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  “That is no profession for a boy of Jon's talent. He could have a good life as a Mystic, serving people, helping people. As a storyteller, he would live in shoddy rooms, stables, and tell stories for a few measly coins and a meal.”

  Willam turned to Brok, a look of pleading on his face.

  “What can we do? How can we keep him on the right path?”

  Brok took a moment to collect his thoughts before answering. He had to use great care here. It was tempting to tell this man, this father, the truth about his son's destiny. Jon Stone, with his other four classmates, Gwen Heath, Keera Flint, and the Barlow twins Saemus and Kaelin, was one of the Chosen. Although still unaware of their fate, these children carried the heavy burden of saving the galaxy from the formidable Mekans.

  The five students believed they were under the tutelage of Master Brok merely to become Mystics, who were spiritual leaders for many Astran towns and villages. They were eagerly sought after and highly regarded. Being experts in herb lore and magic, a Mystic held a distinct and honorable position. Despite Master Stone's ambition for his son to become a Mystic or Jon's desire to be a storyteller, Jon was destined for more important things.

  “I would not be concerned about your son's future, Master Stone. He is young yet, and still has a young man's dreams. Before his training concludes, he will realize his gifts are needed in ways other than for the amusement of telling stories. Listen, enjoy his stories, and be assured that your son is destined for great deeds.”

  Willam took a moment to allow Master Brok's words to sink in. “Thank you for putting a father's fears to rest. I only want what is best for him.”

  After saying their good-byes, Willam rode away towards his home. Brok re-filled his pipe and sat down to enjoy a last peaceful smoke before heading to bed. As he blew rings toward the Astran twin moons, he thought of the students' performance during their earlier lessons. He shook his head ruefully. Who could blame their distraction, knowing that on the morrow, Midsummer Festival began? Brok was also looking forward to the festivities.

  Town folk from two neighboring villages, Willow Haven and Oak Brook, would travel to Heart Stone and join in the fun, erecting tents in any available open spaces. Women would meet at the Town Center, a grassy area filled with flowers and surrounded by willow trees. Large ovens were wheeled from the smithy for baking a variety of goods. The air would fill with the most tantalizing aromas: sweet cakes, pies, pastries, cookies, meat pies and rolls, jams and jellies, and various kinds of bread. Contests were held for women and young girls to display their sewing, exhibiting many impressive quilts, dresses, and bonnets.

  The men would gather and practice archery, knife throwing, fencing, sword and quarterstaff fighting, carving, sheering, and bird calling, wanting to hone their skills for the various competitions that would occur during the course of the entire week. Those men who brought ales and ciders for the judges' consideration and for local sampling set up their barrels inside the inn. Eventually the brewers' generosity led to disdainful sniffs from the women who later found their men rather drunk.

  The children could be found everywhere, playing Catch Me if you Can, playing at sword fighting with large sticks, fishing, sneaking treats from the tables laden with baked goods, and racing their horses and ponies. It was virtually impossible to keep them near their families' camp, so each adult would kept a watchful eye on any children within the vicinity.

  Everyone looked forward to the festival, pausing to enjoy life while spending time with family and friends from the other villages and outlying farms and homesteads.

  Brok tapped out his pipe and returned it to his robe's inner pocket. He stood, placed his hands at the small of his back and stretched. Smiling, he realized this simple task had become another luxury he had really come to enjoy since arriving.

  Brok stumbled into the house, cracking his toe on the door jam.

  “Incendia” He uttered, silently cursing the pain in his foot from lack of foresight.

  A small, pink, spherical ball of light appeared and hovered above his outstretched hand. He proceeded to limp toward his bedroom. A slight flick the ball of light winked out. He shrugged out of his robes, his wrinkled skin pebbling with goose pimples from the cool night air. He crawled under his blankets and as his body warmed, he drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  The first day of Midsummer Festival began cool and bright, but quickly warmed as the sun rose above the horizon. Some folks had arrived from Willow Haven and Oak Brook the day before, and Brok watched them emerge from their tents, with faces full of excitement.

