Claire_D, you’re a sweetie pie. Thank you sooo much.
Query Letter / The Watchman-Query Letter and First Chapter
Catherine D. Hubbard
840 Holland Avenue
Webster Groves, MO 63119
catluckey@hotmail.com
314-962-1197
Mr. Laurence J. Kirshbaum
LJK Literary Management, LLC
708 3rd Avenue, 16th Floor
New York, NY 10017
Dear Mr. Kirshbaum:
The Watchman is a 115,000-word science fiction novel set on the planet Shatazar, ruled by the despotic Watchman of Araidia.
Nine-year-old Delah and her cousin Teeabu, a fourteen-year-old priest, are abducted and forced to live under the powerful rule of the Watchman of Araidia. Delah is robbed of her childhood and hidden in the role of an Araidian princess, by a dignitary with her own agenda. Reaching womanhood with a wounded heart, Delah joins a rebellious sect deep in the caverns beneath Araidia.
Teeabu is rescued from slavery, but forced against his will to have his body artificially enhanced, to become a warrior in Araidia's elite army. Years pass and Teeabu still struggles to follow three mandates of his priestly calling: to protect the innocent, not to defile himself with Araidia's men and women, and never to mind link with Araidia's computer. Degraded, he fails on all three counts.
When the Watchman, in an attempt to eradicate Reedpods, invites three Earth scientists to Shatazar, everything changes for Delah and Teeabu. Together, fueled by love and tragedy, the scientists and the two cousins plan a daring escape from Araidia.
The Watchman is a love story with action, visceral ramifications, religious taboos, and starry-eyed surprises.
As an artist, I love Walt Disney's fairy tales, and great space operas like Star Wars, Dune, Farscape, and Star Trek, which influence my writing. I am credited as proofer in a few issues of Joyce Meyer's magazine, Life In The Word, now called Enjoying Everyday Life.
My online contacts are cafepress.com/luckeyartdesign, critiquecircle.com, and inthemist.probards18.com/index.cgi, where I can post information about The Watchman. Building a website of my own with a forum will help to promote my book.
The query letter is followed by the first chapter as requested.
Thank you for offering this opportunity at Urbis, and I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Catherine D. Hubbard
-----------------------
THE WATCHMAN
CHAPTER ONE
● ARAIDIA -- Shielded City of the Planet Shatazar
Betha-busa frowned as she looked at the jade chronometer on her wrist. One hour past noon; she had less than one hour.
She waited at the chamber doors, mentally preparing her speech.
Behind her, a guard yelled, “Stand down, slave!” Betha-busa turned around to see that -- again -- the emaciated barefoot woman, clothed in tattered brown shirt and pants, was struggling against the two strong guards.
“You can’t take me!” the old woman yelled. Years of dirt and grime etched into her wrinkled face. Her skin was lackluster. While she squeezed a soldier’s arm, knuckles of her right hand blanched yellowish-white.
“Are you blind and deaf? I already have, slave.” Betha-busa glared at the unkempt woman’s blue eyes. Shatarians’ eyes never glittered gold; they were flat, dull, like their skin. The woman’s brown and gray hair remained fixed and motionless in her struggle against the guard's grip, frozen and rigid as if steel wires had sprouted from her hairline. Her writhing was fruitless. Araidians were five times stronger than any of the Shatarian subspecies.
Typically, royalty didn't deign to look into the eyes of slaves. Yet an undeniable force drew Betha to look deeply into the slave's intrepid eyes. The undeniable force was the slave's courage. Shaken, Betha-busa turned away, to face the doors and shut out the hideous creature from her view.
“My Lady,” said a guard. She bit on her lower lip and turned back. He had the woman in a chokehold, and had two fingers on her wrist, checking her pulse. “Her heart is weakening.”
“She needs to be strengthened. You know what to do.” Betha-busa pursed her lips, watching the guards.
The old Shatarian slumped down. One guard picked her up, and the other placed a black restraining yoke over her, covering her shoulders and torso, held on by a rubber strap under her breasts. Each guard unclasped a black control wand from his belt, and pointed it toward the yoke. Betha-busa breathed a sigh of relief, watching the slave woman’s face relax; drugged with pleasure, the woman could stand. Time was on Betha’s side again.
Finally, the huge platinum doors hissed open. Before Betha-busa had gone twelve steps into the room, she heard the doors slide shut behind the slave and her guards.
Immediately, her pupils contracted to compensate for the sunlight pouring in from the thirty-foot tall glass wall at the far end of the room.
The glossy anodized titanium walls to her left and right contained inner-structure transport units. On the walls were bronze diamond-shaped panels, spaced exactly four feet apart, that sensed a user’s bio data. A hand wave would open the door to the little round air car, but today, she had no expectation of needing one. Today, she hoped the Watchman would launch an attack on Irema. She had already began powering up their ships.
The view through the heavy glass wall caught her attention. The two moons, Shael and Miropos, shone from the sunlight. The two satellites’ ghostly white outlines and craters faded into the yellow-orange sky. Below, a network of clear tubes, latticing the sky, carried flying cars around the city. For a moment, she welcomed the distraction.
She shrugged her shoulders, dismissing her nervousness. She could not allow her confidence to waver. As Dignitary, her suggestions and opinions weighed heavily in decisions made within this chamber. She had brought the slave woman to prove the deceitfulness of the Shatarians. It was vital to convince the Watchman that the city must not enter into a contract with these people.
Betha’s form-fitting gown cinched her waist as she strode toward the throne. The pace made her shoes pinch her toes. The click, click of her heels on the marble floor focused the Watchman’s attention on her and increased her unease. She longed for the quiet asylum of a soldier’s uniform -- functional, attractive, and silent.
