The Lost Planet Series: Boxed Set: Books 1-5

by K. Webster

  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.

  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?

  The thought propels my feet forward, and I stumble like a puppet on strings with my near-useless legs. The figure retreats until it’s backed against the wall. I continue after it and fall against its body. I cling to its arms to keep my weak body upright. The figure makes a choked sound of surprise, and I begin to babble out pleas. “Help me, please. I don’t know where I am or what’s going on. Please. I won’t hurt you, I promise. I just need to know how to get out of here. How long have I been here? Oh my God. Please help me.”

  The pleading clears my thoughts and cuts through the panic. Only it’s not my own voice I’m hearing, but that of the figure I’m clinging to, who is fighting to pull away from me like my mere touch causes it immeasurable pain.

  “Helpmehelpmehelpme,” it begs.

  It seems to collapse, and I fall with it to the floor, banging my elbow in the process. I’m torn between my natural response to help and my surprise at the gall of this creature, my captor, to beg me to help it. The anger slices through my sorrow, my tears. I scramble away and to my feet. Without my nearness, it seems to blink away its daze, mimicking my movement.

  My vision clears, and I find myself stumbling back from the alien-like being in front of me. My throat closes around the sound of surprise, suppressing it.

  He’s seven feet tall, possibly taller. Massive in the shoulders and thighs. Hands nearly the size of dinner plates. His size alone would be manageable if it weren’t for the ghastly white color of his skin that shines as though it’s iridescent. The jet-black color of his closely-cropped hair and opaque, fathomless quality of his dark eyes contrast against the paleness of his skin. A suit made of some sort of rubbery material covers everything but his face, neck, and arms. It reminds me of an insect’s exoskeleton.

  In short, if I was scared before, the massive something standing in front of me increases that tenfold. At least until it appears that he seems more scared of me than I am of him.

  I realize this is my chance. I could cower and succumb to the panic and fear, but that won’t get me the answers I need to get out of here and go home. I suck back the rest of my tears and take several deep breaths to calm myself.

  You got this, girl. You can do this.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Stepping forward only makes him press back into the wall, so I hold my ground. “I’ll help you.” The words taste as bitter as the smoke still lingering in the room.

  He presses his large hands over those odd eyes and clutches his head as though suffering from an excruciating migraine. Groans rumble in his immense chest, almost lion-like.

  Is he hurt? Did whatever cause the fire hurt him, too? From a short distance away, I observe his body for wounds, but aside from hideous scars on his forearms, I don’t see any others. Unless they’re internal.

  I need to calm him down enough to get some answers, so I do the first thing that comes to mind. The same thing I’ve done to soothe countless times before.

  I sing.

  First, I hum softly, which seems to calm him somewhat, but he’s still shaking and clutching at his head. His sharpened, elongated nails dig into the forgiving flesh of his forearms. I pick the first song that comes to mind and fumble through the words with my unused voice, sounding more like a bull
-frog than anything. But it stills his hands.

  Singing “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor to an alien has to be the weirdest thing I’ve ever done.

  Slowly, torturously, he begins to calm. His trembling eases, though his legs buckle, and he nearly collapses again. When the song ends, I restart it because I’m afraid if I do anything else, my own panic will come back. I go through it three more times before his eyes find mine again, and his hands clench by his sides, still. Blood oozes from his arms, dripping onto the floor between us.

  I slowly approach him, softly crooning the last lines of the song. “Are you all right?” I dare to ask.

  In answer, he shoots away from me, and after waving his arm at a sensor, he causes the door inlaid into the wall beside him to spring open. He disappears out the door. I’m confused for a moment but jump to attention and dart through the opening before I’m locked outside of wherever he’s going.

  I find myself in an empty hallway lit by red, flashing lights. Someone screams nearby, which doesn’t help my level of panic. The tall guy completely disappears around the corner. When I hear voices, I rush after him, almost running right into two other aliens who exit from a different room. They gape at me. I wonder why everyone is so damned surprised to see me.

