by Webster, K
The child in her womb, one that belonged to her deceased mate Puno, passed along with her. It was a devastating moment. I took Hadrian under my protection and have looked after him as a son ever since.
“Yeah, Commander, who will get one?” Draven, our faction’s lieutenant engineer, challenges from the doorway of the lab. I know he won’t step inside. He suffers mentally and always feels trapped. It all stems, according to Avrell and his studies, from when Draven caught a mild case of The Rades. He was in a sleeplike state for almost an entire revolution—hundreds and hundreds of solars. His skin seeped with a puss-like substance from sores that had formed all over his body. If it hadn’t been for Avrell caring for him at every moment of every solar, he would have met death along with Vetta and her unborn mortling. When he came to, his eyes were crazed and he babbled on for many solar cycles about “the captors.” They’d chained him up and tortured him.
All in his mind, of course.
They still haunt him with every breath he takes.
It’s been many revolutions, and he’s never lost the unhinged glimmer in his coal-black eyes.
I straighten my spine and walk over to the alien. Avrell has taken to calling her Specimen Az-1. Her chest, beneath the thin sheet covering, rises and falls with each breath she takes. We’re all wearing our zu-gear until we can ascertain if she’s carrying anything harmful.
“Any updates?” I ask, my eyes glued to her unusual, dirty-looking face. She has skin the color of a sabrevipe’s belly. If she weren’t potentially dangerous to touch, I’d love to remove my glove and see what the texture of her flesh feels like.
He looks up from the micro-viewer on the table near the alien, and a small smile, revealing his semi-filed-down fangs, has hope once again dancing inside my chest. “I think it’s good news, Commander.”
Everyone in the room seems to be holding their breath. The tension is thick enough to cut with a magknife.
“Proceed,” I urge, tamping down my eagerness.
“Have a look.” He gestures to the micro-viewer.
I walk over to the machine and peer into the viewer. Inside are colorful cells but they mean nothing to me.
“See the cerulean cells?” he asks.
“There are many,” I agree.
“Now find the opaque ones. You may have to squint to see those.”
I blink as I attempt to focus. “I see them. The cerulean ones are being eaten by them.”
“Not eaten,” Avrell says, a smile in his voice. “Fertilized.”
I jerk away and glare at him. “What does it mean?”
“Exactly what you think. Not only is our genetics compatible, but we can breed the aliens. That right there,” he gestures to the micro-viewer, “is the hope for our survival.”
“What will you do with them?” There were at least four fertilized cell units under the viewer.
“I could destroy them or I could implant them.”
I look around to the other eight pair of eyes watching my exchange with Avrell. Ten morts. Five aliens. It’s unfair to choose between who gets an alien to mate with and who doesn’t. As much as I’d love to wake and mate with them properly, it’s too risky. If the aliens were to fall ill and pass on like Vetta, all of this would be for nothing.
My ears flatten against my nog as I crack all twenty-eight of the sub-bones in my neck. All my subordinates slightly bow their nogs in submission. They know my word is binding. Even if they’ll hate what I’m about to say.
“Keep them in stasis,” I say, despising my own words. “Gather samples from all ten of us and implant the fertilized cells into all of their wombs. Keep any extra samples frozen for future use in case these don’t take. This is the only hope for our future at this time.”
My morts all wear the same tortured expressions that I’m sure I do.
We want them.
We want them awake and we want to mate with them. Need to mate with them. Not only as a biological imperative to ensure our survival, but to remind us of what it means to live instead of merely survive.
But sacrifice is in our blood. It’s all we’ve done our entire lives. The sacrifice will end with us, though. These implanted cells will grow into mortlings. Mortlings will grow into doctors and leaders and fighters. Families will be bred from our sacrifices. One solar soon, this facility will bustle with life and activity. Our sacrifices will be worth it.
At least that’s what I’ll keep telling myself.
“I’ll be in the command center,” I mutter before excusing myself.
An addictive dose of ultraviolet rays is much needed because I’d do just about anything to bring a little light to my nearly pitch-black future.
Sacrifice.
It must be done.
2
Aria
I’m drowning.
Waves of pain suck me under, pulling at my limbs, making them heavy and hard to operate. An invisible weight crushes my chest and I fight to draw oxygen into my protesting lungs. Too much. I did too much flora the night before. A newer drug to the market that’s more accepted among high society. No needles or smoking for the rich and famous. Just a quick inhalation of the expensive mist and you’re lost to it. Its seductive call sings to me, tempting me to go back under and escape.
That’s why I became an actress in the first place. I wanted to go somewhere else, be someone else. I had the body, the face, the talent. The money was a factor, but it was only the vehicle that gave me access to my true goal: escape. Getting out of the slums, out of my life. Fame and fortune bought me a way out, but it never truly brought me happiness like I’d imagined.
Too late, I’d realized I’d been seduced by the very glitz and glamour I’d been groomed to emulate. There was no escape, there was only another cage—albeit a gilded one.