When I’m queen, I’ll rule in neoprene-soled boots, she thought, grinning inside.
Thirty feet away, four silhouettes, dwarfed by the view of two moons, sunlit sky, and cityscape, turned their faces toward her. The two standing were the Watchman’s attendants. The shorter seated figure was his Counselor. The fourth silhouette, at the sub-throne, was the Watchman, seated behind a table. His alabaster throne is behind a table? Why? He never used a table unless delivering or receiving important hologram messages that affected them or their city.
“Lights dim! Ten percent!” one of the Watchman’s darkly clad attendants cried out, voice echoing in the spacious room. The attendants bowed and left upon the Watchman’s dismissal.
Eyetna, the Watchman of Araidia, motioned her to come up and patted on the empty chair between him and the Counselor.
“Come, be seated,” he said.
Gesturing to her guards not to follow her, she climbed the three steps to the royal platform. She came toward the Watchman, her hips swaying subtly under her long ice-crystal gown.
“You summoned me, Your Grace?” Betha-busa asked.
Arrayed in a purple and gold robe and crowned in a gold circlet headpiece, her lord had draped himself across the alabaster sub-throne. Pleasuring him last night had had its benefits. She hoped the remembrance would flame his eyes with gold.
To sit beside him, she stepped around the oval obsidian table, detailed in gold floral on its sides and legs. Gently, mindful of his long gold-plated nails, she placed her manicured hands in his and then sat down beside him in the smaller alabaster chair exclusive to her. He shifted to face her, which sent ripples through the black hair, measuring seven feet long, that proclaimed his kingship.
“You have company, Lady Busa?” the Watchman asked.
“Not company, your Grace. I have leverage. This slave woman's words may convince you which direction we should take.” She smiled, and tried not to clench her hands as she folded them in her lap. He must not – must not! – ignore the Shatarian issue.
The Watchman looked at her from under lowered eyelids. “I know how hungry you are for the good of our people, Lady Busa. And I have something to sate your appetite.” He nodded toward the Counselor. “A treaty renewal. Our Counselor has a plan for the Shatarians to join in our campaign. I am sure you remember the campaign? So you can release this woman. I see no further need to keep these people captive.”
Betha-busa maintained her composure. An arched eyebrow was the sole hint of her disappointment.
“Shatarians joining our campaign?” She spoke softly, attempting to appear unshaken. “They’re weak, barely even slave-worthy. This idea belongs to our Counselor, doesn’t it?”
“Compose yourself. I have you here because you’re a part of my Council, Lady Busa. This is a joint decision.” Though the words were gentle, his full lips hardened.
She turned from the Watchman. Her sharp glare met the Counselor’s eyes, and he looked away from her stare. This man had once been a strong warrior. Now, the Watchman had erased his mind of all his past, all the knowledge that had made him strong. The thought gave Betha-busa comfort; it meant he would be no threat to her ascent. Yet, he stood looking at the Watchman as if he could change their predicament.
Simpleton! You couldn’t plan a spit fight. Not if your life depended on it.
The light-filled room seemed to mock the dark anger that seethed within her. She had been a fool to expect Eyetna to fulfill his promises. Their skyscraper palace set on a high hill, facing westward, allowed her to gaze at the landscape through the wall of glass. She pressed her hand against her chest realizing the Watchman’s eyes hadn’t brightened when she had entered the room.
Betha-busa recalled last night’s promise.
“Ever thought of being queen?” he had asked her.
She always thought of being queen. She had killed, schemed and prepared herself for it. This time, she hoped she wouldn’t miss the opportunity.
Now, she gazed at the network outside and observed the translucent curvature of the shield that surrounded her city. Without that protection, all of Araidia would die in moments from the Reedpod-poisoned air. Could these two men, leaders along with her, not see that Araidia needed to strengthen the shield, not endanger it?
Betha-busa contemplated the blue lake, the source of all their water. Enclosed by mountain, sand, and city, it looked serene as always, yet now it, too, was endangered by Reedpod contamination. Reedpods, a virulent allergen to their kind, grew outside the shield, in the outer mountains, valleys, and rivers. It had only been a few hundred years since the danger had been discovered, but the entire atmosphere was now polluted.
Her reverie lasted only seconds, before it was broken by a shaking voice.
“These…these people are our most valuable resource,” the Counselor said, with quivering lips. “They can help us. We must live in peace with them, work alongside them, and include them in our society. Please understand, they are immune to the very plant that poisons us. Our weapons, ships, and transportation are unable to survive long enough outside the shield to fortify our city. These people can be the very link to our survival. Lady Busa, I implore you. Our shield deteriorates even as we speak.”
From the expression on the Watchman’s lean face, he seemed to be enjoying this. His thin black eyebrows rose while he slicked down his long mustache with wet fingers. Was this Eyetna, the same man who had conspired with Betha-busa to kill his own father? How could he now join with this ineffective man with a brimble proposal?
She examined the Counselor’s face. He was a dark Araidian, and his brown skin shimmered gold. Her own fairer skin glimmered with silver. By an effort of will, Betha kept her fingers from tracing the side of her mouth. No one, she told herself -- no one! -- noticed the age lines.
The Watchman’s forehead and the corners of his eyes showed wisps of lines, too. Babies, they needed more babies, a special commodity supplied for the elite, like the three of them. Without babies, they would die, whether the shield collapsed or not.
And the Shatarians had always supplied the babies. But even an animal wouldn’t willingly give up its newborn. The new treaty would be suicide for Araidia.
