The Forgotten Commander (The Lost Planet 1)

I’ve explored the facility with free rein. I couldn’t quite bring myself to use the armband to access the other girls in cryo, not yet. They were safe and so was I—for now. Best for me to learn as much about the facility as I could while I had the opportunity.

So far, in addition to tagging along with Oz, I’ve spent time with Avrell in the medical bay, treating sprains and wounds of the various inhabitants. By far the most frequent patient is the dark and broody Draven, who I have yet to gather the courage to approach alone. Breccan mentioned he’s a little crazy, so I’ve kept my distance. The other morts have spoken to me in passing, but most are too bamboozled by my presence to maintain a conversation. They may be intimidating in stature and appearance, but underneath, I’m learning they’re really quite…human.

“How long?” I ask after a few moments of companionable silence.

“Pardon me?”

“How long has it been just the ten of you living in this place?”

The outside world—The Graveyard, as they call it—is a dangerous place with countless ways to suffer a painful death. The radiation and sabrevipes are just the start.

For the first time, Oz pauses his tinkering and his eyes flick to me. His ears lie flat and his eyes turn to narrow slits, in an action I’ve come to learn means they’re on the offensive, preparing to attack or are experiencing extreme emotion. Then, a few seconds later, his muscles unclench and he relaxes. After a long, fraught pause, he says, “It’s been so many revolutions, I’ve lost count. Before you arrived, we’d lost hope. For a long time, we were preparing to greet death. Breccan—” He breaks off with a sharp look at me.

I’d be kidding myself if I said I wasn’t interested. “Breccan what?”

“There’s a contingency plan in place if we are ever overcome by another disease like the one that wiped out our people.”

“Contingency plan? And what does this have to do with Breccan?” Despite myself, my pulse quickens in my throat. Knowing Breccan, it can’t be good, or rather, it’ll be something that’ll make me want to throttle him.

“You shouldn’t worry yourself. Now that you and the other little aliens are here, we have nothing to worry about. Avrell is as good with medicine as I am with machines. They’ll have you pregnant with little mortlings in no time and all will be well.”

I hold my tongue against explaining that any mortlings have been put on hold. I can’t steal the hopeful gleam in his eye, not when we’ve gotten along so well all morning. Aside from Hadrian and Avrell, Oz is the only other mort I’ve been able to have a conversation with.

“What about Breccan, Oz? As the future mother of his children, I have a right to know.”

He sets the tablet aside and scratches at his thick, long hair. It’s even longer than mine, and if I’m being completely honest, I’m a little jealous of how it falls in inky black waves down his muscular shoulders. “When The Rades struck, our numbers suffered greatly. We did everything we could to save who we could, but many lives were lost. Nearly all of them. We’re still unsure if we’re susceptible to contracting it out there beyond the facility. It’s a risk and a constant worry.”

“That explains your obsession with germs and cleanliness.”

“Exactly, little one.” He beams at me like a proud older brother, and his affection and pride warm my heart. “When we were able to regroup, Breccan, as our leader, thought it important to create a plan in case we were ever struck by the disease again. We argued with him for many solars, but he wouldn’t be swayed.”

My guts churn, and I don’t think it’s from the strange grains they served me for breakfast. “What does he want to do?”

Oz, no longer able to stay in one place, moves around the mechanical wing he shares with Jareth and Theron. “You must understand the disease…it’s terribly painful for those who contract it. Blistering wounds. Phantom pains. Delirium. It’s also highly contagious. No one caught The Rades when Draven did which is by miracle—one that Avrell and Calix were both baffled by. It is assumed though that if one of us were to fall ill, it’s all but certain we all would. We can’t hope for another pardon like with Draven. As the commander, Breccan will take it upon himself to limit our suffering, if it comes to that.”

Had they opened a hatch? Because it seems like all the air has been sucked from the room. “Limit your suffering?” I repeat. “What does that mean?”

“It means, little one, that if we get sick again, Breccan will send us to The Eternals and then take his own life. No mort wants to live alone. It’s bad enough being forced to live without a mate—to a mort, that’s as close to death as one can be. But for one of us to live alone for the rest of our life, it would be a fate worse than death.”