The rolling tide of drugs both soothes and torments. I alternate between the highest I’ve ever been and the most pain I’ve ever experienced. The latter slams into my body like an unforgiving tide, over and over, never ending. I try, uselessly, to open my eyes, to press the buttons on the controls to deliver another dose to end the pain, or rip out the needle supplying it, but I can do neither. The very thing that has given me my only release is now my greatest torment.
Minutes, hours, days, I can’t even tell how much time passes before I’m able to move my hands—and then it’s only to open and close my fingers. I can’t move my arms from my sides. By sheer force of will, I crack my eyelids open and wince at the too-bright room surrounding me.
I try not to panic. It isn’t the first time I’ve found myself in a strange home after a long night of dancing and drinking and it won’t be the last. But I’d never taken it so far that I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there. That I couldn’t even move the next morning.
You’ve done it this time, Aria.
But it’s the next wave of pain that brings me fully awake, driving away the last remnants of stupor and spawning the first flash of fear. Cramps steal across my stomach and drive downward. My body trying to purge itself. I’ve been hungover before, but nothing like this. Nothing that makes me feel like I’m dying.
Another scream rips from my throat and draws the attention of the guard on the other side of the door. Only I must still be dreaming, because the man who comes through looks like something from a nightmare, all eerie white skin and misshapen bones on his forehead. He towers by my bedside in a strange suit, with flowing black hair and hard, black eyes that glare at me from underneath a heavy brow. Fangs. He has fangs. Definitely not human. A monster.
This is a nightmare.
Not real.
The image of him swims as the pain intensifies. My mouth waters and I can feel bile rise in the back of my throat. Panic assails me when I try to wrench my hands up to cover my mouth but they’re restrained.
Restrained, in pain, at the mercy of a monster in a room I don’t recognize. How could this morning get any worse?
Then the door opens, and nine more giants in varying degrees of terr
ifying step into the room.
Unwilling or unable to keep my eyes open and face this horror, I’ll never know which, I give in to the riptides of pain and shock pulling me under and succumb to the welcoming darkness.
* * *
The next time I wake, clear-headed with a hollow feeling in my stomach, it’s to an empty room, the door unguarded.
Maybe it had been a nightmare after all. It had to be. I must have overdosed again and they’d taken me to an exclusive healing resort to clean out my system. In a week or two, they’ll ship me back to Hollywood, dope me up to get through another week of rehearsals, appearances, and tapings, and then repeat.
Except…this resort is nothing like any of the others they’ve ever stuck me in. They may treat me like a trained animal for their amusement, but even so, I’m a spoiled pet. In return for good behavior and press, I receive the best care, food, transportation and lodging.
At one point, it must have been a nice place, the crème de la crème of technological advances. There are screens embedded into the walls that read out my vitals from sensors attached to my wrists, chest, and temples. Except, the technology is years out of date, usable, but clunky and sluggish. The room is clean and well-maintained, but the white walls have faded with time and cracks spider-web across the surface.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll just call my assistant and have them pick me up early. I have a show in two days and we start shooting two days after that, I think. Actually, I’m not sure. Everything’s so hazy in my mind. I don’t even know what day or time it is or where the hell I’m at, but there’s no way I can take any time off now. I’m never able to take vacations so I certainly don’t have time for a rehab stint. They must know that. I need to get ahold of Kevin. As my talent manager, he’ll help me make sense of all this.
I climb out of the bed and scurry over to one of the computer screens, despite the soreness in my stomach that must have come from them pumping the drugs from my system, and frown. The dark green backdrop and flashing readouts don’t look like any other operating system I’ve ever used. Maybe it’s some sort of retro deal? I press menu options randomly, hoping to find a familiar command, to no avail.
What in the hell place have they stuck me in?
The aching in my stomach increases and I remember the dream. The waves of pain. It should scare me how much I’ve let the drugs take over my life, but there are worse things than risking my health to cope with my choices.
I block out the soreness as I move to a different screen. This one sets off an alarm the moment I touch it and I whirl around in surprise, my body screaming in protest. Wetness floods my panties and for the first time in a long time, I feel the stirrings of embarrassment. Have I really fallen so far that I can’t even control my bodily functions?
As the alarms blare in the background, I stumble around the room and search for the bathroom. There’s no way in hell I’ll let anyone see me in this state. They may require confidentiality at places like this, but gossip is a hot commodity and everyone can be bought if the price is right. I’m living proof of that.
I find the bathroom on the second try. The first door contained a supply closet with more outdated technology, including odd breathing masks, tablet screens and handheld devices. I don’t even want to know what the bodysuits are for.
A shower will help clear my mind. Then everything will start making sense.
I waste ten minutes trying to figure out the controls for the odd shower stall until I give up. When the attendants come back, I’ll have them show me how to use it. Until then, I’ll just change out of my dirty clothes and hope I don’t smell. I strip from the hospital gown and throw it in a corner.
I almost do the same with my serviceable underwear—then I spot the blood.