  One of the new aliens has long, black hair, longer than mine, and it’s twisted into one of those man buns—which is so weird, yet oddly familiar—on top of his head. In his arms, he holds a stack of books. The other reminds me of a mad scientist. His hair shoots up in all directions, and he’s sporting bandages on several of his fingers. They both dart their gazes where the other one ran off to before looking back at me.

  “Mortarekker,” says the one with the man bun. “Did Draven finally lose what was left of his mind? I swear he was running from her.”

  The mad scientist tilts his head, those strange, black eyes observing me. “I don’t doubt it. He can barely stand his own company, and he doesn’t want a mate.”

  Mate?

  He glances toward the room with the containers and repeats the strange word the first said. “Looks like the magnastrike caused the cryotube to malfunction.”

  The first puts the books down on the floor beside him then shrugs out of his jacket. “We were due to wake up another, but Breccan won’t be pleased.”

  “Breccan has other worries at the moment,” says the crazy haired dude.

  The two of them speak to each other so quickly and with such familiarity, I wonder if they’re brothers or maybe best friends.

  I wrap myself in book-guy’s rubbery jacket which is long enough it goes down to my knees. “Thank you,” I say. None of them have tried to hurt me, but I make sure to keep my guard up. The book-guy’s smile is so open and inviting, I want to relax and smile back, but not until I have more answers. “Please, will you explain? Why am I here? What’s going on?”

  Book-guy wraps an arm around my shoulders, and they both turn and lead me down the hallway they came from. “That’s a long story…”

  “Molly,” I supply. “Molly Franklin.”

  “Molly. I’m Sayer, and this is Jareth.”

  I nod to Jareth. “You aren’t—you aren’t going to h-hurt me, are you?”

  Sayer squeezes my arm. “We’re not going to hurt you. We’d never hurt a female.” He sounds offended at the thought. “Right, Uvie?”

  “Affirmative,” a computerized voice chirps from a speaker above us, startling me.

  “Can you tell me where I am?” Maybe then I won’t feel as disconcerted.

  “You’re on the planet Mortuus. We are its last remaining inhabitants.”

  My stomach clenches in emptiness. I lift a hand to my head, wondering if I’m going to swoon. “I’m on another planet? H-how did I get here?” I’m also curious about the other alien I’d encountered, but one thing at a time.

  “It’s best that we let Avrell or Breccan explain things to you,” Sayer says.

  Jareth snorts. “Not likely. They’re both busy at the moment.” A scream punctuates his statement.

  I jump, and Sayer rubs my arm. “What was that?” I envision someone being tortured.

  “Our commander’s mate is giving birth to a mortyoung,” Sayer answers.

  “Don’t worry, she was always a loud one,” Jareth adds.

  This answer is almost worse than someone being tortured, but I switch topics. “There are other women here? Like the ones in the containers?”

  The two nod. “We came upon several alien females, and as our numbers are so few, it was decided we would mate with the females to continue our population,” Jareth explains.

  I push that thought away, too.

  I’m on another planet, trapped with aliens who want to use me to breed.

  Great.

  2

  Draven

  I rush to throw on my zu-gear, desperate for an escape. Unlike the clingy material of my minnasuit, the zu-gear doesn’t bother my itchy arms. I push through the doors that lead to the stairwell that goes to The Tower. I need space. I need to see the vastness of our planet and remind myself I’m not trapped.

  I’m not.

  Before I take my first step of ascent, I snag a gnarly looking magknife off the weapons wall. You don’t go to The Tower unless you’re armed. With the zuta-metal handle tight in my grip, I start climbing the steep stairs. Sometimes, I run as fast as I can to the top. It’s liberating, and for a few moments, my mind is free from dark, soul-shredding clutter.

  Up and up and up, I climb the hundreds of steps. When I reach the outer door that takes me into The Tower that overlooks Mortuus, I take a deep breath, hating that I have to suck in the hot recycled air inside my mask. Just once I wish I could pull the mask off and breathe in the planet’s air.

