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  The Forgotten Commander

  Copyright © 2019 K Webster & Nicole Blanchard

  Cover Design: IndieSage

  Photo: Shutterstock

  Editor: Kelli Collins

  Formatting: IndieSage

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  About The Forgotten Commander

  The Lost Planet Series Note

  1. Breccan

  2. Aria

  3. Breccan

  4. Aria

  5. Breccan

  6. Aria

  7. Breccan

  8. Aria

  9. Breccan

  10. Aria

  11. Breccan

  12. Aria

  13. Breccan

  14. Aria

  15. Breccan

  Epilogue

  Join The Faction

  Acknowledgments

  About K Webster

  Also by K Webster

  About Nicole Blanchard

  Also by Nicole Blanchard

  About The Forgotten Commander

  Our planet, Mortuus, is lost and dying.

  A desolate place where a few lone survivors dwell.

  My men have lost hope. Our future is bleak.

  Longevity is a luxury we can’t afford.

  The most we can hope for is survival.

  We’ve all but given up when an opportunity presents itself.

  Five females—a chance at a future.

  Procuring these women went against everything I’d been taught, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

  They’re ours now.

  Asleep and made ready for breeding.

  We won’t die out—lost and forgotten.

  It’s our destiny to grow and once again inhabit our lonely planet.

  I am Breccan Aloisius, the forgotten commander.

  My people will have the future they deserve.

  I’ll make sure of it.

  My mind is made up…until she wakes and nothing goes as planned.

  The Lost Planet Series Note

  In the beginning, there were many who survived the initial blasts of radiation and the resulting catastrophic environmental disturbances. The morts, the only inhabitants of Mortuus, The Lost Planet, ever changed from the effects of the radiation, learned to adapt and, more importantly, to survive. In doing so, they became highly skilled and intelligent, capable of surviving even the worst conditions.

  The planet was dangerous and life wasn’t easy, but the morts had each other and that was all that mattered. They flourished in the protective shell of an abandoned building they converted into living quarters. Morts were given jobs, trained from birth in order to pass knowledge from generation to generation. Eventually, the morts hoped to extend the facility and conquer the wild, untamable outdoors.

  Then, disaster struck.

  The Rades, a disease contracted from complications of the radiation, began to infect increasing numbers of their population. First, there was fever, followed by sores, then finally madness and, inevitably, death. Quarantining the infected helped, but by then it was too late. Women, children, and the elderly, were the first to go. One by one, morts caught The Rades and died. Whole families wiped away.

  Until only ten males remained.

  1

  Breccan

  Scraaaaaape!

  The sound echoes in the command center but it’s one I look forward to each solar. Every morning at sunrise, my routine is the same. I slide back the zuta-metal door that hides the massive window that covers the entire wall and allow the sunlight in.

  Hot.

  Bright.

  All-consuming.

  I exhale heavily and close my eyes to bask in it. The warmth on my pale white skin heats me to my chilled bones. Ultraviolet rays are harmful to our sensitive flesh but we crave what it offers nonetheless.

  “This journey is imperative to our survival,” Galen repeats for the millionth time this solar cycle.

  I open my eyes just so I can roll them. Gritting my teeth, I drag my gaze from The Graveyard, what we call what’s beyond the window, to our faction’s botanist. “So you’ve said,” I grunt back, a slight edge to my tone.

  Galen frowns and his black irises flicker from round orbs to half-moon slits, a telltale sign of his frustration. Guilt niggles at me for upsetting him. He’s only trying to do his job, and he’s absolutely correct. But as much as I want to test the soil beyond what we can see of The Graveyard, like he’s been suggesting for ages, I’m leery.

  “How are the R-levels in the air?” My eyes dart to my closest friend here, Calix.

  Calix scratches at his jawline and his pointy ear wiggles on his left side, a common trait when he’s deep in thought. His glasses—that once belonged to his father Phalix—sit perched on his head. Phalix perished mysteriously on a trek into The Graveyard. Our best guess was a sabrevipe got him based on the state of his body.

  “Hmm,” Calix says. His nostrils flare as he taps on his zenotablet and the device lights up in response. After a moment of reading the results, he glances up at me with worry marring his features. “Plus point four.”

  “Lethal levels are point eight and above,” our computer system, Uvie, chirps in her feminine, digitized voice.

  Galen lets out a hoot and rises from his chair. If he thinks he’s running out there without some sort of plan, he’s lost his rekking mind.

  “Halt,” I bark out. “Plan?”

  He puts his large hands on his hips and stares out the window, his onyx orbs gleaming with excitement. The lab coat he always wears over his minnasuit is smeared with soil samples that, if I prayed to any gods, I’d pray have been properly decontaminated. By the way Calix hisses when Galen brushes against his chair, I assume he’s just as concerned as I am.

