack. “Now, now, we’ve had enough of this,” I declare, locking eyes with Logarn to exert my will over him. He thrashes and grunts, attempting to wrench his arm free, yet my grip remains unbreakable. “Awaken Logarn, come back to us,” I demand.

Logarn’s movements become less frantic, his breathing steadying as consciousness and awareness return, smoothing out the rage on his features. “My apologies, Second Xandor” he says, his voice devoid of emotion save for a hint of pain as he winces.

I release him before raising to my feet, “You took a hit, but you’ll recover,” I inform, offering him a hand up. Logarn runs a hand over the twisted and warped midsection of his arcweave armor, as if he has no recollection of the events that left him in this state. Taking my hand, he hoists himself up, though he stands stooped, clutching his stomach, his injury clear.

With Noroth and Logarn injured. I’ll have to retrieve my warvisor alone. “Mob can fix you up, once Noroth takes you back to the ship,” I suggest to the pair.

Noroth sucks in breath through his teeth. “Mod? You’ll be wishing you feasted with the ancestors soon, rather than be healed by that one,” he replies, moving to support Logarn with an arm around his waist.

I turn my attention to the grisly scene of Felacia and Triandale’s remains, approaching with haste, eager to be away from this place before what passes as security on this station arrives. Stepping over the torn, bloody bodies and melted surfaces, I find Triandale’s lifeless form lying beside a steaming pile of cooling molten glop.

Such misplaced vengeance drove them to this madness. Only the Gods know how this news will sit with the rest of the Mutalisk Hammer’s crew. But my focus shifts to Triandale’s wrist console, hoping it’ll shed light on the whereabouts of my sacred warvisor. Relief washes over me, examining the recent messages stating another crew member is to bring the ‘savages mask’ to Katarian from the Gorgons Wrath gang.

Another crew member? A sigh escapes my lips at the troubling thought, wondering how deep does this treachery go? It must be the simpleton Quad, manipulated once again by Triandale? But the only thing that matters now is I locate this Katarian on tier three and retrieve my warvisor. Rending bloody vengeance on those responsible, so their agonizing screams serve as a warning to others that dare commit such blasphemy.

Just as I’m about to leave, a small device near the molten goo that was once Felacia catches my eye. excitement floods through me as I recognize Felacia’s tiny laser pistol, knowing this weapon is worth a fortune. The Nebians guard their laser technology as jealously as we Klendathians guard our warvisors. Yet, to my chagrin, the powerful weapon is so tiny, just two of my fingers cover the entire grip, rendering it unusable. I tuck the weapon into my belt, hoping Job can extend the grip, but these concerns can wait for now.

I return to Noroth and Logarn who have moved closer to the empty elevator shaft. “Find anything useful?” Noroth inquires, his broad frame supporting Logarn with ease.

“Yes, a doomed soul called Katarian intends to buy my warvisor from another crew member,” I answer, looking down into the dark abyss of the broken elevator. “Come, we’ll have to use the stairwell,” I command, striding through the mangled surroundings.

“Another crew member?” Noroth asks, his voice incredulous. “Do you know who?” he adds after a moment.

I shake my head in reply as we begin the tedious journey down the seventy flights of stairs, Noroth and Logarn following behind. “No idea, but whoever it is will regret the day they were born,” I declare, my words dripping with righteous anger.

Our footsteps echo off the stone walls and steps of the eerie stairwell as we continue downward. “I will join you, brother. This sacrilege cannot go unpunished,” Noroth asserts, his voice resolute.

His fierce words of support bolster my spirits. “No, you are to take Logarn back to the ship, in case the Captain means to betray us as well,” I command.

“The Captain?” Noroth grunts with a hint of surprise. “I’d bet credits on Hyanxa. The way the Jungarian spies at me with that fierce look on her face. I don’t know if I should be aroused or terrified,” he finishes with a short laugh.