  Brok walked down the winding dirt path from his house to the main road that led through Heart Stone. He approached the Town Center and his stomach gave a rumble as he caught a teasing whiff of the food baking in the ovens located at the edge of Town Center. Many of the goodwives had already begun creating their culinary masterpieces. Brok continued walking toward the north side of the green and made his way down the stone-paved path to the Meadows Inn.

  I hope Mistress Meadows has breakfast ready.

  Brok entered the inn and made his way over toward the west wall where the hearth was located. He took a seat in a well-cushioned chair and lazily stretched his long, bony legs.

  “Good morning to you Master Brok,” said Lily Meadows, mistress of the inn. “Care for some breakfast? I just made eggs and bacon, and in about two shakes I will have hot bread from the ovens.” She stood with her hand on her ample hip, awaiting Master Brok's answer.

  “That sounds delicious, Mistress Meadows.” She bustled off to the kitchens and came back with a plate piled high with food. Though the fare on this planet was quite different than what he had eaten back home on Gentra, he had soon gained an appreciation for things like eggs, crisp bacon, and piping hot bread.

  “I hear Jon's entering the storytelling contest this year,” Mistress Meadows said as she took a seat next to Brok.

  “That he is, though I don't know what he plans on telling. Wouldn't even tell his fellow classmates,” said Brok as he took a huge bite of steaming eggs.

  “Whatever he chooses, he is sure to win. No one can spin a yarn like that lad.” She shook her head fondly as she stood. “Although he won't be winning anything if he doesn't arrive soon.”

  “I'm sure he'll be along. None of the students would dream of missing Midsummer Festival,” Brok said.

  “Speaking of late, shouldn't you be heading for the lake?”

  Brok nodded, shoveling food into his mouth even as he stood and walked toward the front door of the inn.

  * * *

  Gwen Heath walked in the middle of her fellow classmates as they made their way to the Village Green. She tried her best to walk normally, but her stunted legs refused to cooperate.

  She glanced to right and felt a small stab of jealousy as she gazed up at Saemus and Kaelin. Everything she wasn't, these two were. She swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat.

  Gwen glanced to her left and looked away as she caught Jon's dazzling blue eyes. She had been totally, completely, and hopelessly in love with Jon Stone for as long as she could remember. She longed to run her fingers through his sandy blonde hair, to gaze into those bottomless blue eyes.

  She met the eyes of her best friend, Keera Flint. The fiery redhead knew her deepest heart and had sworn to take the secret to the grave. Gwen blushed as Keera winked and looked pointedly at Jon.

  The five students wandered away to see more of the festival. Keera and Gwen went to the east of Town Center to see the fire-eaters and jugglers. Jon followed a group into the inn for the storytelling contest. Saemus and Kaelin, hearing a commotion, walked toward the main road to find what was stirring up all the excitement.

  “It's a runaway! It's a runaway!” Someone was shouting.

  Saemus whipped his head around toward the sound of pounding hooves coming from the north. At that moment, a horse came racing down the road, its eyes rolling, and frothy lather dripping from its heaving sides. A young bo
y clung to the horse's mane, screaming in terror. One of the townsmen stepped into the road.

  The horse squealed and reared, hooves pawing the air. The boy lost his grip, falling face-first onto the hard ground. The frightened animal stomped on him as he lay helpless.

  Saemus ran over to the boy and grabbed him before the horse could do more damage. He ran back toward the grass and laid the boy down gently. Saemus felt the contents of his stomach rise when he saw the damage done to the boy's head.

  “Someone get Master Brok! Great Lucian's Ghost!”

  Saemus distantly heard someone running for the pond in search of Master Brok. Saemus knew it was very unlikely the boy would survive. He was already so near death. Without thinking, Saemus placed his hands on the boy's ruined head.

  “Curatio,” he whispered.

