Dark Planet Warriors: The Serial (Books 1-3)

by Anna Carven

  It all feels very awkward right about now.

  My heart’s still racing, even though I’m dead tired. The injuries and events of the past few hours are taking their toll, and a bone-deep weariness creeps through me.

  I might not need that sedative, after all. I could drop off to sleep right about now.

  But movement catches my attention, and I realize that Zyara’s back, looking at me through the thick glass.

  This feeling of being stared at like an exotic creature is getting old, quickly. I remember, as a kid, going to an orbit-zoo with my dad. They had aliens there, strange looking creatures with oddly shaped limbs and wild coloring. They were put in glass-walled pens, and we gaped at them and took pictures, watching as they shuffled around with a resigned sort of apathy.

  I wonder of any of them were intelligent lifeforms.

  Now I get an idea of how they would have felt. Thank Mars the orbit-zoos were shut down a few years ago.

  “Forget you saw that just now,” I blurt, fighting my rising embarrassment. Why should I feel embarrassed? It wasn’t my fault that a certain oversized, grey musclehead just happened to drop in beside me.

  But deep down, I know why I feel this way. It’s because I liked it. His body felt good against mine, sending a gooey warm feeling all though me.

  I hope I’m not blushing right now.

  Zyara shrugs, trying to hide her curiosity. If she’s anything like a Human chick, she’ll be burning with questions, dying to get the gossip out of me. But she looks like the cool, composed, collected type and we don’t really know each other all that well yet. So of course, she’s not going to ask.

  “Your relationship with the General is none of my business,” she says stiffly, and I wonder if she’s got a secret thing for the big, silver idiot.

  “There’s no relationship,” I respond, without thinking. “He just, uh,” I shake my head. “Never mind. You seem to have worked pretty closely with him. Can I ask you one thing?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Can I trust him?”

  “Of course,” she snaps, in an instant. “General Tarak is well respected on Kythia. He’s served the Empire with honor.”

  It’s an automatic, almost scripted response. Interesting. Who is this Tarak guy, really, that he can inspire such loyalty in his subordinates?

  And there’s no way I can blindly trust him. Not when I’m Human, and he’s Kordolian. He said it himself. Apparently, I’m inferior.

  And now, for reasons I don’t yet fully understand, I’m the subject of my own crazy, space-opera fantasy, hurtling towards an unknown planet that’s too far away for Humans to have ever set foot on.

  Our space cruisers just don’t travel that far.

  Out of reach of my people, unable to run, stuck with aliens I don’t trust. In particular, that big, silver jerk.

  Why would he bring me so many millions of light years just to patch me up? Me? I’m not a valuable asset, I’m just a simple scientist, trying to get a promotion so I can get back to Earth.

  And now I’m impossibly far away from Earth, with no way of getting back on my own.

  Suddenly, the liquid in the cryo-tank feels super cold, and I feel very, very small.

  I try not to think about what might greet me when we reach Kythia, the Kordolian home planet. I don’t want to know.

  For now, it might just be better to escape to the only place I can go.

  “Zyara,” I say, as she fiddles with some machines and monitors, “what are you waiting for? Knock me out. This cold is killing me. Can’t you make it warmer?”

  “That’s not possible, I’m afraid. The low temperature slows cellular damage. If you’re not tolerating it well, I’ll sedate you.”

  I nod, closing my eyes, resigned to my temporary state.

  I’m not looking forward to what happens when we get to Kythia. With my jittery nerves threatening to take over and cause a minor meltdown, I’d rather just sleep.

  Tarak had better be as good as his word and get me fixed. And once I can walk again, I’m figuring out how to return to Earth, even if I have to hijack a Kordolian battle cruiser to get there.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Tarak

  The familiar outline of Kythia comes into view as we approach. From this distance, the Dark Planet is nothing more than a giant shadow, forbidding and mysterious.

  It’s been this way for millions of orbits, ever since the nearest star began to die.

  The surface of the planet is imprinted with a network of glittering lights, the only sign of life on its cold exterior.