The Counselor interlaced his fingers, separated them, and continued, “Wait!” He breathed faster, shook a finger toward her. “We can conscript Shatarians into our army and employ others to maintain the shuttle. Utilize…utilizing…” He stood up and paced, snapping his fingers before the throne. “We can utilize other methods of DNA reconstruction. Your Grace, I have scientists working on this right now.”
Betha rolled her eyes and protested. “Have you lost your mind? And what Shatarian would agree? Much less volunteer? We are the enemy; we raided their homes and enslaved their people! What leverage do we have to control this subspecies if we welcome them into our society?”
Betha-busa smoothed out the tinier folds in her gown. She felt confined and heated. She glided toward the glass wall adjacent to their seats and placed a hand against the cool glass. Her guards still stood below the stairs with the slave woman.
“We cannot afford to try to make them allies. If we do, they will rebel,” she said. “We need a surprise attack. Squeeze them into control. If we offer this new treaty, they may gain military intelligence and completely overcome us.” She heard the Counselor inhale, and turned sharply to face him. “Never underestimate your enemy,” she said.
“Your Grace,” she said to the Watchman, “this is why I’ve brought this slave woman as evidence. Please let me question her -- here, in front of you.”
Ten long nails tapped against the table, golden plates covering each nail. The ruler slid his palm up against a small metallic stand, probably some holo-image projector, and tapped a forefinger against a small button in the middle of the stand.
“I’ve promised to talk with the mother of these Reedpod-loving people in a few minutes,” he said. “One click of this button will connect us to our little Shatarian village, Irema.” He tapped again, playing with the stand, scraping his nails against the metal, making a shrilling sound. It made her skin crawl. “Betha, do you know our very own Counselor’s scientists received this mechanism from the village. It’s actually able to connect to another communication device in that village outside the shield.”
A glint of light danced off her ruler’s headpiece. Beautiful as the crown was, the decision to join with the subspecies was just as ludicrous. How could she convince him otherwise if this device could actually work outside their shield? Irema was overrun with Reedpods. The Reedpods drained life and energy from them and their machines. It would be insane--
The Watchman cleared his throat and brought her focus back to him.
“It does work,” he said. His eyes glittered in the darkened room. “We’ve had trial runs with the leader of that village for some time. It seems their technology survives out there. You, above all people, know how desperately we need that knowledge. And I don’t like failure,” he said. “So convince me.”
How could she convince him? It didn’t matter. She was armed and ready to present all that her ruler needed.
She forced a smile and commanded the guards to bring the slave woman closer. The old woman -- dirty brown hair, graying at the temples, wrinkled face and hands -- trembled beneath the yoke’s weight.
Betha-busa came down the stairs and stood before the slave. “Speak, old woman, and tell us about your prophecy.”
“Why should I tell you now? You already know.” The woman lifted her chin and tightened her lips to a thin line.
“We know where your family is.”
“You’re an…abomination to our God’s creation! Though your armies captured and enslaved us -- though you stole our Watchman’s title…our proud title of priesthood and kingship -- though you rule with a tyranny we can’t escape -- you, freak of nature, won’t prevail!”
The slave’s words stung Betha-busa. One nod of her head and the old hag would die shamefully, in filth and pain. But no. Her ruler needed to hear these damaging words.
The Dignitary waved a finger, the guards pointed their wands at the yoke, and the old woman screamed in agony.
“And you believe someone can hear you? Your faith says that you’ll be rescued, but how can you be saved when we’re cloaked and shielded from neighboring star systems? Dementia must have set in! Listen very closely, old woman. We’re hidden by a defense weaponry system. You can’t even leave this world. So why the animosity? Accept your fate. Live in peace with us. And our king and ruler, the Watchman of Araidia, will have a treaty prepared. What do you say to that, slave?”
The orange lights on the yoke‘s buttons grew brighter, warning of incipient heart failure. Weak, old, decrepit, the slave was near death. One more use of the yoke would probably kill her. If only the old woman could live long enough! A few more minutes of life was all she needed.
“Accept our Watchman as your God,” Betha-busa said, circling the slave, “and we will accommodate you, treat with you, and let you live. You can side with us.” The slave’s breathing slowed. “The Watchman is whom you need. Denounce this God of yours and receive our Watchman into your heart and you can go free. You must be free. You must live.”
Betha-busa reached out to the slave’s forearm and caressed it as if to comfort. The unkempt, dull pinkish skinned woman shrunk back and finally spoke, with foul breath. She spoke as if her own words would save her.
“There is a prophecy that the One with the eyes of fire will set us free. He will ride on a great white steed and destroy all those who oppose him. But first, one will rise within your city, he will be strong and at your side with a shadow. And your subject and shadow will become your scourge and bite you.”
The old hag lunged forward with glaring teeth on the word “bite.” Betha-busa jumped back.
“I’m free,” the old slave cried out. “Free, you freak of nature. Either you side with our God or die. We…will…never surrender!”
Betha-busa nodded, the guards pointed their wands, and the yoke’s buttons blinked and flared red. A familiar stench rose from the slave woman, flesh burning from the final electrical current, only five milliamperes. The lights ceased. Weighted by the yoke, the corpse crashed to the marble floor.
Silence, intimidating as the screams of the slave, overtook them -- not a word, not a sigh, not a yell -- only silence.
Her temples stung from the stress and she swiped back a stray hair. “Will they serve us without question?” Betha-busa asked the Watchman. He shook his head in reply as the light glinted from his headpiece.
She glided back up the stairs to the royal platform.
