This is book 3 in THE TIME BENDER series and is the alien Marcum's story. Here are the first few pages:
WHEN KLAQIN’S TWO
moons pass in retrograde orbit above our farm in Turlektrad, making the mists
rise from the lakes and ponds, it’s time to help with the harvest. There are
several entrances to the reaping caves, but tradition dictates that we go to
the middle of the field and find the oldest opening, the one with precisely measured
stone steps that descend into a well-lit cavern. My mother Krimar has already
placed baskets at intervals and my father and I have to pull on the dangling
roots to cause the crops to slip through the spongy ground and drop into the
baskets. Occasionally we hear the sounds the vegetables emit above as we yank
them from their constant sun and daily mistings.
“This will be
your last harvest, Marcum,” my father Pauro says. “Krimar and I have decided to
let you train.”
I know I should
thank him, but the words catch in my throat and my ears uncontrollably wag like
a weediq’s tail. All I can do at first is grunt a civil “Ehk.” I stretch to reach a particularly
short root and tug gently. “Krimar made you change your mind, didn’t she?”
“No.” Pauro
picks up his full basket and walks toward a shaft. “I met with a leader of the
Gleezhian refugees.” He looks over his shoulder to judge my reaction. But I am
brave, as I’ve been bred to be, and I show no concern over this startling revelation.
In my head my thoughts are whirring. Without realizing it I pluck the pechans
too close to their stems.
“You know a little of the last invasion,
Marcum, but at the Academy you’ll study more and learn to fly.”
Learn to fly. I am
certainly old enough. At last. Sixteen solar orbits, no longer a child.
“There’s a
transport through here in two double-moons. You’ll go then. They’ve received
your genetic analysis and one Commander in particular is quite eager to have
you.” Pauro returns for my basket. Tiny droplets of moisture glisten on his
lashes and coat his cheeks with a wetness like tears. He carries my basket off
and repeats the system of sending the full containers of produce down the deep
shaft to the food processing plant ten stories below. A skeleton crew of
workers slaves to change the colorful harvest into condensed pills or liquid
vials that will sustain the Klaqin space Commanders for extended periods of
time. I yearn to be one of those Commanders.
I finish another
basket and carry it past my father as I calculate all I’ll need to do in the
next two double-moons. I am not sorry I’ll miss the animal harvest scheduled
for four double-moons from now; it’s a difficult time for me because I’ve
befriended most of them, even hidden some in my room for training. But Pauro
has always depended on my help since mother refuses to go near the house
processor.
My thoughts dart
from pets to flying to invasions and alien wars. “But what did meeting with a
Gleezhian refugee have to do with your decision?” I ask, wondering how safe my
mother will be if there are exiles around.
“The refugees
are gaining political ground. I stumbled upon some females prowling the area.
They’ve been here a long time and still can’t speak our language.” He shakes
his head. “They were armed, of course, and forced me to one of their sites
where their leader spoke a fair bit of Klaqin.” He clucks his tongue as is our
custom and snaps two fingers before he pulls down a triple root of yellow
plickken. I see by the wiggling of his ears that he is excited to tell me this.
“I got the feeling that something unexpected and dangerous is in the works.
They threatened me … wanted me to join them. I pretended to sympathize with
them for our safety, which brought me to my decision. I want you to be a
trained and accomplished Commander and not just some farmer’s son who doesn’t
know an arc-gun from a spike-rod. I want my child to be daring, courageous in
battle … heroic.”
He still calls
me a child and I hate that. But I cluck my tongue in agreement and smile on the
inside. I’ve heard many stories about the resistance, the refugees, the
anti-Commander factions and of course the Interstellar Combat Academy. The
Academy used to be highly regarded and extremely difficult to earn a place in,
but not now. The First Commanders, it is rumored, plan to draft all males above
childhood age. There is private talk of acquiring females my age, though that will
be for the females’ protection and for population insurance. There is no longer
a test to pass for entrance. But there should still be plenty of competition. I
want to join not out of patriotism or obligation, but because I want to explore
the farthest regions of space.
I spend the rest
of the harvest time speaking sporadically to my father while daydreaming about
flying the latest spacecraft. He admonishes me not to join any clubs; there are
ones, he says, that addict a man to mechanical pain inducers. I contemplate the
warning for a moment then turn my thoughts back to piloting. He counsels me
against taking leave to the Fringes of the big cities such as Plickkentrad or
Cormenor. The Fringes, he says in a voice loud enough to interrupt my daydream,
are gateways to banishment. That piece of information is new to me, but I can
ignore it since I don’t expect to take any breaks from the Academy.
***end of excerpt***
If you haven't read
THE TIME BENDER you're missing out on my favorite series to date.