  “Saemus! What are you doing?” Kaelin knelt at her brother's side. “He is too far gone! There is nothing to be done!” Her words became frantic as she watched him delve deeper, drawing more and more magic.

  “Saemus, stop!” She watched, tears of frustration and helplessness running down her cheeks.

  “Saemus! Kaelin, what is he doing?” Jon demanded as he and the others joined the twins kneeling next to the boy.

  “Kaelin, do something! He is drawing too much!” Keera screamed as Saemus' face lost all color and his breathing became ragged.

  “Saemus, no!” Kaelin wailed and reached out a hand to her brother, her twin, her other half which made her whole. Without comprehending how she did it, Kaelin somehow opened herself, allowing him to access her inner magical power. She gasped as she felt her magic draining. Saemus' eyes widened as he felt the magic flow into his body. His eyes tightened as he focused their combined powers.

  “Curatio!”

  The young boy was suffused with a warm, golden light. Kaelin had to look away as the bright light intensified. Looking at her brother, she saw the same awe reflected within his black eyes. She knew him, could sense him in a way that was both frightening and familiar. Tears sprang into her eyes as she felt the power flowing between them and into the injured boy. The whole experience lasted only a brief second to onlookers. For Saemus and Kaelin, this extraordinary experience seemed to last a lifetime. Kaelin wanted the feeling to last forever. Saemus broke the contact when he noticed the boy sitting up with visible improvement. His once ruined and broken head was now healed.

  Kaelin moaned and fell to the side. Jon ran to her and cradled her in his arms. Gwen and Keera ran to Saemus and held his hands, gazing at him in nervous wonder. Jon glanced up and saw Master Brok running toward his fallen students.

  “Dear Spirits! What has happened here?” Master Brok placed his hands on the foreheads of the twins.

  Jon relayed the details, from the boy getting trampled by the horse to Saemus' attempt to heal the boy and coming close to draining his own life energy. Jon hesitated when he tried to explain what happened next. He didn't understand what had happened between the twins.

  “Kaelin…I don't know, Master Brok! She touched Saemus and…I don't know!” Jon was too worried about Kaelin to continue. He looked lovingly upon her beautiful face. He had every line, every curve committed to memory. He longed to kiss her closed eyes, the tip of her perfect nose, her soft lips. Only the presence of the onlookers kept Jon restrained.

  “Master Brok! It was amazing! As soon as she touched him, he was able to heal the little boy! The light surrounding them was so bright; it was like looking into the sun.” Keera looked at Master Brok as she breathlessly gave the account.

  Gwen kept silent. Seeing Jon hold Kaelin, tenderly brushing her hair back from her forehead, was almost more than she could bear. The sharp realization that Jon would never look upon her like that, hold her, or kiss her, destroyed something sweet and innocent deep within her. Despite her best efforts to keep her emotions hidden, warm tears spilled down her cheeks as she wondered if anything great or wonderful would ever happen to her.

  KROMIN

  The fat saucer-shaped travel pod sped through the dense Kromin atmosphere. The instrument panel showed the reflection of the pilot, clone 9684: thin neck, round head ending at a rounded point at the chin, large almond-shaped black eyes, and two tiny slits for a nose and almost no mouth. Delicate hands with long, slender fingers punched a few buttons on the console and the craft decelerated.

  Orange-pink clouds of poisonous gas roiled and writhed outside the viewscreen. Before it lay the capital city floating in the extremely dense atmosphere. The buildings were shaped like the travel pods, only much larger, with cylindrical power generators hanging from the bottom of each building. Long, thin, windowless tunnels connected some of the buildings. The only openings were the hatchways for the travel pods. There were no windows of any kind.

  The pilot was careful not to let the pod sink too low. The surface of Kromin was semi-solid and often erupted violently, sending up huge gouts of scorching hot liquid, destroying anything it touched.

  Clone 9684 piloted the craft into one of the hatchways of the research buildings. Today, it and others of its kind would try something that has never been done before: telepathic communication with an alien species. It stepped out of the pod and headed toward the specimen room. The dull grey hallway was lit with dim blue bulbs. The clone opened its mind so it could communicate.