I chuckle at his words. “Hyanxa may be a vipertail, but she’s loyal to the Captain. She’ll not act unless Kaanus is involved. My credits are on Quad,” I offer, unsure how I’ll confront the Barlyxian if he is the one responsible, considering he’s most likely oblivious to his actions.

Noroth whistles through his smashed nose. “Ah, Quad, that makes sense,” he replies.

We continue down the winding stone stairwell in resolved silence. The only sounds are heavy footfalls and Logarns rasping breaths. My body is tense, my mind alert, not trusting the threat of danger has passed. Each floor we descend, each step taking us further from the brutal scene does little to smooth my stress.

There’s a churning anxiousness gnawing at the back of my mind, like a wyrm burrowing, taking deep root. Yet I fear the source is not concern with retrieving my warvisor; that thought only stokes my fury and resolve. No, this is a thing born from something more troubling, more insidious. Even to speculate upon it only invites calamity.

But I cannot deny the truth. Tyrxie is the source. I can almost feel her, somewhere below, perhaps on the lowest tier on this station. A strange longing or treacherous tug compels me to hasten my pace. She must be in danger. The only answer for this increased intensity, this realization, twists my heart with concern, concern for a female who fears and loathes me. A sardonic smile crosses my lips at the thought.

The Gods are cruel, to have cursed me so . Yet I dare not refuse them. If this is indeed their will, then so be it. I will face my destiny as a proud Klendathian, with my head held high and fire in my heart.

After descending the winding stairwell for some time, we reach the bottom floor. Already I can hear muffled chanting music and frantic voices coming from the nearby exit. I step through the doorway to emerge into a scene of chaos.

The entrance corridor, once adorned with rich red carpets and ornate black and gold furnishings, now lies in ruin, a dusty, smashed mess. The golden evaluator, having fallen like a meteorite from floor seventy-two, has left the area devastated.

A group of darting, hovering drones and plodding droids are busy clearing the debris, while onlookers watch, wide-eyed, nervous expressions. I move with haste past them, hoping not to draw attention, which is difficult being a glorious son of Klendathor.

As I traverse the long corridor, nearing the exit, I spot the female Argorian in the white flowing dress, the boring one who introduced us to Fluxom Paradise, which seems an age ago. She stands composed, awaiting new guests, yet the slight tremble of her scaled hands and frequent glances back reveals her true anxiousness.

I hope to slip past amidst her addled mind, not wishing to be connected to the recent gruesome events, at least not until we’re off this Gods’ forsaken station.

Yet my hopes are dashed as, from the corner of my eye, she stiffens as if shaken awake from a nightmare. “Oh... My most sincere apologies for the terrible commotion. Please accept these complimentary sessions free of charge,” the female Argorian offers with a bow of her spiked head.

“That won’t be necessary,” I interrupt her with a quick wave of my hand as she’s about to enter something into her wrist console. “We couldn’t possibly endure any more... companionship,” I state with a smirk, gesturing towards the hobbling Logarn.

The Argorian tilts her head towards Logarn, yet her milk-white eyes reveal nothing. “Um... Is he well?” she inquires with false concern as her gaze flicks back to me.

“Oh, yes,” I chuckle, glancing back at the blond-haired youth. “He was so excited, he couldn’t help but charge in headfirst,” I add, leaning down closer to whisper in a hushed tone. “It was his first time.”

The female Argorian nods with a knowing smile. “Of course, I understand,” she whispers before addressing the three of us again. “Thank you for choosing Fluxom Paradise. I hope your desires were stoked and catered to,” she recites the rehearsed formal line.

Our desires for battle perhaps! I almost say before biting my tongue. “It has been a glorious experience,” Noroth interjects, his face beaming.

“I am glad.” The female bows her head, our cue to leave. I hurry past her, the massive golden doors of the cursed building opening at our approach. A small flutter of relief flows through me, knowing we’re in the clear. Until it’s snuffed out by the building torrent of unease that threatens to consume my mind. I need to find Tyrxie. She’s in danger! Where this feeling comes from is a mystery to me, yet I know it to be true. I would stake my life on it.