“Will they willingly give their babies to us for DNA reconstruction?” Betha-busa spoke softly for effect. “Would this renewed treaty allow full surrender of an unfit, stubborn, and foolishly self-righteous people?”
The Watchman stared past her, tapping his bottom lip with his forefinger’s nail. He paused for a few moments, looking at his chronometer on the table and then replied, “A convincing display. And from what the slave said, we need to squash her prophecy. We have a minute before it’s two hours past noon. Anything else before I decide to press this button?”
A smile curled up at the end of her lips. “Then what is the wisest method of control to assure victory?” Confidence swelled in her bosom. Though the Watchman taunted her with his finger close to pressing the communication button, she had no doubt of his unbending support.
It seemed like forever while she held her breath. Ten seconds passed and Eyetna, the Watchman of Araidia, stood up, impressive in his royal purple robe, lined in golden discs.
“Counselor, take Lady Busa’s advice and gather my generals. Upon our agreement, two over one, I’ve made my decision. We attack today.”
The Watchman walked gracefully down the steps, past the two guards and dead slave, toward the door. At the door, he turned briefly. “Quick,” he said, in a low and menacing voice, “Quick and without mercy.”
Attack! Without mercy…
● Irema Dome Complex
“Now I saw heaven opened, and behold, a white horse. And He who sat on him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness He judges and makes war. His eyes were like a flame of fire.”
Delah mouthed the words as she read them and pressed her forefinger on the icon located in the middle of her permission slip. Elder’s fuzzy holographic image extended over the digital text on the plasti-tablet. The image repeated: Elder placed a holy sash over a young student.
Satisfied, she pinched the right-hand corner of the clear plasti-permission slip and watched it roll up.
Soft music surrounded Delah, relaxing her. In front of her, she could see through the transparent hexagon patterns of the dome ceiling. She slowly turned around and took in her surroundings with eyes wide and mouth agape. This place was so vast, beautiful beyond anything she could have imagined. Light grayish-brown marble walls curved behind her. Green plants with red Reedpods in huge bowls were littered below throughout the complex, giving her a sense of vertigo as she looked down.
She stood on the walkway, looking down on the crowd. People snaked in and out of the Food Square in a lulling pattern. Foot traffic gave percussion to the music. She thought about her mother.
Her mom had told her the Dome Complex brochure would help nine-year olds like her not get lost. She had read the tri-fold plasti-pamphlet at home before her class excursion. It had said that three of these walkways, one above and another beneath -- where she stood now in the middle -- were twenty-five feet apart. The dome was wedged between two mountains, spanning about two hundred fifty feet. Each walkway attached to its own tunnel that brought consumers to sections in the complex that offered large concentrations of shops, museums, auditoriums, athletic courts, theaters, and more.
This was the daily life of Irema.
This was where she stood in the Historic Dome Complex, leaning against the railing looking down.
A strange sensation came over Delah. Her hair stood on end. Darkness fell over the mall, yet no overcast of clouds showed above. The lamp fixtures flashed off, the music died, and the humming of the air vents ceased.
People halted as if frozen all in the matter of seconds, to avoid bumping into each other. Not enough light filtered through the dome for them. Nervous shouts and protests came from the crowd. In the darkened mall, Delah's eyes adjusted to see everything clearly.
There wasn't enough time to place her plasti-permission slip back into her dress-top pocket. She was so mesmerized by the stilled crowd below, that the sound of quick pattering of footsteps didn't even register. She felt a hard shove into her shoulder and nearly flipped over to a fifty-foot drop below. Gravity almost won her, claiming her flyer. She couldn’t grab the permission slip; she had to save herself. She gasped while the object bounced and finally settled below barely missing a man.
Hanging there head first, she gripped the slippery rail. It should have scared her, hanging like that, nearly teetering to her death. But there was no way she was going to fall. Equilibrizing herself like an acrobat, she tightened her hold, squeezed her abdomen, and straightened her legs. Her whole body was perpendicular to the floor. Bending her arms with a great push off the railing, she flipped in the air and bounced back onto her feet. Perfect landing.
Who would do a thing like that? Why? They had almost killed her. She hadn’t made anyone angry; neither was she the type to start fights. She concluded it must have been an accident from the lack of lighting.
She swung around. Lights, music, air vents all came back on as if someone had turned on a switch. A group of people stared at her; each with hands to their faces and widened eyes. Hushed voices whispered.
“Another Araidian,” a man with bags in his arms said. “A dark one, too. Can’t stand light-skinned Araidians, either. They’re all alike. I wouldn't be surprised if she had something to do with the blackout.”
“You're crazy. She could’ve fell. Was that boy intentional?” another man in front asked.
The man with bags nodded. “One less Araidian. One less bad day. Who in their right mind cares?”
“I don't believe what you've said," a woman from behind the two men said.
"That looked like attempted murder, even if she is Araidian. We need to report that boy right now.”
"Oh, so you're saying you saw everything in the dark? I couldn't even see three feet past my hand." The man tightened his hold around the bags.
"I could see a little. Enough to know they shouldn't have been so reckless in the mall like that."
"I don't have to deal with this. First this Araidian kid and now a blackout. And what in all Shatazar caused that, anyway?"
“Don't know," a short man replied. "It's all over now. No harm done. The push could've been an accident. Still those boys shouldn't be running here. Hey, you two!” The two other men walked away as the short man rolled up his sleeves.
Delah was a hybrid some had called her. Half Araidian, that’s what she was, with Araidian hearing, and she could hear them clearly -- the two men, and the remaining man, woman, and two boys.
