The Mad Lieutenant: The Lost Planet Series, Book Three

by Webster, K

  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 of 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.”

  Imagining the female with Hadrian or Theron has more anger rippling through me. I don’t rekking care... So why am I ready to knock the rogshite out of one of those two?

  “I prefer to be alone. Let someone else have her.” I narrow my eyes at him. “You?”

  He shifts his eyes away. “I don’t want her.”

  “Sayer?”

  “He doesn’t want her either,” he snaps sharply at me.

  We both grow quiet. For a moment, I feel a pang of protectiveness over her. Why do they not want her? Because she is more solidly built than Emery or Aria? Are these morts so insecure that they need a fragile mate to feel better about themselves?

  “She was chasing after you when we found her,” Jareth says with a sigh. “This one is much friendlier than the other two were. Healthy, too. I think, perhaps, she found comfort in you somehow.”

  I snarl from behind my mask. She made me a weak, blubbering mess. Her simple, harmless touch sent me hurtling into the madness of my mind.

  But then…

  I try to ignore the memory.

  I will survive.

  Somehow, sweetly spoken words that felt like they moved and tickled my skin dragged me from the vast void inside my nog. When I came back to, I fled from her. A shudder ripples down my spine.

  “Think about it,” he says. “Now come on. I’ll help you get the armworms decontaminated.”

  “Careful,” I tell him, ignoring his earlier words over about the female altogether. “The female armworm has eggs in her.”

  He makes a loud sound of excitement before grabbing up the bag. We make our way back inside, the crushing, trapped feeling when I’m indoors nearly suffocating me. Just inside the doors, we step into a mini decontamination stall and take the time to clean off our suits first. Then, we wash the armworms before transferring them to a sterile bag. We exit the decontamination stall and carry on our way. The descent is filled with Jareth’s voice as he talks about some book Sayer is working on. I’m only half listening.

  My mind is back on the female.

  “Molly.”

  I look at him in confusion as he pulls off his mask at the bottom of the stairs. “What is this strange word?”

  He laughs, baring his double fangs at me. “It’s her name, mortarekker. Your mate.”

  I growl as I yank off my mask. “She is not my mate. Take care of that tongue, or I’ll take care of it for you.”

  “Oooh, I’m rekking terrified,” he says, feigning fear. It makes me want to thump him right between his eyes.

  “Leave my presence, pest.”

  He snorts. “You’re lucky we’re trapped here with you. Otherwise you wouldn’t have any friends.”

 
His choice of words has my sub-bones cracking in my neck and my ears flattening against my nog. The smile falls from his mouth as he realizes his misstep, and I relax once more.

  “Enough with the amusement,” he says, growing serious. “Remember what I said about Molly. She needs a good mate. Someone who doesn’t want to use her to breed like a rogcow. As much as I’m looking forward to our race thriving again, I don’t think the same way as Breccan. He may be our commander, but he sometimes gets so set in his ways. Molly needs friends, not five morts hovering over her just waiting for her to bend over so they can spurt their seed in her.”

  I whirl around, fury rising up so quick I swear my vision turns crimson. “They threaten to take her against her will?” The roar that erupts from me vibrates off the walls.

  He flinches and quickly shakes his nog. “N-No, Draven. I’m only saying they want her for a mate.”

  As I follow him through the doors and we shed our zu-gear, I can’t help but replay his words. Five morts. Not myself. Not Breccan or Calix as they already have mates. And not Sayer and Jareth. Because they don’t want mates either for some reason.

  Hadrian, Galen, Oz, Avrell, and Theron.

  Hadrian may be the youngest mort, but I see the way his eyes linger on Breccan and Aria, jealousy flickering in them. Galen, our faction’s botanist, always seems to be sneaking peeks at the females. Ozias may have his nog down tinkering on his projects, being he’s our mechanical engineer, but I’ve watched him on more than one occasion licking his lips whenever Aria is near, his projects easily forgotten. Theron, our rekking crazy pilot and navigator of the Mayvina, has been quite vocal about taking a mate. And then there’s Avrell. He may be our doctor and looks after the health of these alien females, but I’ve felt the longing coming from him in waves. I know he desperately craves a mate.

  I stride past Jareth down the corridor on a path to anywhere but near him and his maddening words until voices in the sub-faction have me halting. Jareth chuckles as he passes with our bag of armworms. Ignoring him, I peek my head into the sub-faction. The new female—Molly—sits on the lounger in the middle of the room with Sayer at her side and with Oz and Galen standing nearby. Both Oz and Galen seem enraptured by whatever it is she’s saying. I watch as she speaks with her hands. Big gestures. Wild movements. And she doesn’t even need to use them because her voice…