  As a species, we have adapted to suit the environment. We see well in the dark and tolerate below-freezing temperatures. And we have mined the precious metal Callidum from the planet’s core, using it to fashion weapons that have no match in the nine galaxies.

  But our race is dying, much like Ithra, the faded star.

  As I guide our Alpha-Class battle cruiser Silence towards our destination, the comm screen lights up.

  “This is Fleet Station One, flight control. Requesting identification.” The Kordolian voice that reaches me over the connection is young and full of vigor.

  “Fleet Station One,” I reply, slightly amused at the flight controller’s enthusiasm. “Since when do you not recognize your own?”

  “We do not have any entries scheduled over the next cycle.” The controller’s response comes back terse and mechanical. He’s sticking to the book. “State your identification code.”

  “Fleet Station, this is General Akkadian, and I am not requesting but ordering you to prepare the dock for landing. And have a medical team on standby. I have one injured on board.”

  There’s a pause, and I catch frantic murmuring in the background.

  “Right away, Sir. And, uh, apologies for not recognizing you.”

  “Identification is part of your job, Controller. You’re technically correct in not relying on the visual alone. So a verbal ID is appropriate.”

  His relief seems to filter through the comm. “Understood, Sir.”

  I guide Silence between a dense array of orbiting defense posts, past stationed freighters and towards the giant Fleet Station. It’s a huge floating mass, suspended in permanent orbit around Kythia. And it’s part of my command.

  As we approach, the docking station opens, revealing the outer airlock.

  A red warning signal flashes, telling me our oxygen supply is about to run out. Ignoring it, I guide Silence into the dock. It lists to one side slightly as I land, unbalanced as a result of the hasty Human repairs that were done on Fortuna Tau. Because of the damage sustained, she’s going to need a major overhaul.

  I thank the Goddess that the Human repairs held long enough to get us back to Kythia. Especially after we navigated a disintegrating wormhole.

  As the airlock depressurizes, I make my way to the medical bay, where Zyara is staring intently at a series of monitors.

  “How is our patient doing?”

  Zyara spins, a startled expression crossing her face. She obviously hadn’t noticed me behind her. But as ever, she regains her composure quickly. “Vitals are stable, although I had to increase the dose of Sylerian to keep her asleep. For some reason, her Human physiology means she metabolizes it faster.”

  I watch Abbey as she gently bobs up and down, suspended in the stasis chamber. The cold liquid of the chamber was proving to be uncomfortable for her, so she opted for sedation for the rest of the journey.

  One thing I’ve learnt about Humans is that they don’t like the cold.

  In sleep, her delicate face is peaceful. Humans are an interesting species. The intel we have on them isn’t much, but from what I’ve read, they’re still a young race. Primitive in their technology, self-destructive in their ideology. Soft-bodied, able to survive only in gentle climates.

  The Kordolian Empire has always dismissed them under the label of ‘non-threatening.’

  I stare at Abbey, taking in her pale, damaged skin, marred by hundreds
of tiny cuts. Her lower body has suffered most, her legs deformed and crushed by the impact of falling from a dizzying height. Purple bruises have spread across her legs and stomach.

  The only things keeping her alive right now are the stasis chamber and the lines Zyara’s stuck into her, providing her with vital liquids.

  So small, so fragile. How do these humans cling so stubbornly to life when they can be crushed so easily?

  She’s vulnerable; imperfect. And yet I find myself drawn to her in a way I can’t explain.

  Maybe it’s this so-called ‘Mating Fever’ Zyara has diagnosed me with. Perhaps I’m conditioned to react to the presence of a suitable female.

  But a Human, of all creatures?

  I’m now questioning why I was so intent on saving her from that poorly resourced Human mining station. I didn’t trust the Human medics to save her and restore her back to normal. Their technology is still primitive. And she’d been hurt because of me; because of us.

  In ordinary circumstances, I would have left her to her own kind. But my only instinct had been to bring her back. She is my responsibility.