Two boys…Borell and Jakin!
It had to have been Borell, her classmate, that had pushed her. Borell poked his tongue at her, called her a name, and grabbed Jakin's sleeve. They ran at breakneck speed past the short man to catch up with the class halfway down the walkway.
A pain pressed against her chest, her heartbeat slowed, and her mind stopped thinking. She heard the name-calling and the laughing. Red…she only saw red, a blank red screen across her eyes. For those few seconds, while the boys sprinted to their classmates, time was nonexistent.
One second…
Two seconds…
Three seconds…
The red dissipated, warmth touched her skin again, the crowds below the walkway bustled, and her heart drummed so hard in her ears, she thought her head would burst. Borell and her Jakin, the boy she liked, had hurt her. Now they were halfway down the walkway, still running.
With a deep breath, she dashed after them, feeling the air rush against her face, as she closed in on the boys.
“You! Stop!” It was Master Fontell, a tall man with thinning hair. Right before she touched Borell’s collar, she skidded to a stop.
“Right now,” he said. “All of you come here. Class, wait quietly until we come back.” Master Fontell took Delah and the two boys aside near the railing and spoke in a firm but low voice.
“If you ever attempt any shenanigans like you pulled today, not keeping up with the class and running in the mall, you will be suspended. Understood? All three of you deserve to be punished. Delah, this surprises me. You're supposed to be here for your Cousin!
“I--”
“You all have gotten off easy this time. Just make sure this doesn’t happen again. Do you understand what I’m saying?” All three nodded. “Keep up with the class and be…silent!”
“Sir?” A graveled voice came from behind. “I'm Sawnders.” It was the short man shaking the teacher's hand. “I saw what happened.”
Delah listened to the man's explanation, how one of the boys, Borell, accidentally pushed her into the railing. Master Fontell's face reddened, he thanked the man, and promised the boys would be attended to.
●
Time wasn’t passing by fast enough for her. She couldn’t wait to be in the auditorium to witness her cousin’s induction and then leave. Only thirty-three minutes had passed since their arrival. She kept pace with her classmates, wishing to speed up the itinerary, wishing her day hadn’t been spoiled.
Delah couldn’t believe Jakin had allowed Borell to push her. He'd once been a nice boy, with long brown hair, always tied in a ponytail, and light brown eyes. Sometimes he’d smiled when she’d pass his desk at school. He didn’t seem to care she was different.
Lately, since he had been hanging around with Borell, Jakin didn’t smile as much. She had hoped he’d notice her today. She had even worn lip balm, eye makeup for her lashes, and rouge for her cheeks. Her mother had helped her apply the makeup. She lowered her head, scuffing her feet while she kept up with the class.
Thinking of her mother made her feel a little better. Her mother had curled her dark brown hair, suggested she wear her favorite dress top and pants. Her boots even matched her blue outfit. Today, Delah had felt confident, beautiful! And she'd gone to all that trouble for one boy, Jakin. Every time she saw him, her heart fluttered. It scared her, made her giddy, made her want to see him again.
“You have a crush on the boy, dear,” her mother said while curling her hair. This was after Delah told her mom that boys had never asked her to be a partner in gym or sit next to her at lunch. Except one boy had smiled at her, even said hello.
“But, Mom?” Delah frowned, lowered her head.
Her mother touched Delah’s cheek. “Honey, look at me. Never look down on yourself. It wouldn’t surprise me if he looked at you all the time. You’re lovely. Look at your hair, it’s shiny, thick, past your back. And your skin is to be envied; it glimmers beautifully. So don’t worry about feeling different, honey. Lots of boys will like you and want to be with you.” Her mother had chuckled with a twinkle in her eye and finished the last curl on her hair. “I may have to beat them off with this curling iron.”
Remembering, Delah grinned, felt better, and strolled behind her classmates on the walkway. She stopped; they kept going through the tunnel. Her mind wanted to absorb all of it and her heart wanted to enjoy this wonderful moment. The sun's heat warmed her skin through the dome and she felt her heart warmed by her mother’s words.
Further ahead, nearly out of visibility for a normal person, her small class of twenty stopped at the other end of the tunnel in front of the museum entrance. From where she stood, gazing into the darkened tunnel nearly twenty feet long, she made out her classmates' features, the color of their eyes, and the teacher at the other end.
Her teacher explained this great structure, their pride in Irema. She heard him lecturing her classmates, even while passersby talked and made background noise.
Master Fontell spoke, “Class, this dome complex you’re in is made up of geometric shapes. Steelwork frame. Doesn’t it feel like we’re in the corner of the mountainside?” The children hesitated, murmured, and finally answered with a yes that popped in and out among themselves. He continued. “No need to be scared, because the transparent hexagonal membranes are made of transparent aluminum. They are strong and hold us up, even within this mountain.
“When we were out on the walkway, did you see how clear it was through the dome ceiling? This whole structure is made up of hexagons. They transmit more light than glass and the largest biome spans more than one hundred meters without requiring internal supports -- allowing complete freedom for our landscape, classes, even commercial needs. Case put, we’re in the main bubble. There are two other domes like bubbles fitting on each side of us. The main dome, where we are, is in the middle.”
Good, they had forgotten about her in the shuffle. That left her free to gaze at the flank of the mountain that gobbled half of the hexagon bubble they were in. She felt as if she could fly away high, through the membranes into the orange-tipped blue sky.
She extended her arms, looked up toward the two moons, and said softly, “I can fly to Miropos on the wings of a firefly and hop on the back of Shael.” It was her first time here; she was so thrilled, she wanted to soar out of her skin. She placed her hands down. That was impossible, she thought. She wasn’t a firefly and she couldn’t get back at Borell for turning Jakin against her.