  But with freely breathing, I’d be inviting those toxins back into my bloodstream. Toxins and pathogens that already nearly destroyed me once. When I contracted The Rades, I barely survived. Despite the maddening inside my mind, I can’t help but cling desperately to this life.

  I crave more than freedom, fresh air, and an escape from the crushing thoughts that assault me each solar.

  I crave happiness.

  My mind is elsewhere when I push through the heavy zuta-metal door. Because of the horrendous geostorm, I have to hold onto the handrails to keep from being shot out one of the windows and into the winds of the storm. With a groan of frustration, I grab one of the harnesses attached to the wall and reluctantly bind myself to it. As much as I love my freedom, I’m not stupid. One false move and I could be swept into The Eternals. My bones would be left out somewhere in The Graveyard for the vicious sabrevipes to feed on.

  No rekking thank you.

  Something heavy thuds down on the floor nearby, and I squint my eyes, searching for the offender. Up here, everything is an offender. Mostly, it’s the armworms you have to watch out for. When the weather is harsh, they like to seek shelter in my shelter.

  Gripping my magknife in one hand and holding onto the handrail with the other, I circle around the observation deck to the back side that’s hidden from me. Just like I assumed, a pair of armworms is crawling around, hissing and spitting venom.

  It’s been many micro-revolutions since I’ve been able to bring Avrell any armworms. He uses the venom for medicinal purposes. With quick movements, despite the raging winds that have sand pinging the glass of my mask, I charge the larger of the armworms. The other seems to be the female, looking to nest. My magknife comes down hard, and I pierce the male armworm through its head, pinning it to the ground. It squirms as the life drains from it. The female realizes I’m a threat and slithers toward me. Its middle is swollen with eggs. I’ll need to be careful not to destroy them. Even though the armworms are terrible for eating, a female armworm’s eggs taste rekking delicious.

  The creature hisses at me, aiming its sharp teeth for my leg, but having dealt with these things for many revolutions, I anticipate its movement. With a slam of my boot, I stomp on its head. Guts splatter out on either side o
f my boot. This one’s venom is gone now, but the eggs are safe. I set to grabbing a decontamination bag then push the carcasses into it. I leave it in a heap by the door and then walk over to my favorite spot.

  The northerly wind nearly knocks me over, so I hold on with both hands and lean into it. Magnastrikes are lighting up the red-orange storm clouds. Everywhere. This storm is one of the worst we’ve seen, but my gut tells me it’ll let up soon. Normally, I can see Lake Acido just beyond the mountain, but not this solar. Currently, I can barely see past the length of my arm beyond The Tower openings.

  I hear another sound behind me, and I whip around, ready to take out more armworms. When I see another mort hooking himself to a harness, I let out a groan. This is usually my private space.

  My comms unit within my suit crackles to life as whoever my visitor is comes near. He grabs hold of the handrail beside me and shakes his head.

  “You’re such an odd rekking mort standing out here in the middle of our history’s worst geostorm,” Jareth says.

  I snort. “Did you come here to insult me?”

  He shakes his head. The wind whistles between us, making it difficult to hear his words. “I came to talk sense into that nog of yours.”

  Sense?

  “I don’t understand,” I grumble.

  “The female.”

  I tense at his words. “The magnastrike set her cryotube on fire. It wasn’t my fault.”

  He chuckles. “I rekking know that. You of all morts would not willingly go against Breccan’s orders, much less free some beautiful female alien just for joy. That’s much more Hadrian or Theron. Not you, Draven.”

  “Your point?”

  He turns slightly to face me. “You need to claim her.”

  Disgust coils in the pit of my stomach like an armworm in a nest. “I will not.”

  “You should.”

  “Why?” I demand, fury rolling through my every nerve ending.

  “Because someone else will.” He pauses. “And you found her. You deserve her.”