  And then, at the height of her helplessness, I’d been compelled to touch her, to be near her. To take her in my arms. She’d looked so alone, so afraid. I’d jumped in the tank with her.

  I’d been aroused. Hard. Filled with almost uncontrollable lust. The only thing stopping me from taking her then and there was the fact that she was injured.

  Never before have I given in to emotion like this. Control is a virtue I live by.

  Perhaps I took this ‘Mating Fever’ business too lightly. Zyara warned me I that need to do something about it. Otherwise, the effects will become stronger. The headaches are already close to unbearable.

  I need to be rational and clear-headed. I can’t afford this sort of shit on the battlefield.

  Perhaps this Human is the answer to this sickness. Maybe I am no better than Rykal after all, unable to control my attraction to the so-called ‘exotic fruit’.

  But first, she needs treatment.

  A soft voice snaps me out of my thoughts. “General?” Zyara is standing by, awaiting orders. She tries to keep the emotion from her features, but one slightly raised lilac eyebrow gives her away.

  “Is there a problem, Zyara?” I can’t help the menace that creeps into my voice. I’m not in the mood for questions. And Zyara knows me too well.

  She holds up a placating hand. “I need to prepare her for transfer to the military hospital. But I don’t know how to explain the situation to the Chief Surgeon. They’re not expecting a Human.”

  “I’ll talk to Mirkel.” I glance at the Human again, observing the way her body sways, gently buffered by the stasis liquid. “Apart from the obvious resemblance, you say they share some biological similarities with us?”

  “I’ve done a DNA analysis,” Zyara replies, returning to her businesslike tone. “Our genetic code is remarkably similar. In fact, I’d say Humans resemble the Early Kordolians most closely. Before the death of our planet’s star billions of years ago, our environments were probably similar. As you know, the building blocks of life are the same, all across the universe.”

  “They resemble our ancestors, before we evolved?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Hm.” I allow the knowledge to stretch the silence between us. We’re both very aware of the potential implications of Zyara’s discovery. “Will she tolerate a nanograft?” I ask finally.

  “Well, theoretically, yes, but medical nanites have been in short supply lately. I doubt they’d authorize that on a Human.”

  “‘They’? This is my Fleet Station, Zyara. And when have you ever known me to blindly follow protocol?” A flare of anger courses through me, fury at the thought that anyone would question my authority. Of course, there will be questions, rumors, perhaps even reports to the Kaiin-cursed High Council. But I would like to think that after serving the Empire with loyalty for so long, I might be granted a little autonomy on the Fleet Station that is under my fucking command.

  Zyara looks at me for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she sighs. “A nanograft is the best way to restore her to her original state. She’s entirely compatible. Physiologically, she’d probably even be stronger after the graft. But you need to talk to Chief Surgeon Mirkel. He won’t listen to me, but he’s scared shitless of you.”

  “Hm.” Mirkel will never, ever forget the day I almost killed him. I was a young recruit then, and he was a junior Medic. Of course, the experiments they carried out on me in those days were obscene.

  Mirkel nearly killed me, and I simply returned the favor.

  He still does his best to avoid me after all this time, sending communications through subordinates. I have no issue with that. As long as he follows my orders and remains loyal to the military, I couldn’t give a shit if he thinks I’m Kaiin, the lord of the Netherworld himself.

  But now, I decide it’s time for Mirkel’s avoidance to end. It’s about time I paid the Chief Surgeon a visit.

  Zyara stares at her holoscreen. “The medical team’s here,” she announces.

  “Then organize the transfer,” I snap. “And let it be known that she’s my property. Anything happens to her, and whoever’s responsible will answer to me directly. I’ll deal with Mirkel.”

  “I’d love to be a witness to that conversation,” Zyara remarks dryly, as I take one last look at Abbey. In sleep, she reminds me of a delicate sculpture; a mythical creature. Even with her injuries, she’s ethereally beautiful.

  Otherworldly. So similar to us, and yet so different.

  I’ve developed an unhealthy, irrational obsession with this female. I let out a derisive snort. A Human, of all beings.

