The Lonely Orphan (The Lost Planet 5)

“Maybe you shouldn’t be the nurse,” I say absentmindedly. All I can think about is how strong the monster had felt when I was clamped against him. His powerful arms could have crushed me, but he was surprisingly gentle. I shake my head to clear my mind of the memory. “You’re far too interested in maiming instead of healing.”

She snorts, but doesn’t answer. A lot about Zoe goes unanswered. Willow and I have a lot in common. We both did what we had to do in order to leave Earth II to find our families—my sister, her mother—though we were kept in cryo headed for Exilium for different lengths of times. That’s what they did. For decades, the ones who were in charge, collected the criminals and held them until their ultimate prison was complete, only to dump us to rot for the rest of our existence. But Zoe has been “in transit” longer than both of us and she doesn’t have any family she’s spoken of—it’s just her. So we have no idea how she landed herself here or what crimes she committed to get herself into the same position we’re in. In the vastness of space, sometimes the only thing I have to hold onto is the memory of Aria and the promise of being reunited with her. Zoe doesn’t have that or anything else to look forward to. Maybe if I were in her shoes, I’d be just as bitter and guarded.

“We can’t kill them. They know where our families are. We have to make them bring my mom back—and Lyric’s sister.” Willow is pacing, energized. I haven’t seen her so pumped since we first overthrew the prison guards. Her red hair is an explosion around her delicate features, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She keeps pushing it away from her face as she paces back and forth. “They have information we need, too. About the planet. What it’s like to live here, really live. If we’re ever going to get out of this prison, it’s information we’ll need to have.”

Zoe isn’t convinced. She leans back in the chair, pushing a pencil behind her ear. Her prison uniform, what all of us wear as there aren’t any alternatives, is starting to show wear. The bright yellow material is faded to a dingy cream and there are patches where the fabric has worn completely away and spots where blood has stained it dark. I make a mental note to search the prison for additional uniforms. “You’re assuming they’re here out of the goodness of their hearts. C’mon, Willow. Don’t be dense. We’ve dealt with monsters like these before. They could have ulterior motives.”

“Monsters?” comes a wispy voice from the command room door.

I turn and find Stella, a wispy woman who’d be beautiful if it weren’t for the ever-present anguish in her features. Her white-blond hair lies lank over her shoulders and a small child clings to her legs, a pale face that peeks out only to dart back into hiding every few seconds.

“What monsters? Is that why you called the code red?” Stella asks. Everything about her is soft, delicate. When I first woke in Exilium, Stella had already given birth to a son, Henry, back on the ship about three years ago, though she wasn’t willing or able to talk about her child’s father. She was one of the few who belonged to those men on the ship while they collected prisoners for decades, only woken up a few years ago and forced into sex long before they ever stepped foot on this wretched planet.

“Big scary ones,” Zoe says, her eyes on the kid.

“Christ, Zoe,” I bite out as the child yelps and hides behind Stella’s legs. To Stella, I say, “Yes, that’s why we called the code, but there’s no immediate threat. We detained the…visitors in the cells. You’re safe.”

“For now,” Zoe adds under her breath, but we all ignore her.

“What do they want?” Stella asks. Her hand goes to Henry’s hair and she begins to play absently, almost as though he’s a real-life security blanket. The action seems to soothe them both.

“We’re not certain, yet,” I answer, hoping Zoe will keep her mouth shut. There’s no need to cause panic amongst the others until we have a more concrete idea what the monsters want.

“Everything will be right as rain. No need to worry,” Willow adds, crouching down to peer at Stella’s son. “Chin up, buttercup.”

“Are you sure we’re safe?” Stella asks.

My shoulders tense as all their eyes turn to me. I feel their expectations like a weight on my shoulders. “I’m sure,” I say firmly. I don’t know if I’m trying to convince them…or me. “It’s almost fifteen hundred. You two should head to the mess hall for dinner.” The cheery tone in my voice sounds false to my ears, but Stella herds the little boy away with promises of dessert.