Dragons of a Different Tail by Marx Pyle

Author:Marx Pyle [Marx Pyle, J.C. Mastro, Victoria L. Scott, Anne C. Lynch]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cabbit Crossing Publishing
Published: 2022-02-16T00:00:00+00:00

Kaoat’s belly was a fun place to visit because you could die if you slipped. The “ground”—the inside of Kaoat’s stomach lining—was sunk in acid a quarter mile deep. Bhak had built a network of catwalks over the stuff, and platforms held aloft by thrusters. That’s where he grew the good weed in man-made ichor pools. Something about the belly fumes made it grow thick and tall and delicious.

He took another puff when he arrived at the valve-door to the stomach, a circle of hardened flesh. He pressed on a pustule beside the door and the circle shivered and split apart, trailing strings of mucous.

Humid air washed over him, a cloying stomach funk. He stepped onto the first catwalk, gun to his shoulder. Far below the metal slats at his feet, orange liquid bubbled. His stoked brain grappled with the strange gravity that all the dragons seemed to generate internally—just one more thing nobody could figure out about these crazy beasts. It was almost like they had evolved for humans.

Bhak edged toward the first floating platform. “General Fare,” he called.

A valve-door on the other side of the belly slurped open and Fare dashed in. Her pristine uniform was torn, a scorch mark across her face.

“Here!” Bhak called.

She sprinted across the catwalks and platforms, closing the distance in a few minutes. She crouched beside him, behind a crate of fertilizer. “They’re on my ass. I had a few men but they’re dead.” She glanced at his weapon. “A farmer with a gun. Fantastic.”

“It’s great to see you as well.”

“Just get me out of here.”

Bhak knelt and slung off the canvas bag he was carrying. He unzipped it and rolled out a crinkly plastic planting suit. Fare’s ticket out.

As soon as he laid the suit on the catwalk, the stomach cavity around them shook and he had to steady himself. The base of his spine itched.

Kaoat felt... sad? That was sweet.

“I’m not leaving, wormy,” he muttered. “She is.”

“Who are you talking to?”

He ignored her and held out the clear plastic. “This has a radio and life support on the inside. Not exactly rated for the Void, but it’ll do for the acid. Look for the intestinal passage at the bottom, Kaoat will fart you out from there. You can signal the command ship.”

Her face was tinged green. “You aren’t coming?”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“They’ll never leave you alive.”

Bhak hesitated—and a laser bolt flashed over his shoulder, burying itself in the flesh wall beyond. He spun, raising his gun, just as pain from Kaoat lanced through his mind.

His vision went double and he stumbled. That definitely hadn’t happened before.

A half-dozen soldiers jogged in through the nearest valve-door. Shaved heads and all muscle, they could almost be from Daianos, except for the crimson uniforms of the glorious Hidran Empire. And the half-dozen glorious muzzles pointed right at him.

“Duck,” he shouted, pulling the General down.

She slapped his hands away and already had two pistols out, blasting shots over the crate. Two Hidrans dropped.

“Nice.”

Her eyes flicked, frantic. “Where’s that suit?” She felt the catwalk behind her with a hand and glanced back.

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