by Vicky Savage
TRANSCENDER TRILOGY
Books 1, 2, and 3
by
Vicky Savage
Included in this Box Set:
TRANSCENDER: First-Timer
STREAMING STARS
ILLUMINOSITY
TRANSCENDER TRILOGY © Vicky Savage 2014
TABLE OF CONTENTS
TRANSCENDER:
STREAMING STARS
ILLUMINOSITY
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT AND LICENSING INFORMATION
TRANSCENDER:
First-Timer
Transcender Trilogy Book 1
by
Vicky Savage
DEDICATION
In loving memory of Tug and Jo Savage.
Dying is a wild night and a new road.
~ Emily Dickenson
ONE
Headquarters of the Inter-Universal Guidance Agency (IUGA):
Senior Guidance Agent Constantine Albrecht Ralston was pissed—not in the British sense of being ‘totally wasted,’ but in the American sense of being ‘mad as hell.’ He’d never even spoken the word before, but he believed it described his mood precisely this morning as he stood in the office of IUGA’s new director, Braxton Zarbain.
“Agent Ralston, thank you for coming so promptly,” Director Zarbain said, motioning for him to take a seat in front of the director’s chrome and glass desk. The desktop bore a single item—a crystal plaque with the motto: Destiny is Our Duty.
“I apologize for this unexpected disruption of your field work,” Zarbain said, plucking an imagined bit of lint from his sleeve. “I am aware you are fostering a high-value subject and that one of his crucial events occurs tonight, but we have received information that requires your efforts be redirected immediately.”
Ralston opened his mouth to protest, but the director held up a hand. “A Transcender will arrive in your sector today, the appearance of whom will have a direct impact upon your subject’s crucial event and threaten to unravel all the important work you have accomplished to date. I was certain you would wish to be the agent in charge of containing the damage.”
“But this is outrageous,” Ralston spluttered. “A Transcender interfering with a crucial event? I am not aware of a Transcender applying to my sector.”
“As you know, they are not technically required to apply. It is more of a courtesy. Regardless, I am speaking of a first-timer. A young woman—a child really—seventeen years of age. She does not even know what is about to happen to her. She is coming from Earth 7Y12. Resides in the state of Connecticut, I believe. It is critical for you to initiate contact with her, monitor her every move, and return her home at the first possible opportunity. All of this must occur without her discovering she is a Transcender.”
Ralston removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose, his anger now overshadowed by a sense of duty. “Yes sir, I see, an American teenager. She’ll be disoriented and frightened. But why is she not to know that she’s a Transcender?”
“Outside of the obvious undesirability of allowing the Transcenders to add to their ranks, a more important consideration exists. She has a prior connection with your primary subject, and she must not become aware that there is a choice about her leaving.”
Agent Ralston narrowed his eyes. “By a prior connection, you mean…”
“There is a pre-existing perpetual contract between the two. Nevertheless, eternal love cannot and shall not be permitted to interfere with the galactic order. Destiny must prevail.”
“But sir, don’t we have an absolute obligation to honor such a contract? In all my years at the agency I’ve never heard of a perpetual contract being ignored.”
Director Zarbain waved this off. “The parties could not possibly have foreseen the present situation. The legal department assures me that under such circumstances, we are free to disregard it.”
Ralston replaced his glasses, frowning internally. This does not comport with my understanding of the law at all, and I see another, larger problem as well.
To the director he said, “Sir, if I may, how am I to transport this child home without informing her that she’s a Transcender and allowing her to use her gift?”
“That is indeed the tricky part. It has been done in the past with accidental shifters who were not Transcenders. You needn’t worry about it, though. I will have a team of agents working around the clock to engineer her expeditious return. While she is in your sector, however, you will be solely responsible for her every move—within the guidelines of our charter, of course.”
“Yes, sir, that goes without saying,” Ralston replied, although he suspected the entire operation drew perilously close to the outer limits of IUGA’s authority. Despite these misgivings, he added, “You can count on me, sir. I will handle it.”
“Excellent. A copy of the file is waiting for you in research. I knew I could depend on you, Ralston.” Zarbain rose from his chair. Agent Ralston shook the director’s outstretched hand and turned for the door.
“Oh, by the way, there is one additional complication of which you should be aware,” Zarbain said, smoothing his silver hair with a manicured hand. “The mirror for this Transcender, her twin in your sector, is the Crown Princess Jaden Beckett of Domerica.”
Ralston flinched. Good God, he waited until now to tell me this? “Princess Jaden? The one who is slated to pass on tonight?”
“The very same. Makes for an interesting assignment, don’t you agree?”
TWO
It’s prom night, but I’m not going. Not because I didn’t get asked, but because tomorrow I’m moving across town—to the wrong side of the tracks. New home, new school, new life. So while my best friend, Olivia Wallace, is preparing to lose her virginity (for the second time), I’m stuck here packing up the kitchen. It sucks. In fact, if zombies really existed they’d make excellent movers because when it comes to packing up boxes, the fewer living brain cells you have the better. I’ve been at it for hours, and I can actually feel the gray matter shriveling up inside my head.