  “There,” he says, gesturing for the horizon with a sharp black claw. “Beyond Bleex Mountain.” He taps the incredibly thick and impenetrable glass, pointing at the highest mountain within our view. Somewhere beyond Bleex Mountain is an old facility that’s long been abandoned. “I want to assemble a team and travel there. Five morts. From my calculations, it would only take three full solars to make it there, at least two solars to collect samples, and then three solars back. The data doesn’t predict any geostorms anytime soon. Perfect travel conditions.” He turns and beams at me, baring the double fangs on each side of his mouth.

  “No.” My instant reaction is always no. It’s unsafe. Despite the R-levels being in the mild zone, there are other threats. Sabrevipes are known to prowl the area, especially in good weather. They’re rekking huge, vicious, and tricky to kill. At least their meat is worth eating.

  “We could always expand our search beyond the old Sector 1779 to see if maybe we find any working facilities—”

  I cut Galen off with a warning growl. He presents this argument often, and even Calix agrees that it’s a terrible idea to go traipsing across The Graveyard in hopes of finding any mort life or working facilities.

  “Breccan,” Galen says in a low voice. “We have to try. What if the soil is good for planting? We c
ould take the seedlings that aren’t thriving and replant them.”

  I wave a hand at him to dismiss his words. “The seedlings will die.” We’ll all die.

  He flinches as though I’ve struck him. “But we need this for our survival because eventually—”

  “No!” I roar, fisting my hands as I storm over to the window. I stare out into the barren wasteland outside of our mountain home and shake my nog. It’s dead. A few animals roam about that are worth capturing and eating, but other than that, it’s worthless space. Empty. Desolate. Rekking cruel. Rage bubbles up inside my chest and my ears flatten against my nog, a natural mort physiological reaction when preparing for a fight. “What good are thriving seedlings when our own race is dying out? The thing we need for the continuity of our people are females. And as you can see,” I hiss and gesture to the empty nothingness, “there isn’t anyone left.”

  The room goes quiet aside from Calix’s tapping on his zenotablet. Galen and I get into this argument often and it’s in everyone’s best interest to stay out of the middle. It’s come to blows before, and I’m still nursing bruised ribs from the last time Galen got angry when I told him no. He’s mostly calm but loses himself to bouts of rage. Avrell, our doctor, has explained to me numerous times that it’s a chemical reaction because of his genetics and not an innate desire to drive me out of my mortarekking mind.

  “Why don’t we just invite a sabrevipe into our facility?” Galen bites back, his fury rearing its ugly nog. “Why don’t we let it tear us to shreds and suck on our bones because we have no rekking future?!”

  My own anger is snuffed as guilt once again takes its place.

  He’s right.

  Again.

  “Galen—”

  My apology is cut short when a trumpeting blare goes off. All discussions are ignored as the three of us take off at a sprint to the ship deck.

  Theron and Sayer are back.

  And the blare means good news.

  Our boots slap the floors, echoing in the empty corridors as we run. When we reach the thick, double-reinforced door, each of us fumbles to quickly pull on our zu-gear. The thick material will protect us from mild to medium R-levels and our masks will keep out any airborne pathogens that could be harmful to our health.

  Within seconds, we’re dressed and protected, each of us eager for a tiny morsel of good news. I key in the sixteen-digit code that only a few of us have and then we push through the heavy door.

  Theron and Sayer, fully decked out in their own zu-gear, are already jumping from the ship and running our way.

  “What did you find?”

  “Were there any signs of life?”

  “Did you scavenge anything we can use?”

  Calix, Galen, and I all blurt out our questions at once. Theron raises his hand to silence us.

  “Commander,” Theron says, grinning through the glass of his mask. “You’re going to lose your rekking mind.”

  Sayer nods rapidly beside him. Their excitement is palpable. It can only mean good things for the faction.

  “It’s something you need to see to believe,” Sayer tells me and starts for the ship.

  We storm after them and up the ramp into the vessel.

  Upon entering, I see the cargo area filled with what looks like cryotubes. Five, to be exact. They’re certainly not anything from Mortuus but I do remember reading about them in the library of books left behind by those who’ve encountered them before us. The same books that taught us everything from mechanics and technology to reproduction and biology, but not this. This is unchartered territory.

  “What’s in them?” I demand.

  Theron raps a gloved knuckle on the top of one. “Look.”

  I stalk over to him and peer into the small window—and find myself staring at the strangest creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  Lips similar to mine but much plumper and an odd shade of pink are the first thing I notice. The nose on the alien is pert and adorned with a device that looks to be used for breathing. Light brown markings speckle her flesh. Long, dark lashes fan the creature’s high cheekbones and an obscene amount of brown hair—the same color as my favorite root tea—frames her face.

