The Mad Lieutenant: The Lost Planet Series, Book Three

by Webster, K

  The Mad Lieutenant

  Copyright © 2019 K Webster & Nicole Blanchard

  Cover Design: IndieSage

  Photo: Shutterstock

  Editor: Emily Lawrence

  Formatting: IndieSage

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  About The Mad Lieutenant

  The Lost Planet Series Note

  Prologue

  1. Molly

  2. Draven

  3. Molly

  4. Draven

  5. Molly

  6. Draven

  7. Molly

  8. Draven

  9. Molly

  10. Draven

  11. Molly

  12. Draven

  13. Molly

  14. Draven

  15. Molly

  Epilogue

  Join The Faction

  Acknowledgments

  About K Webster

  Also by K Webster

  About Nicole Blanchard

  Also by Nicole Blanchard

  About The Mad Lieutenant

  Her voice brought me back from the darkness, but I don’t want the sweet relief she promises. Unlike the rest of the morts on my planet, I don’t want a mate. Especially not her.

  She’s loud, boisterous, and doesn’t take no for an answer.

  Unlike the rest of the alien females my brothers have woken from cryosleep, Molly doesn’t find my growls intimidating. The more I try to ignore her, the more she tries to befriend me.

  I’d been taken captive once by the virus that nearly killed me. I bear its scars, not only on my body, but in my thoughts. No woman, not even one as beautiful as Molly, can heal me.

  I don’t want her, but she needs me.

  The Lost Planet Series Note

  In the beginning, there were many who survived the initial blasts of radiation and the resulting catastrophic environmental disturbances. The morts, the only inhabitants of Mortuus, The Lost Planet, ever changed from the effects of the radiation, learned to adapt and, more importantly, to survive. In doing so, they became highly skilled and intelligent, capable of surviving even the worst conditions.

  The planet was dangerous, and life wasn’t easy, but the morts had each other and that was all that mattered. They flourished in the protective shell of an abandoned building they converted into living quarters. Morts were given jobs, trained from birth in order to pass knowledge from generation to generation. Eventually, the morts hoped to extend the facility and conquer the wild, untamable outdoors.

  Then, disaster struck.

  The Rades, a disease contracted from complications of the radiation, began to infect increasing numbers of their population. First, there was fever, followed by sores, then finally madness and, inevitably, death. Quarantining the infected helped, but by then it was too late. Women, children, and the elderly were the first to go. One by one, morts caught The Rades and died. Whole families wiped away.

  Until only ten males remained.

  Salvation came years later when the morts discovered a ship filled with aliens—female aliens. Knowing it was their only chance at survival, they snuck on a passing ship and brought the females home to study—and to breed.

  It was their only chance at survival.

  Three females have been claimed. Two remain.

  Prologue

  Draven

  Three Solars Later

  I step through the small Decontamination Bay still sizzling from a near miss of a magnastrike. My sub-bones feel as though they’re alive and crawling with energy from the blinding white of the magnastrike that melted the back of my suit.

  I was nearly rekking killed by the elements, yet it didn’t threaten to consume my mind like this facility does. The familiar roaring inside my nog comes raging to the forefront like a pack of hungry sabrevipes eager to feast on my sanity.

  Stop thinking about it.

  My skin crawls as I quickly dart my gaze back at the exit. I can escape if I need to. I’m not trapped here.

  I’m not trapped.

  I’m not trapped.

  I can escape if I want.

  Heat, nothing to do with my near miss with the magnastrike, burns through me. This heat was something that caught fire within me when I’d contracted The Rades. With the fire came the maddening thoughts. The voices. The terror. The darkness. The pain.

  Inside my chest, my heart is pounding to the point I feel dizzy. The past three solars, aside from the horrible geostorm, were freeing. When Breccan asked for a volunteer to take Calix and his mate the necessary supplies they needed at Sector 1779, I’d jumped so fast at the chance, I made all the morts around me startle.

  This place is a prison.

  My mind is a prison.

  This rekking planet is a prison.

  And despite it all, everyone around me seems happy. Hopeful even. When Theron and Sayer brought back the aliens, it was as though all the morts were brought back to life. As though they had purpose again.

  Everyone but me.

  The arrival of the females only further aggravated my mind. Their soft, sweet voices remind me of my mother. Of a past where I once laughed and had purpose. I don’t laugh anymore. I don’t do anything aside from trying to live solar by solar. The only time I feel some semblance of peace is when I’m in The Tower. And since this geostorm has been ravaging us for nearly a revolution, I haven’t spent hardly any time at all up there. This trapped feeling only intensifies each solar.

  At one point, I’d looked at the stars beyond and wondered if I could ride with Theron in the Mayvina. Maybe the trapped feeling would lessen if I was off this rekking planet. But all that died when the females arrived. They rooted us here. I can see it in Breccan’s eyes. He wants to make Mortuus a real home again. Everyone spends countless hours making new plans on how to make our lives better. They look at the future.

