The Vanished Specialist (The Lost Planet 2)

I don’t have time to give it any thought because an explosion of sound crashes right outside the door and I let out a screech of terror. “Calix?”

He’s dressed in his own gear and gestures for me to precede him through the door. Wind—harsh and unrelenting—assaults us hard, nearly knocking me off my own feet. Luckily, Calix is strong and is able to guide me to the vehicle. “Get on and wait for me.”

I shake my head, my gaze full of the growing storm. “No, let me help you.”

Calix tips my chin up with a clawed finger. “No, lilapetal. I want you where I can keep you safe. Stay here. I’ll be back.”

He waits until I’ve buckled myself in the dust-mobile, which I do without further protest because arguing will only take longer, then he jogs back to the structure. I take my eyes off him only to glance at the rumble of clouds. It had been so easy to forget the dangers that lurked outside of our little sanctuary while his hands were on me, so easy to lose myself in the mastery of his touch. Was this, like my illness, a punishment?

Calix returns a few tense minutes later, revs up the dust-mobile, and we shoot into the shadowy tendrils of clouds. I’m in charge of holding onto his zenotablet that guides us on where to go.

I don’t speak for a while, letting him navigate the treacherous terrain without distraction with my heart pounding in my throat.

“Do not worry, sweet-one. Everything is going to be fine.”

Whatever response I was going to have is cut off by the thunderous roar of noise that fills the protective bubble of the dust-mobile. I slap my hands over my head and fold myself in two, trying to take up the least amount of space possible. My first thought is entirely selfish. No, I’m not ready to leave yet. Then, my worry shifts to Calix. Is he hurt? Beside me, I hear him grunting and cursing, then another tremendous roar and a loud clap that I can feel deep down in my bones.

“Magnastrikes,” I hear Calix shout as the dust-mobile begins to jerk wildly. “Stay down.”

I want to look up to make sure he’s okay. I want to reach out a hand to touch him, but my muscles are locked with indecision.

The dust-mobile runs over something, throwing me into the air, then slamming me back down on the seat with enough force that I bite clear through my lip. Blood and saliva pool in my mouth, drip down my lips and onto the visor, splattering across my field of vision. I brace one hand on the dash in front of me to stabilize as we crash and bump across rocky terrain.

I have one second where I turn my head and see a flash of Calix against the angry red sky, then I’m thrown against the dash and all goes dark.

The scent of burnt plastic and hot metal fills my nose, even with the protective helmet and rebreather, causing me to wheeze and choke as I struggle back to consciousness. The parts of me that had been so sated with pleasure from last night now scream out in protest as I try to push myself upright. Blinded by the blood pooled on the inner portion of my visor, I suck in a deep breath and detach it. Then, I carefully set up the external rebreather, designed somewhat like a diver’s apparatus, that covers my mouth and nose. My lip is still bleeding, but it’s begun to clot. Without the bloodied visor, I peer through the shadowy interior of the dust-mobile, hoping to find Calix uninjured.

Please, let him be okay.

“Calix?” I call out, my voice wobbly and distorted from the external rebreather. “Are you all right?”

Ropes of wire and insulation drape down from the ceiling like ghostly intestines and I claw my way across them to get to his side. I find him slumped against the shattered window, unconscious.

“Calix?” I reach out a tentative hand and gently shake his shoulder. “Wake up. We have to keep moving.”

The storm is right on us. We have to get our ride repaired and get back on the road as soon as possible before it’s too late. Climbing across the center console, I perch awkwardly as I survey his injuries and the overall damage.

Aside from what looks like a head injury of sorts, Calix doesn’t seem to be bleeding from anywhere else, but I’m no doctor and head injuries can be serious. Impotent tears leak from my eyes as I take off his own visor and clamp the external rebreather to his mouth so I can better asses his wounds, even though I know there’s next to nothing I can do about them.

I mop up the blackish-red-colored blood on his face as best as I can with a spare bit of cloth I find. The large gash near his temple is leaking blood more freely than makes me comfortable, so I tie a makeshift bandage around it. That’s the best I can do for now, until I make sure we’re both safe from the storm. I don’t know how the hell I’m going to do that, but I’ll have to think of something.