Reluctantly, she followed her class. In the tunnel, artificial dimmed lighting replaced bright daylight. They toured the spacious Bernardian Memorial. Delah’s master explained that this gentle race had been extinct for nearly three hundred years, killed by disease and the greed of the False Watchman. A beautiful statue, nine feet tall, showed the graceful thin structure of the race -- lean body, two arms, two legs, much like her race. Bernardians and Shatarians had built the city Araidia together in treaty with the Araidians. Then the peace-loving Bernardians, a race with intelligence that far exceeded that of Araidians and Shatarians, died from violence and sickness.
The violent past of the Araidians seemed to haunt her. Being ashamed was about more than boys not liking her. It was about having Araidian blood. That it was mixed with Shatarian blood didn’t temper her strength, the sparkle in her skin, her acute hearing, or her eyes that flashed with golden flecks. Though superior in many physical ways, she was always an inferior in this place called home.
Jakin had turned against her. He saw an Araidian, not Delah. Her lower lip quivered, while she stood and looked up at the statue, the tall thin figure, shining like quicksilver.
She blinked, blinked again to keep back the tears. It still didn’t stop the ache in her heart.
Delah was near the front of the group, close to her teacher, when they entered another hexagon demi dome. This one was on the other side, much smaller and made for auditorium activities. Overhead, the ceiling was nearly one hundred feet high. The five hundred sixty-nine students from her school were assigned to the front rows of Sections B, C, and D. The seats were dark red, thickly cushioned, and conformed to her size as she sat in it. The walls were dark gray with thick black panels, three feet wide, looking like stripes.
The backdrop of the stage reminded her of heaven, clouds moving gently against a blue holo sky. Delah had never seen a pure blue sky.
And she had never seen an induction into the priesthood. Now, her own cousin, Teeabu, had excelled in his class and received honors to be an apprentice of holy service.
The service hadn’t started yet. Master Fontell sat a couple of rows in front of her. But she could hear Borell whispering to Jakin and a girl four rows behind, picking up their distinctive tones and fluctuation as they responded.
It was Borell. “See her. Me and Jakin got her good. She’s nothing but a wimp, not as strong as they say. She didn’t even catch us.” The girl snickered and Jakin chuckled. “Look what I got from the commerce mall…one for you, and you, and me. Hey, don’t be scared. She’s nuthin’ but a lazy dark, ugly nothing. She’s so ugly, her daddy couldn’t keep her.” They snickered.
Delah squirmed in her chair, tried to keep from crying. Her face felt like it was on fire and her hands shook.
I’m not ugly -- not ugly, not ugly. She said it over and over to herself.
Looking at the holo tablet given to them when they had arrived, gave her an excuse to lower her head. She studied the directions. It had a small blank screen; when touched, a holo image would pop up. The first button would show what was on stage and the second button showed what was inside the small entrance against the stage’s wall.
Overhead, way, way up toward the curved ceiling were transparent patterned hexagons. She started on one hexagon counting the six sides, the silver titanium beams, six with others connecting, and multiplied them by the honeycomb shapes. It was easy to do in a nanosecond.
Five hundred sixty-nine was the number of students she had counted entering the dome when they had passed through the entrance gate on the other side of the mountain.
She counted the light fixtures on the wall to her right, the flood lights that spanned on a beam above, and chair arms. To her, this was comforting, and she escaped into that counting part of her brain until a rushing sound closed in on her rapidly.
Three whooshes came close to her head, and she ducked just in time. Three huge water balloons smashed into Master Fontell's nearly bald head. Water splattered everywhere, wetting her, the students in front of her, and Master Fontell. Classmates yelled and jumped up, and some scrambled out of their seats and scurried into the aisle. Delah leaped up ready to tear Borell apart, but her teacher’s wet hand grabbed her arm and pulled her to him.
“Who did this?” he asked.
Delah and some of the students in Borell’s row pointed at the three culprits.
He pointed to the three and gestured for them and Delah to come with him.
She was in trouble. Her heart pumped fast while she followed them to the back door. Today seemed to be the worst day of her life. Was she going to miss her cousin’s induction?
Master Fontell surprised her by leaving her at the door, rather than taking her in with the others for disciplining. She stood closer to the door, hearing everything clearly that went on.
“She’s nuthin’ but a dark Raidy. She don’t belong here…never did!” Borell said.
“Jakin, do you have anything to say?” Her teacher asked in a stern voice.
A long silence choked her while she strained to hear. Nothing was said, until.
“Me and Borell didn’t mean anything. We didn't mean for anything bad to happen to her. We just wanted to have some fun.” Jakin’s voice rose to a squeak.
“At the expense of one of my students, correct?”
Jakin added, “She could be a spy or something. That’s what Borell said.”
“All three of you are suspended, even you, little miss.”
Borell's sister cried out, “She’s got no right to get us in trouble. We didn’t mean nothing. And she’s always prancing around like she owns the place. She thinks she’s pretty, but she’s not. She’s ugly like Borie says. Master Fontell, you said we were at war with these people. They even ended up killing that other race and now we’re stuck with her! I’m telling my mom and dad on you, Master Fontell.”
“Borell and Jakin, there will be an investigation on your violent behavior toward Delah. Come with me. Now!”
The door flew opened, Delah jumped back. She had never seen her teacher so flushed and angry. He took the three with him and spoke to another teacher. They were escorted out of the room and Mr. Fontell returned.