  Clone 9684 made contact with its Research Leader.

  --Have the others arrived with the new species?

  --Yes. We await your arrival.

  Clone 9684 closed its mind again as it made its way to the others.

  The specimen room was dull grey, with dull grey cabinets and tables. Clone 9684 greeted its fellow research students, clones 53279, 48951, 70786, and 8503.

  --Leader, where is the new creature?

  --Cubicle 212.

  The research leader, clone 70521, led the students to cubicle 212. It pulled a lever, causing a piece of the wall to slide to the left, revealing the contents.

  On the grey metal table lay a quivering mass, greenish-blue in color. It kept trying to escape, but as it reached the edge, it shrank back from the invisible shield. A high-pitched keening wail emanated from the gelatinous creature trapped on the table. If the clones had any emotional capacity, they would have described the thing as being terrified.

  --Practice your communications skills I have taught you.

  The Research Leader stepped back, letting the other five approach the creature. Clone 48951 was the first to approach.

  --Can you understand me?

  The quivering seemed to intensify and the creature tried to back as far away as it could, but when it contacted the shield, the keening wail would begin again.

  --Can you understand me?

  The clone was patient and relentless in its attempt to communicate telepathically with this creature. It tried varying degrees of intensity but to no avail.

  Clone 48951 attempted a closer proximity.

  --Can you understand me?

  For a brief moment, it seemed as if the creature could understand at least the basic message. After a little fine-tuning, the clone was able to make contact. It was a strange sensation, being inside the mind of something so alien.

  Research Leader 70521 watched intently, waiting for signs that the clone was able to communicate with an alien creature.

  --Greetings.

  --Why have I been brought here? Where am I?

  --You are on the planet Kromin.

  Research Leader 70521 watched intently as her five students took turns communicating with the alien creature. After each had taken a turn, the animal was taken back to its home world, its memory erased, never to remember the encounter with the Kromins.

  * * *

  Leader 70521 sat in its domicile awaiting the sleep cue. Only here, alone, could it allow the hold over its thoughts to relax a little. She knew that it took strong emotions to alert the Kromins that something was amiss.

  Master Mirka longed to return to Gentra. Being on this dull, emotionless plane
t was an enormous drain, both mentally and physically. She missed her vibrant, colorful home. Only her solid, unwavering belief in her duty to the Chosen kept her diligent in always guarding her every thought. It was difficult to keep one's identity a secret when dealing with a telepathic race.

  Mirka stood and began pacing. She glared at the blank wall, wishing she could bring her will to bear and create a single window.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as she opened a window in her mind's eye. Instantly, she was back on Gentra gazing up at her home built onto the side of a geothermal vent. She glanced around at the breathtaking landscape of Gentra, the sherubite crystals jutting out of the ocean floor like so many crooked teeth, the farming of the bioluminescent plankton blankets, and the amusing antics of the scrago.

  She opened her eyes and wished for the hundredth time that this race had tear ducts. Her homesickness threatened to overwhelm her and not having the ability to cry was frustrating to say the least.

  A slight tingling sensation in her brain cut off her musings; the sleep cue. Mirka walked to her grey, hard bed and lay down. As she closed her eyes, she fervently hoped her dreams would be of home.

  * * *

  The waking cue was much like the sleep cue, only more intense and focused. Mirka got out of bed and walked to the cleaning cubicle for her daily wash. As she emerged from the cubicle, forced air coming from all sides dried her tall thin body. Mirka placed her designation badge on her upper left chest. The badges consisted of a symbol for the city where a clone lived, the symbol for its occupation, and its clone number.

  Mirka walked to the food cubicle and retrieved the flat, cylindrical-shaped food pellet. She chewed the pellet and pretended it was a delicious piece of scrago steak, complete with plankton salad and deep-sea grass pie. She shook her head ruefully. No amount of imagination could make these food pellets palatable.