  Her.

  Her.

  Her.

  Images from those books—books meant for older, mating morts—are forefront in my mind. Books that explained in detail not only mort anatomy, but also how two morts physically fit together to reproduce. The same books that every rekking mort in this facility has memorized and looked at for their own selfish reasons. Books we never imagined we’d get to use what we’d learned.

  But now?

  “W-What is this?” I drag my gaze to Theron. “Where did you get this creature?”

  His grin is cold. “We were orbiting our planet in the Mayvina just outside the atmosphere, sending out pings. You know, the usual, searching for life.”

  “And we pinged something huge. A cruiser,” Sayer explains, also grinning. His double fangs glisten in the light.

  “A cruiser?” I growl. “What did you do?”

  Theron shrugs and gestures to the cryotubes. “We detected life on the vessel. Hundreds. However, they had some life protected in these units, as though they were put in stasis for some reason. Being the slick mortarekkers we are, Sayer and I boarded the ship, slipped as many cryotubes into the Mayvina as would fit, before the vessel went into hyperspeed and disappeared. I’m telling you, it was a chance. A small sliver, and we took it. These are ours.”

  I stare into the window again, mesmerized by the intriguing creature. “Have Avrell ready the lab. I want all steps being taken to ensure we don’t expose the facility to disease. Only open this one pod but keep the alien in stasis. I want Avrell to test her biological code.”

  Four pairs of intense stares are on me. The hope is bright in their onyx eyes. Guys who never smile are grinning like it’s their rekking job. Something fills my chest.

  Hope.

  “And if they’re a match?” Galen asks lowly, his voice slightly muffled behind his protective mask.

  “If they’re a match, we breed.”

  Nine morts stand all too close to Avrell as he works quickly to study the biological data. It’s been six solars since Theron and Sayer brought home the cryotubes and we’ve all been on edge with the need to know if breeding will work. Galen’s seedling mission is a thing of the past. Nobody wants to leave the lab, much less the facility, to trek through The Graveyard hunting for good soil to plant.

  “There are only five of them,” mutters Hadrian, the youngest mort at only seventeen revolutions old. “Who will get one?”

  I drag my gaze from the unconscious alien who remains in a deep sleep to the only mortling in our faction. Memories of when his mother died, the last of our females, is a dark solar I try desperately not to remember. Vetta was like a mother to all of us. And because she was still fertile, we had plans to keep our existence going via her womb. That all faded away the solar she caught The Rades and died shivering while she clawed at her own flesh, lost to the madness of the disease.

  The child in her womb, one that belonged to her deceased mate Puno, passed along with her. It was a devastating moment. I took Hadrian under my protection and have looked after him as a son ever since.

  “Yeah, Commander, who will get one?” Draven, our faction’s lieutenant engineer, challenges from the doorway of the lab. I know he won’t step inside. He suffers mentally and always feels trapped. It all stems, according to Avrell and his studies, from when Draven caught a mild case of The Rades. He was in a sleeplike state for almost an entire revolution—hundreds and hundreds of solars. His skin seeped with a puss-like substance from sores that had formed all over his body. If it hadn’t been for Avrell caring for him at every moment of every solar, he would have met death along with Vetta and her unborn mortling. When he came to, his eyes were crazed and he babbled on for many solar cycles about “the captors.” They’d chained him up and tortured him.

  All in his m
ind, of course.

  They still haunt him with every breath he takes.

  It’s been many revolutions, and he’s never lost the unhinged glimmer in his coal-black eyes.

  I straighten my spine and walk over to the alien. Avrell has taken to calling her Specimen Az-1. Her chest, beneath the thin sheet covering, rises and falls with each breath she takes. We’re all wearing our zu-gear until we can ascertain if she’s carrying anything harmful.

  “Any updates?” I ask, my eyes glued to her unusual, dirty-looking face. She has skin the color of a sabrevipe’s belly. If she weren’t potentially dangerous to touch, I’d love to remove my glove and see what the texture of her flesh feels like.

  He looks up from the micro-viewer on the table near the alien, and a small smile, revealing his semi-filed-down fangs, has hope once again dancing inside my chest. “I think it’s good news, Commander.”

  Everyone in the room seems to be holding their breath. The tension is thick enough to cut with a magknife.

  “Proceed,” I urge, tamping down my eagerness.

  “Have a look.” He gestures to the micro-viewer.

  I walk over to the machine and peer into the viewer. Inside are colorful cells but they mean nothing to me.

  “See the cerulean cells?” he asks.

  “There are many,” I agree.

  “Now find the opaque ones. You may have to squint to see those.”

  I blink as I attempt to focus. “I see them. The cerulean ones are being eaten by them.”