“Noroth, take Logarn to the ship. I must hasten towards Tyrxie,” I urge, my voice laced with impatient resolve, as I hurry down the long steps.

“Tyrxie? Are you not to seek out your warvisor?” Noroth calls out after me in a confused tone.

“Yes, I meant the warvisor,” I lie, glancing over my shoulder, a sardonic grin twisting my expression. My warvisor now seems like a distant memory, a mere trifle versus the churning maelstrom of irrational concern for the human female.

My attention shifts towards the towering crystal core of the station, reflecting and refracting the garish colors from the darting iridescent drones. A glittering contrast to my dark thoughts and the seething hatred I now hold for this Omega Flux Station.

My long strides carry me to the looming crystal spire as onlookers dash out of my way, fear painted on their expressions. They fade into the background of my awareness. Numerous lifts of various sizes come and go in smooth silence.

Passengers emerge from the nearest lift, their eyes traveling up my body as they realize my presence, my disdain. I resist the urge to toss them out, my hands flexing with an illogical impatience that churns within my guts. “Out... Now!” I demand through bared fangs, glaring at the group.

The four aliens stiffen as if stuck before muttering nonsensical apologies. I’ve already forgotten about them as I step into the garish lift cast from the same material that surrounds it. Interacting with my wrist console shows one option: tier three, the tier one option appears locked. I select tier three, taking a steadying breath, which does little to settle my anxious nerves.

The lift falls smoothly as strobing colors assault my eyes, reflected from the contoured and beveled evaluator enclosure. Kaleidoscope of dazzling hues whirls and spirals with incredible speed, creating a nauseating spectacle which prompts me to shield my eyes from the assailing pompous display.

The lift comes to a smooth stop, opening to reveal a nightmarish landscape of oppressive horror. Identical blocky buildings in pale white stretch on for what seems like infinity. The sheer brutal efficiency of it stifles the soul, an affront to the Gods. Scanning in either direction reveals more of the overpowering sameness.

Beneath my scathing disdain is a faint sense of vertigo, tugging at the recesses of my mind. Like approaching an impossible maze-like labyrinth, it births a nagging doubt that it’ll be hopeless to find Tyrxie amidst the disorienting repetitiveness.

Guards clad in iridescent armor and hovering disc-shaped drones mill around, inspecting beings seeking entrance to the crystal spire. I hasten past them, paying them no heed, driven by an overpowering need to reach the human female, knowing, somehow, that she is on this tier.

I blitz through the shocking, disheveled streets, noting the broken disrepair of the surroundings and the hungry, desperate faces of the inhabitants. Hidden beneath the flashy colors lies the broken and the forgotten, proving light cannot banish the darkness within the hearts of sentient beings.

The sour scent of fresh blood and molten sulfur wrinkles my sharp senses. I waste no time adjusting my course, heading towards the source of the likely battle. Unkempt onlookers watch in awe as I rush past them in a blur of speed. Already, clear signs of combat become apparent. The walls and streets littered with bullet holes, vast swathes melted and twisted, re-solidifying in a blue-gray mass, a clear sign of plasma discharge.

Yet it’s the lifeless bodies and pools of blood that paint the most vivid picture. My eyes dart with frantic movements, a sudden terror grips me as I consider the possibility that Tyrxie may be among the fallen. Various armed alien species in makeshift yellow armor, some with a uniform emblem emblazoned on their arms or chests, a clue this must have been a gang war.

I approach several members of the gang, two Jungarians and a Tuskarian, their hard faces creased with bitter sadness as they collect bodies of their broken and destroyed comrades. One of the Jungarians stands out, hidden beneath a hooded robe, and directing the others with a strange-looking cane. He appears to be their leader.

“You!” I shout towards the hooded one, gesturing at the heaped piles of dead. “Was there a female here? Tiny in size, strange to your eyes, with alien features not unlike my own.”