“I want to talk to you privately, Delah. Please come in here.” He gestured her to sit. The room was bleak with only a small desk, chair and couch. A file cabinet sat adjacent to the wall on the other side. No pictures or plants were there to brighten the dull gray-yellowish walls and floor. Her heart pounded in her ears.
“What happened on the walkway? By the time I noticed you weren’t with the class, you were chasing after those boys.”
Her hands shook in her lap. Chewing on her bottom lip not knowing what to say. To her surprise, her face was wet.
Master Fontell exhaled. “You’re up against a lot. Especially with those types of children. But you must remember.” He cleared his throat and spoke quietly, carefully. “A part of you will always be Shatarian. This is your home. And your mother will always care for you. Don’t ever allow anyone say you can’t be the best. You are Delah of the House of Ruyles and you are a great student. And many of your classmates care for who you are.”
But no one will ever love me. The tears kept coming. Jakin hates me. Her shoulders shook.
She wiped the wet mess from her face and eyes with her sleeve.
“Delah, your time will come. You never need to worry for someone to love you. You have your mother, cousin, friends, and other family. Never deprive yourself of those who care for you.” He took out a handkerchief from his tunic pocket. “Here give your nose a good blow.”
She honked through the kerchief and he chuckled.
“I know this, little girl. You always had the chance to give them a big thrashing. But I expect more of you. No need to resort to violence. Hold your head up and let’s go see your cousin’s induction.”
●
Sitting on the edge her seat, Delah waited impatiently for his name to be called. Before any calling of honor students, Elder stood on the stage in a great white robe with the priesthood sash of many colors. His gray eyes glassed over while he stood reciting his dream:
“Now I saw heaven opened, and behold, a white horse. And He who sat on him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness He judges and makes war. His eyes were like a flame of fire.”
His voice commanded everyone’s attention. It was eloquent, emotional, rhythmical like a storyteller. She listened, seeing images play in her mind. She heard the words “war” and “eyes like a flame of fire.” Her heart sank, her eyes sparkled like fire and the Araidian part of her had waged a war. Was this pointing to the Araidians? She hoped not because they weren’t faithful or true.
The auditorium was quiet, no snickering, chewing, feet shuffling…just a sweet quietness hung over them. Elder explained his dream and believed it referred to the future.
The Master of Priesthood stopped and bowed his head, white hair trimmed short, toward them.
“I can see you’re all anxious to ask. Pop out the questions, children, one at a time.”
She raised her hand. “What is a horse?” she asked, wondering what kind of animal was in his strange dream.
“Ahhh…” Elder sat on a high stool, adjusted his robe to cover his pant legs. Wrinkles deepened in his face as he smiled. “I’ve seen the creature many times in my dreams. It stands one head taller than a Shatarian and travels on four legs. Much like the Granulups, it is very swift, and a man can straddle the creature’s back.”
Delah wondered how a man could ride a Granulup, huge, wild burrowing serpents too long to fit in three homes put together.
“They’re called by a different name, steed. Not a denizen of this planet. You’ve seen them on this tour in the zoo over in Demi Dome Four.”
Delah nodded and smiled. Now she understood.
The other children fidgeted and grew restless. She couldn't imagine why. Ever since she could remember, Delah had looked forward to this annual ceremony. And this year, she would never forget because her beloved cousin would be called forth into the priesthood.
At long last, the names began. Over the other children’s cacophony, she heard Teeabu's name booming out. Her heart drummed just as loud.
Teeabu, a youth of fourteen years, the son of Jamis from the lineage of priesthood, stood beautiful and tall among his friends as they lined up on the stage. His shoulders’ breadth spanned wide enough to take on the heavy responsibilities of his new apprenticeship. His long ebony hair, in one single braid, nearly passed the middle of his back. Yes, he was the best looking one here. She laughed to herself because all that she had gone through today was worth this moment.
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Russell_Parkway reviewed Version 3 -
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What you did well was your writing. It flows smoothly throughout. What I enjoyed less was that the chapter was a bit long. Araidia and Irema could’ve been split into two chapters since neither of them were connected.
What I also liked was that in the first part, the threat was outlined. But in the second part, that threat was gone which sort of broke the mood a bit.
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Claire_D reviewed Version 2 -
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Betha-Busa is a tremendous name. It is almost a chant, an incantation of sorts. Its alliteration allows the name to trip off the tongue, and tips into the story with a surrealistic kick start.
A great deal of colours are used here, it is a very sensorial beginning, focusing on creating a kaleidoscopic array of shades and hues. The colour pile-up may become a tad blinding in the beginning but I’m not too worried here about overuse, since it is used stylistically rather well.
The story has a nice master/slave dynamic to it, reminiscent of Russian literature (master/serf), of De Sade and so on. Since you are submitting this, I’m at a loss to suggest what to change. There are many points to make here about the writing but revising the story is rather out of the question for tomorrow’s deadline.
Your sci-fi dialogue is done well. Their patterns of speech are obviously modelled on the curious dialects of the genre, and these are rendered clearly and rather well.
Best of luck with this. Sorry I had no more time to say more, but you left it rather late!
Claire
jedward reviewed Version 2 -
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This chapter of the novel was beautifully written. I absolutely loved it. I only found one word to question and it was on Page 4 when it stated Betha’s form fitting gown cinched her waist, did you mean clinched her waist? Everything else in this piece is lovely done. I was convinced to keep reading even more because of the humorous points such as on page 4 when she states, “When I’m queen, I’ll rule in neoprene soled boots.” and on page 6 when it states “Simpleton, you couldn’t plan a spit fight” and further on page 8 when it states “old hag lunged foward with glancing teeth on the word “bite”, I just thought that was funny. There is also a point in the store on page 10 that offers some religous fervor when it states “Now I saw Heaven opened and behold a white horse.
