Chapter Five of Falling: Adalta Vol III

This is a preliminary sketch of Daryl by Kurt.-except he should have long hair in a tail.

Last night I emailed the “polished draft” of Falling to my editors, so what you read here is a work in progress. in the comments section you have a last chance to tell me what you like, what you don’t like, how many mistakes I made, what’s missing, what’s too much. Or even if you don’t like it at all and I should quit trying to be a writer. Sending off a draft to be edited is a scary thing. But I’m planning on releasing Falling in July, so it had to be done.

Natalie Naudus is also beginning to record the audible book of Hunter now. The big question is: Will I have fingernails by the end of June? Actually, I won’t have time to chew on them as I have started Book Four. I can’t decide between these titles: Betrayal, or Betrayed. Which should I use? What does Betrayed invoke in you, what does Betrayal? I like Betrayal.

Chapter Five

Every time Readen Me’Vere pulled one of the ancient books from his library shelves he heard Daryl’s voice. “Wear the cotton gloves. These books are precious and fragile.” It irritated him, but he always did it. Why had no one ever made copies of these? 

He knew the answer. No one had expected the Larrak to reappear––the Itza Larrak, the last Larrak. But Readen brought it back—freed it from its prison in the columns of the now blocked cavern beneath Restal Hall.  He discovered it as a child, by accident. It had never stopped teaching him its own magic. I’m more powerful now than the strongest talents. I have the Itza Larrak

All the long winter Readen spent every spare moment perusing the ancient books. The stories of the war against the Larrak fought when the colonists first arrived on Adalta. The stories they’d learned about the first war, fought a millennium before between the Karda and the newly invading Larrak. He turned the last page of the last book, closed it, and pushed back from the table. No one, either Karda or human, had ever connected with a Larrak like he had. He put it back on the shelf. 

All that time wasted, all that power wasted breaking the preservation field on the five-hundred-year-old books and he’d learned nothing. His head heated with the familiar surge of frustration. He didn’t have talent. He’d never had talent. He was never going to have talent. The only person on Adalta ever born without talent. Readen pushed the old frustration back down––a distraction, a waste of time. And irrelevant. He didn’t have talent, but he had power. A little worm of thought asked, was the power his or was it borrowed? He ignored it.

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Now that Hunter, Adalta II is alive and on Amazon, I finally have time to go back to work on Falling, book three. I started by going back through what I had written. It is nice when you actually like what you’ve done. 

As I promised, here is the first chapter of Falling. Please keep in mind this is a work in progress, and if you find a typo or spelling mistake, or I’ve written something like—Daryl is standing at the table, then all of a sudden he gets up—oops, he was already standing, or Cedar is drinking a glass of wine, but now she has a coffee cup in her hand—please make a comment so I can fix it. Right now I’m concentrating on getting the story down on “paper” and ready to publish next June.

I know that seems like a long time, and I wish I could write faster. My goal is to finish the draft in January, because, honestly, what really takes time and is sooo frustrating is the work that has to be done to get it edited, proofed, and published. The writing is the fun part. 

In the meantime, here is Chapter One. I hope you like it. I’d love to hear your comments.


Cedar Evan’s ears popped. The quarantine pod shuddered. The watering can fell off the bench. She lost her balance and smacked into a seedling table. The light over the containment hatch blinked red—on-off on-off on-off––again. Shit.

Cedar moved to the control panel. Oxygen levels were down but climbing. Pressure was down, but climbing. Her stomach was down but climbing. And climbing. Climbing a rope in her throat on its way to panic.

Yet another glitch. One or two or more––they increased every week now on Alal Trade Consortium’s five-hundred-year-old spaceship.

The light switched to steady green. Her stomach slid back down the rope, and the sigh she didn’t know she was holding burst like juice from an over-ripe orange.

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