The hooded Jungarian turns his head in a languid motion, as if seeing me for the first time. Not with surprise or awe, but weary resignation, laced with sadness. “A female like a Klendathian? Do you dream in the waking world? Second, Commander.” His firm voice belies his stooped figure and scarred face.

His strange words surprise me as I smooth my half cloak adorning my shoulder. It’s clear this hooded Jungarian is familiar with us Klendathians. “No dream, strange one.” More of a nightmare. “She’s not a Klendathian, but a human, with pale skin, black hair and sad green eyes,” I explain, noticing some others in yellow glaring at me while fingering their primitive weapons, yet I do not fear them.

“I know the one you speak of,” the strange one replies, moving a hand to a bloody wound on his shoulder. “She left me this gift,” he gestures with a brief ironic laugh. “Sad green eyes? I saw only the manic glare of an assassin.”

Boiling rage flows through my veins at his words. As my hands clench into fists, I consider murdering him, murdering them all, knowing they sought to kill Tyrxie. It would be so easy, yet the tone and demeanor of the Jungarian stays my hand, lacking anger and suggesting she’s escaped. “Where is she?” I snarl, my gaze piercing.

The strange one gestures behind him. “The Suns of Omega saw her flee that direction.”

Relief washes over me, learning she’s escaped and is alive. As I dash in the direction the hooded Jungarian indicated, he raises a halting hand. “You know she’s a slave?” he says with a sigh, his eyes turning towards the pile of broken bodies. “So young and pretty, I knew the instant I saw the strange girl, that monster Kaanus stole her, probably killed her parents, enslaving her. I would have freed her, yet she fought to protect him... her own enslaver.” His eyes flick back to me, his face twisted in sudden hatred. “I almost had the bastard after all these years, but she shot me at the crucial moment! The universe is merciless, it seems... I’m sorry, Alanya,” he finishes with a whisper, his eyes distant.

His words hang heavy in the air, like pieces of a puzzle I struggle to place. Kaanus must have led the crew here, only to be attacked by this Jungarian seeking revenge, forcing Tyrxie to flee. I had once suspected Kaanus of being a slaver, yet Job had dissuaded me from the notion. However, looking into the sincere and passionate eyes of this Jungarian reveals the truth. Kaanus was a slaver, and he had enslaved her.

It all makes sense, her frightened behavior; her sulking under the gangways of the ship, the constant bruising, the fact she knows nothing about Earth or her people. My heart wrenches at the thought of the lost Tyrxie cast adrift, alone. Yet if I rendered justice upon Kaanus, would she thank me? She seems to fear him, but still sees him as a fatherly figure. I breathe out a loud sigh, wondering how I’ve got entangled in this mess.

“Rest easy, strange one. Kaanus will pay for his crimes,” I assure him with a solemn nod, resolved that after he delivers me to Nebia and, with Tyrxie’s consent, his life shall atone for his sins.

The hooded Jungarian gives a brief nod. “Go save her, as I could not save my Alanya,” he commands, yet his words only add fuel to the blazing inferno that is my molten determination. With blinding speed, I resume my dash in the direction the strange one showed.

I press on through the sea of monotony. The seething underbelly of poverty becomes more pronounced with each additional step. A terrible, overwhelming sense of wrongness surges within me. Is this because I’m drawing closer to Tyrxie, or is her situation growing more precarious? Deep in my soul, I know the answer as it drives me on like a venefex is tearing at my heels.

Following my instincts now, I somehow sense Tyrxie’s location as a vague direction, like a lingering hint gnawing at my consciousness. Shadowy figures peer out windows at me, filling me with anxiety not for my safety, but concern for Tyrxie. The scent of fresh blood catches my attention, and I hasten towards the source.