On Page 13 when Delah is in the mall looking down, one feels like he or she is standing there with her, you have described it so eloquently. Great luck in your pursuits. Im sure you have worked very hard and long on this piece and it shows.
DragonQueen reviewed Version 2 -
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once again great piece of work, no flaws. IT drew me in and kept me intrested, it is like a page turing novel you can’t put down. good job on this.
SwordMistress reviewed Version 2 -
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You did a great job on fine-tuning your query letter. You cover all the essential points in a concise manner and create interest in reading the novel.
Great start to the chapter. You immediately submerge us into the action and always leave enough questions the reader wants answered to keep them reading.
You do a great job introducing us to BethBusa, the villain behind villain (The Watchman.)and to Delah one of our protagonists. We have someone to hate and someone to root for.
Curtastrophe reviewed Version 2 -
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I thought the query letter was stunning and have no suggestions on how to improve it.
“Years of dirt and grime etched into her wrinkled face.” This sentence is a bit awkward. I’m guessing this isn’t supposed to be taken literally. I’d suggest, “…and grime had been etched…” and possibly expanding it to make the image more clear, “…had been etched by [insert something here]…”
“…this ineffective man with a bramble…” Bramble? I’ve never heard this word before so it struck me as a bit odd.
“Without babies, they would die…” Do you mean their civilization would become extinct?
OK, I’m a third of the way through this and I think that for the most part the writing is pretty solid. I was curious though why at the beginning it was hinted that that B only had an hour left to do something. It was brought up a few times actually. And it kind of irks me that it still hasn’t been explained yet. Other than that, the author’s ability to describe the settings and the people is phenomenal. There are a lot of images employed which really enhanced my ability to visualize what has happening. Thanks for that.
“Weak, old, decrepit, the slave was near death.” We’ve already been explained what she looks like. I don’t think the first three words are necessary.
Ouch! Betha’s cruelty makes her somewhat unlikeable to me. In the beginning of the story, it seamed like she was kind of a reasonable person. Having said that, I don’t think it necessary for readers to necessarily “like” a character. It’s better IMO for them to love or hate a character, but to not have any concept of them is a bad thing.
“Equilibrizing herself like an acrobat…” Would “Balancing” work here?
“Delah was a hybrid some had called her.” Could be, “Some had called Delah a hybrid.”
I really like how the narrative captures the moment where Delah sees red. Very visual!
In the scene where she almost falls off the twenty foot drop, there are several things that happen: She she sees red, the lights flicker out and time seems to stop, she gets scolded, and she loses her permission slip. After I finished reading it though I had to wonder what the significance of this scene was. After the scene break, she’s talking to her mom and there’s no mention of anything that had happened previously that day. After it, I was left wondering how the scene contributes to the overall story.
I like how they take a field trip to a historical place. I think this gives the author a ton of freedom to fill in the history of this world. It’s a sneaky way to fill in the backstory without just dumping a bunch of info in the readers’ lap. Kudos.
Delah certainly is having a run of bad luck . . .
In the end of the piece I felt the pace really slow down. Where they’re inspecting the dome and the teacher gets hit by a water balloon, I thought it picked back up again.
This seems like a very promising start for a sci-fi novel. The elements of racism and religious persecution are already become clear. Also there’s the theme of the class struggle and the war between different species. I wish you the best of luck with this!
-Curt
DragonQueen reviewed Version 1 -
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this is a great beginning to what i’m sure will be a great story from start to finish. I didn’t find any mistakes. The way it is written, teh description the details the overall style is one of the best i have seen in a while. This is one good piece of work.
traininvain reviewed Version 1 -
Read 8% of the Item
I would suggest not saying it is the first in a series. Promote the book as a standalone if possible, and if you must, tack on a note at the end saying you imagine the story could be continued in other books.
I’ve read that a lot of agents don’t like questions that are opening “hooks,” especially rhetorical ones. I would try to revise your opening line so it is a grabber, but not in the form of a question.
Your plot summary is too long and detailed. You only need to share the basic premise. Like, write what you imagine the back cover of the book would say.
The Walt Disney/army brat paragraph is unnecessary. This is a professional letter, the only biographical information you should be sharing is that which relates to being an author in the professional sense. The information about your work as a proofer, for example, is a good inclusion. However, I would also scratch the paragraph with your “online contacts” listed. Marketing your book will come much further down the line; right now you need to focus on promoting why the agent should pick it up.
Claire_D reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100% of the Item
Betha-Busa is a tremendous name. It is almost a chant, an incantation of sorts. Its alliteration allows the name to trip off the tongue, and tips into the story with a surrealistic kick start.
A great deal of colours are used here, it is a very sensorial beginning, focusing on creating a kaleidoscopic array of shades and hues. The colour pile-up may become a tad blinding in the beginning but I’m not too worried here about overuse, since it is used stylistically rather well.
The story has a nice master/slave dynamic to it, reminiscent of Russian literature (master/serf), of De Sade and so on. Since you are submitting this, I’m at a loss to suggest what to change. There are many points to make here about the writing but revising the story is rather out of the question for tomorrow’s deadline.
Your sci-fi dialogue is done well. Their patterns of speech are obviously modelled on the curious dialects of the genre, and these are rendered clearly and rather well.
Best of luck with this. Sorry I had no more time to say more, but you left it rather late!
Claire