  I’m stuck in the past.

  So often my mind drifts to those dark times when I was captive to that disease. Despite healing from it physically, it has left its wicked mark on my brain. I’ll never be free of The Rades. Rekking never.

  I’m tearing off my zu-gear as I leave the rigorous cleansing in the small Decontamination Bay when Hadrian saunters up to me, eyes wide and excited.

  “The mortyoung is coming! You’re just in time!” he bellows. “What did you get?”

  His fast talking and energetic movements make me tense. I eye the west entrance door. So close. Ignoring my urge to flee, I reach into my satchel and bring out Calix’s notes.

  “The supplies Breccan was hoping for do not exist. I searched Sector 1779 myself. However, there are important notes that will be helpful. Plus—”

  “We can rekking communicate now thanks to you,” he says with a crooked grin. “Females talk a lot. Like a lot. I am thankful Aria has another female to yammer to. Usually Breccan feigns ‘work’ and leaves me to listen to Aria’s never ending tales. She and Emery spoke for nearly half a solar over the smell of a mortyoung�
�s hair.” He groans. “Hours and hours, Draven.”

  Hadrian talks more than either female, so I’m not sure what he’s complaining about.

  I eye the west entrance door again. It’s not too late. I could go back to Sector 1779. It was a little quieter there. The trapped feeling wasn’t so bad there.

  Boom!

  A loud magnastrike makes the entire facility shake, and then we’re plunged into total darkness.

  I freeze as my heart rate spikes.

  I am not trapped. I can escape. Even in the dark. I can get away.

  Within seconds, though, everything comes back to life, and we’re bathed in light once more. I let out a ragged breath of relief.

  Aria’s pained scream echoes from what must be Avrell’s lab. It reminds me too much of my past—when The Rades consumed my rekking everything.

  “Go assist,” I bark out. “I’ll check to make sure everything stays up and running.”

  He runs off without another word and disappears into Avrell’s lab. Usually Oz or Jareth would handle this sort of thing, but I don’t want to be anywhere near a screaming female as she delivers her mortyoung. Rekk no.

  Instead, I head in the opposite direction, checking rooms as I go. Everything on the south side of the facility is in working order. I pass Avrell’s lab and block out the screaming as I head for the north area of the facility where the females’ sub-faction exists. When I get a whiff of an electrical burning, I take off running. Even focused on my task ahead of me, I count doors, exits, windows. I’ve memorized them all in this facility, yet I can’t help but check and double-check. When I reach the source of the smell, I let out a hiss of frustration. The cryochamber room. Three cryotubes remain. I hate going in this room. Seeing them trapped inside makes me panic. The urge to free them is nearly overwhelming. I don’t even like them, but I don’t want them trapped. If anyone knows how horrible it feels to be trapped, it’s me.

  But the last time one was hastily freed, she nearly died. Aria yanked Emery out, and it caused an uproar within our ranks. It was voted that they will remain there, sleeping, until it can be decided on when and how to safely wake them.

  Slowly, I walk into the room. Smoke comes from one of the cryotubes. I detach the wires from the standing pod, grab one of the misters, and douse the flames before they can spread.

  Pop.

  Hiss.

  Those two sounds send alarm racing through me. Without thinking, I did exactly what I’ve been told not to do.

  Don’t wake them.

  I scramble away from the cryotube now that the fire is safely put out and rush to the east door of the cryochamber room. The cool air on the back of my neck—the feel of freedom just behind me—calms me considerably.

  I will tell Breccan the geostorm electrical surge caused it.

  I will lie.

  His warnings to put anyone who messes with the cryotubes into a reform cell has my entire body trembling. When I was eaten up with The Rades, I was forced into one. To protect me from myself. To protect others from me.

  I can’t go back there.

  Not now. Not ever.

  Turning, I decide to bolt, but a sound stops me.

  Whimpering at first.

  Then crying.

  Sad, fearful crying.

  RUN!

  RUNRUNRUNRUN!

  Yet my useless boots stay planted to the ground. The lid of the cryotube creaks open. I’m frozen in horror as the alien climbs out of the pod, trembling badly. Her hair is like the other two aliens if you were to mix them together. Light, the color of the sun on top, and dark underneath. It hangs in long, messy waves, covering her breasts. She’s not as small as the other two aliens. Her bones are larger. She carries more meat. Maybe this one is stronger. Maybe I haven’t hurt her.

  Her nog darts all around as she takes in the space, her gaze falling first on the door behind me and then a quick look at the west door behind her. Then, her eyes meet mine. Brown eyes. Wide. Terrified. Spilling liquid. She takes a step toward me, her bottom lip trembling. I take a step back. When she reaches her hand forward, I take another step back.