I find a near-naked Jungarian with flaxen fur, his body lifeless and crushed by brutal blows, his belongings stripped from him, assuming he had any. As I peer down at him, my breath increases with anxiety, fearing Tyrxie might also be broken somewhere nearby. Yet, the merciless tug pulls me onward, thundering through my mind with growing intensity, fueling my Rush and baring my fangs.

Continuing through the mangled streets, the aroma of Tyrxie reaches me, like the sweetest nectar washing away the disgusting stink of the piles of refuse. I follow her scent with each long stride, increasing its potency, and I know I’m only moments behind her now as I stand before a broken building almost indistinguishable from the countless copies.

I know she’s in there. The open doorway, while shrouded in darkness, beckons to me like an ocean in the deserts of Nardune. Rushing into the entrance, I emerge into a hall-like area, with remnants of rooms demolished and smashed, creating a space of drunken debauchery. The ragged patrons gasp and recoil at my presence as I dominate the space, looming over them all. “Where is the female?” I demand, my eyes ablaze with murderous intensity.

Many of the fearful attendees gesture towards the end of the hall to one of the few intact rooms remaining. I thunder towards the door, not looking back, fortifying my mind for the terrible sights that may be revealed beyond. I deliver a brutal kick, splintering the door into thousands of pieces, an ominous smell of burning flesh assaults my senses.

Standing in the corner is a Tuskarian, his form mending in the darkened room, looming over the crumpled, unconscious figure of Tyrxie. Her face is bruised, her upper body exposed, and a blistering scorched logo of a beast with horns burned into her soft, pale flesh. The sight turns my stomach with molten rage; already my eyes mist with golden fury as my claws extend of their own accord.

“You marked her!” I roar, stalking towards the Tuskarian, his eyes full of surprise as he peers up at me, yet in his foolish ignorance he shows no fear, only beady, shifty, calculating eyes. He lunges towards me with a wide blow delivered with comical sloppiness. I sidestep his attack, the attack of a brute, relying only on his meager strength that lacks the precise artistic technique I execute in retaliation.

I twist my body, slamming a thundering fist into his chest. My prey grunts in surprised agony as his sternum cracks under my blow. Perhaps enough to stop his heart, yet I do not know its location in Tuskarians. It would be better for him if his heart had ceased beating, for I retracted my claws, intending to send him screaming in agony to his ancestors as a twisted, broken mockery of his people.

My prey falls to one knee, his snouted face now loaded with rank fear, each rasping wheezing breath a torture. I reach for his hand that still clutches the branding device he used on poor Tyrxie. His feeble hands resist my superior strength, but I twist and clamp down, snapping his fingers into useless, broken things. He screams in rightful suffering, his beady eyes staring at his ruined hands in disbelief and shock.

Yet I watch his pain with unflinching fury, the sight of the injured scarred Tyrxie the only reminder I need to continue. I activate the branding device, witnessing the ominous searing orange heat emanating from one end. As I approach, my prey coughs phlegm as he squirms backwards, terror stamped on his face, engraved like runes on his tomb. “Please, I beg you,” his pathetic muttering only fuels my wrath.

“Did Tyrxie beg before you branded her? Yet you never stopped!” I spit at him. He shakes his head in pointless denial as I press his own device into his fleshy cheek. My prey roars in agony as the brand burns and chars his skin. He swings his arms, trying to fend me off, but I keep pressing harder, melting more of him, the device reaching bone.

Distracted by the Tuskarian’s suffering, I don’t notice Tyrxie stirring, limping across the room. Her silent movements are hard to detect amidst a shadowy cacophony of sizzling agony. I turn to see her standing with boldness despite her exposed breasts, her tiny pistol in her hand, pointed at the crumpled pathetic form of her attacker.

Her former sad green eyes are now cold like the void of space, as she squeezes the trigger. Her bullet catches the Tuskarian on the forehead, ending his torment, a merciful end too good for the savage. “He’s suffered enough,” she whispers, her voice devoid of emotion, before, to my shock, she levels the gun at me.

“I’ve suffered enough.”