  Perhaps this so-called ‘Mating Fever’ is affecting me more than I thought.

  Abbey

  When I wake up, all I see is dim light and shadows. The first thing I notice is that it’s warm. And there’s no liquid; no horrible, freezing cold.

  Wait. That means I’m not in that awful stasis tank anymore. I sit up, startled, then I lie back down again as my memory returns.

  Both of my legs were broken, right? I shouldn’t be moving.

  But there’s no pain.

  Tentatively, I try to move one foot. Yep, it seems to be fine. And it doesn’t hurt. I wiggle the toes on my other foot, and then, slowly, gingerly, I move my legs.

  They don’t hurt at all. And everything’s intact. Am I dreaming?

  I glance around and see that I’m in a small, spartan room. I’m in a bed, or at least I think it’s a bed. It’s a person-shaped pod, made out of a dark, organic looking substance. It’s not wood or metal or anything I recognize. It’s warm inside. It’s covered in soft, black sheets.

  I sit up, my bare feet touching the floor. I’ve been dressed in dark, flowing robes that are about five sizes too big for me. The fabric is softer than silk, impossibly luxurious and voluminous.

  I’m drowning in mysterious fabric that carries a faint, spicy scent. Like cinnamon, but different.

  I know that smell. It tickles the back of my foggy memory. It reminds me of him.

  I shudder, remembering the feel of his warm skin against mine. Of his big, rough hands on my body.

  Idiot. I should stop thinking about that. I was probably affected by all the drugs they were pumping through me.

  I glance around, trying to get my bearings. Where the hell am I? The last thing I remember was being stuck in a freezing cold stasis tank, mostly against my will, and unable to do a thing about it. And the General was so damn blasé about it all. About me leaving Fortuna Tau, I mean. When it came to everything else, he seemed deadly serious.

  But doesn’t he get that you don’t just take people away from their home planets? That you don’t just separate people from their own species?

  Obviously, he doesn’t. It’s something to do with that weird sense of honor he has. Something about keeping his word. About being responsible for everything.
r />   Stubborn.

  Urgh. Irritating, domineering, control freak. I can’t stand control freaks.

  But if the current state of my legs is anything to go by, he’s been true to his word and gotten them healed.

  Amazing. I flex them experimentally, watching as they peek out underneath swathes of black fabric. There’s not a single break in the skin or sutured wound to be seen.

  It’s as if the accident and my encounter with that disgusting, vomit-inducing creature never happened.

  I drop to my feet, allowing my legs to take my full weight. There’s no pain at all.

  I take a few experimental steps. Everything seems to be working fine.

  What the hell did they do to me? And at what cost?

  I pad across the dark floor, which feels like ice under my bare feet. There’s a closed door to one side. It’s made of that same black, wood-but-not-wood material that the whole room is constructed of. I push on it, but nothing happens.

  A shot of panic rips through me. Am I locked in? Trapped like a prisoner?

  I’m a bit claustrophobic. I don’t like tiny, confined spaces. The thought of being stuck in this dim, warm, creepy little room makes me go a bit funny. My pulse goes up, and I start to feel nauseous. I’m trapped in the confines of some dark, organic thing, and it’s all rather embryonic. As if I’ve been placed back inside the womb.

  I push again, harder this time. Still, the stupid thing won’t budge. I look around for a control panel of some sort, but the way the door joins the wall is seamless.

  I’m breaking out in a cold sweat now, and starting to feel short of breath. My arms are tingling. I can’t think straight.

  I’m having a panic attack. I can’t believe it. I haven’t had one of these in years.

  Calm down, Abbey!

  I start pounding at the door, then I run my fingers along the edges, looking for a gap, a seam, anything weakness I can use to wrench it apart.

  Nothing.

  Damn these Kordolians and their weird technology. I step back, forcing myself to breathe more slowly, trying to calm my racing pulse. I study the door in more detail. It’s made of hundreds of horizontal, interlocking dark strands, like a woven basket.