My vision swims and my ears ring so loudly, I can no longer hear the alarm. I force myself to discard the panties along with the hospital gown. Then I give myself instructions. First step, use the washcloth on the lip of the sink to wash as best you can. Find the soap, Aria. Wash your body, Aria. Don’t imagine what horrors caused the blood. Don’t think. That’s the number one rule. Don’t think. Just do.
Act like reality is the lie and fantasy is the truth.
I don’t know how long I stand in front of the mirror once I’ve done a cursory washing. Too long. Not long enough. The alarms blare until I can’t hear my own thoughts—which is probably a good thing.
When they shut off, I know I’m no longer alone. The silence is deafening, palpable. I thought I couldn’t be more ashamed of the situations I put myself in, but I was wrong. This must be a new low.
I brace myself for their judgement as I hear voices on the other side of the bathroom door. They’ll whisper behind their hands. Give me pitying glances. It won’t be long before my latest stunt winds up on every tabloid from sea to shining sea, but I won’t let them break me. I’ll face them, then my talent manager, and I’ll be Aria Delaney, the A-list actress and party girl they want me to be. And I’ll do it with a smile.
The door opens and I take one last moment to breathe before I finish my ablutions. I locate another paper gown in a cabinet to dress in and pray blood won’t continue to drip down my legs. With sluggish movements, I put the gown on and then step toward the door and turn to face my fate.
Instead of the nurses I’m expecting, I find the men from my nightmares.
All ten of them squeeze into the tiny hospital room and try to wedge themselves in the doorway. Their big, broad shoulders don’t quite fit, and three of them get stuck in the door. It would be comical if it weren’t so terrifying.
I knot my hands together, between my breasts, and blink. Flora isn’t normally hallucinogenic, but sometimes it comes laced with other drugs with varying side effects. That’s all.
“Help,” I croak to anyone but the monsters crowding my way.
They all snap their eyes to mine the moment I speak.
“Step back,” comes a commanding, oddly accented voice. “Let Avrell have room or I’ll throw every rekking one of you out into The Graveyard.”
Rekking?
The Graveyard?
What is this madness?
The three in the doorway move back obediently, but their eyes strain to see me around two more who take a step forward. One of whom is clearly in charge—the one who’d leaned over my bedside when I’d woken up before. There’s no way I’d ever forget his face. Not only because it was so odd, but because he’d looked at me with such contempt.
The other by his side bears no such expression, and I immediately prefer his presence.
“Hello,” the kind one says. “My name is Avrell Dracarion. Do you understand my language?”
“Yes,” I croak. “How?”
One of the other aliens waves at me and smiles, baring not one but two upper fangs on each side of his mouth. Like a double dose of vampire. Twice as many deadly teeth. “The name’s Sayer, linguistics specialist,” he says, his grin growing wider. I’m sure he thinks he’s being friendly but I can’t stop staring at his teeth that look way too sharp for my comfort. “You can understand us because Uvie and I have worked for years on inputting all neighboring planetary languages into the mainframe. Right, Uvie?”
A computerized woman speaks. “Correct. Each mort has been implanted with a specially designed language interpretation unit that allows them to speak and understand languages that have been input into the system. The moment you spoke, it enacted their interpretation units. Their brains work behind the scenes to do all the computing, so that it comes naturally for the morts. Some words, however, won’t translate due to interplanetary slangs that may have formed since the last update to the language mainframe.”
Speaking of brains, mine hurts. I’m dreaming. This is all in my head. But they all stare at me in an expectant way. Vivid and real. They’re not going away.
I lick my lips as I glance back and forth between them. “What’s going on?”
The two before me share a look, then the one called Avre
ll says, “Please, don’t be frightened.”
“I’m way the hell past frightened.” It was a miracle my knees didn’t simply give out right from under me. “You…I don’t even know what you are. I don’t know what’s happening. I just want to go home, please.”
“We aren’t going to hurt you.” Avrell holds up his hands. Large, pale white hands with bony, oddly protruding knuckles. What’s most frightening though are the half-inch black claws on the tips of each of his fingers. Sharp and brutal. Something that would belong to a wild animal. Claws that look like they could peel my flesh right from my bones. My heart pounds quicker in my chest. “We aren’t going to hurt you,” he repeats and takes a slow step forward. I inch back in response.
The tall one next to Avrell sighs as if annoyed and crosses his arms over his chest.
“Who are all of you? What are you?”
“I am a healer.” He places a hand on the shoulder of the giant next to him. “This is Breccan Aloisius, the chief commander of the facility. This is our planet, Mortuus.”
“Is she healthy or isn’t she, Av?” one of them asks from the hospital room beyond.
There is a murmuring of agreement from the group.
The giant barks out what must be a command to the group, and the men file out of the room while shooting me curious looks.
“Please, tell me what’s going on.”
The giant steps forward. “We’ve brought you to our planet because we are the last of our race.” He glances down at my feet and then up along my thighs. His mouth twists. “It doesn’t seem as though you will be of any help. Your implantation was unsuccessful.”
I follow his gaze and find my inner thighs coated with blood. “Implantation?”