  “H-Help me,” she croaks.

  She steps forward again and again and again. I stumble back until I crash against the wall beside the door.

  Trapped.

  My nog darts left and then to just behind her. Exits on two sides of this room.

  RUN!

  Then her declawed fingers clutch onto my bare arms. All of my minnasuits have been modified to keep my arms free of anything that will touch and chafe my scars. She clings to me, her naked front pressing against me, and I choke on my terror.

  I’m trapped.

  I’m rekking trapped.

  Everything turns black.

  I go down, taking the alien with me.

  Helpmehelpmehelpme.

  Those words are hers or mine or both.

  I don’t know.

  I don’t know.

  I don’t rekking know.

  I’m trapped.

  “Help me.”

  This time, I know it’s me.

  I’m pleading for anyone who will listen.

  The black is swirling around me as my world spins. Her breath is hot near my neck, scalding me. Her words mirror mine. The darkness steals me this time, our words echoing back and forth into nothingness.

  “Help me.”

  I’m trapped.

  There is no getting away.

  This alien will be the death of me.

  1

  Molly

  The cold is the first thing I notice. At first, I’m confused, then dismayed. Has the power been turned off again? I paid the bill on time. There’s no reason why the heat shouldn’t be working. Dismay shifts to frustration and anger. I work hard, so hard, to make everything work, but there’s always another battle to fight, another catastrophe to avert.

  It’s my mother’s voice that pulls me back from the blues. “Heavens to Betsy, Molly, it’s not the end of the world.”

  She’d say that about everything. No problem was too big to conquer for my mother.

  Then, I catch the acrid scent of burnt plastic and smoke.

  My eyes fly open, but it’s not my small apartment that greets me. The dark room is lit by bright blue lights from standing containers that remind me of the sarcophaguses I’d seen in a magazine once. I was never rich enough to afford to see such fancy things, but I enjoyed looking at the pretty pictures. Inside the windows of the containers opposite me, there are faces of two other slumbering women.

  I lift my arm to rub my eyes. What a strange dream! But my hand knocks against a wall. Frowning, I look down and find a length of metal in front of me, blocking my hand. I’ve never had many phobias, but claustrophobia rockets up on my list of things I never want to try again.

  “Hello?” I call out to the women in the tubes across from me. The sound of my voice reverberates throughout my container. Neither of them reacts.

  The haze in my head clears, and panic replaces it. Where am I? How did I get here?

  I try to push on the door in front of me, but it doesn’t budge at first. That’s not good, Molly. Don’t panic, don’t panic. I grit my teeth and focus on getting the door open. The surface inside the container is smooth, some sort of cushioned material. At least the bastards who put me here want me to be comfortable. I glance down at my body, noting my nakedness. Well, maybe not so comfortable. Don’t panic.

  With some effort, I’m able to wiggle the door open, but not by much. “Is anyone there?” I try again, hoping the crack in the door will help. None of them move. My heart stutters as it occurs to me that maybe they’re dead. I slam my fists against the glass until they’re battered, bruised, and trickling blood from split knuckles.

  I have to get out of here. I have to.

  Despite my best efforts, the tears fall. Fear engulfs me. What if I’m alone here? What if they’ve already killed everyone I love?

  The smell of burnt plastic has me attacking the door with renewed
strength, leaving bloody streaks on the impeccable white cushion. I don’t know how long I shove and push against the door, but eventually, something cracks and the door inches open. Freezing, I think I’m a little shocked it worked. A haze of smoke leaks into the coffin I’m in, and I cough.

  It occurs to me as the door begins to creak open that maybe I was safer inside than whatever waits for me outside the safety of the container. My whole body shakes with a combination of fear, adrenaline, and apprehension. I’m incredibly exposed without clothes and alone in a strange place—more vulnerable than I’ve ever been in my life. I don’t want to cry, I hate crying, but I find myself sobbing harder. No amount of my mother’s voice calms me down.

  I blink rapidly to clear my vision of the tears, but it’s no use. They spill out over my cheeks and drip onto my bare stomach. Surveying the strange room, I step out into what looks like a watery grave from the eerie, blue-green light emanating from the strange, coffin-like tubes. My gaze lands on a odd figure. It’s massively tall, filling the entire doorway. And pale. Ghostly pale. I’m so focused on getting back home, fear leaves me for a moment.

  I take a hesitant step forward. The figure moves back in response. I pause, my brow furrowing. It seems afraid of me, but that can’t be right. I stumble a little and reach out my hand. The figure steps back again. Maybe it’s confused.

  “H-Help me,” I say, and my voice sounds like I haven’t used it in a thousand years, which strikes me as strange. How long have I been here? Oh God, could it have been days? Or worse, much, much worse, years?