I reach for my phone. No messages. Everyone’s out partying except me.
I dial 4-1-1.
“How can I help you?” the information lady asks.
“Hi. I was just wondering. Who do I talk to about exchanging my life for a new one? See, there’s been this huge mistake. I did not order the giant super-deluxe shit sandwich.”
She kind of snorts. “Girl, would I be working this crap job on a Saturday night if I knew the answer to that one?”
Good point. She clicks off.
I pitch the phone on the counter and open another drawer. Dish cloths, dish towels. I toss them in a box. Six packages of white paper doilies. I wish someone would explain the purpose of paper doilies to me. I consider calling information again… nah, two prank calls in one night is a little much even for me.
“Hey, who’re you talking to?” My brother Drew shambles into the kitchen in his rented tuxedo looking ready to break someone’s heart.
“Just my travel agent.”
“Yeah? Where you going?”
“I’m thinking anywhere but here would be good.” I stuff the doilies into the garbage can and open the next drawer.
Drew laughs. “What’s with the attitude? Not looking forward to adventures in condo living?”
“Oh, it’s not that. I can’t wait to figure out how to cram all my stuff into that cute jail-cell-sized room. The new school’s got me worried, though. I don’t have the handgun skills or the requisite number of tats to get into any of the honors clubs.”
He cups a hand under my chin and studies me seriously. For a second I think he’s got s
omething on his mind. But one side of his mouth quirks up and he says, “Just crank up the eyeliner and get some black lipstick. I’m sure the Emos will think you have enough street cred. You got that vacant look they all aspire to.”
I slap his hand away, and he heads for the back door.
“Whoa, dude,” I say. “Where do you think you’re going? You’re not getting out of here without a couple of pics of you in that monkey suit.” I grab my camera from the table and pop off the lens cap.
“No can do. Don’t have time.” He looks at his watch and grimaces. “I told Sherry I’d pick her up fifteen minutes ago.”
“So she’s already pissed, what’s a few more minutes?” I put one hand on my hip, cock an eyebrow, and give him a glare that plainly says ‘no’ is not an option.
He slumps his shoulders. “Okay, just make it quick. Where do you want me?”
“Stand by the staircase. It’s the only box-free spot in the house.” We step into the hall and he leans casually against the banister, arms folded across his chest. I check him out in the viewfinder. “God, what happened to your hair? Did you comb it or something?”
“No!” He straightens up looking pained and ruffles his fingers through his tawny curls. “Does it look like I combed it?”
“Just kidding. You look good.”
He beams and resumes his pose. I snap a few shots.
Drew’s my big brother by virtue of his being thirteen months older than me. Really, he’s about an inch shorter than my five feet ten inches, but he thinks he’s a rock star so everyone else does too.
“Dad still on duty at the hospital?” he asks.
“Yeah, double shift in the ER.”
“They still shorthanded on nurses?”
“So he says.”
But Drew and I both know the alleged nurse shortage is only an excuse for avoiding this house and us, or anything else that reminds him of Mom. After she died, Dad just kind of checked out. It’s like he crawled inside his own head and can’t find the exit. She’s been gone about twelve months now, and he’s still MIA.
“You know I hate leaving you here all by yourself to finish up the packing,” Drew says. “But someone has to represent the badass Becketts at this little soiree, and it might as well be the pretty one, right?”
“Yeah, too bad you’re showing up instead.” I pop the lens cap back on my Canon, and Drew makes for the door. “Have fun and try not to embarrass yourself,” I call after him. “Remember, disco is dead.”
He waves—or flips me off—I can’t tell which.
I trudge back to the kitchen. Pots and pans are next. Whoopee. I’m thinking maybe I should’ve gone to the prom after all.
I had a date with the charming and ever-so-hot Jason Fallon. But I found out last week that Liv was going to make a huge deal out of it being my last hurrah at Madison High, and I have a definite aversion to epic farewell scenes. So I cancelled on Jason and told Liv I had to stay home and get ready for the move. I plan to ease out of here in my own way. Like smoke from a candle, poof, I’m gone.
The house seems unnaturally quiet tonight, or maybe I’m just feeling alone. I search through the clutter on the kitchen counter for my iPod. It’s not there. I spot a box with my name on it. Maybe it got packed in there. I rip off the tape and pry open the top, but it’s just my old yearbooks and Tae Kwon Do trophies from the den. I make a mental note to look for my iPod later and get back to my packing. I hum a little Arcade Fire, but my voice sounds tinny and makes the place seem even lonelier.
Thunder rolls in the distance, rattling the kitchen windowpane. Storm’s coming in. I open the door to the back porch. The air has a metallic tang to it, and dark clouds mushroom across the sky, blotting out the moon and stars. I make sure all the boxes and things we stacked out here for the movers are well under the roof. Looks like it might be a soaker.
I wind my way through a maze of crates, bicycles, and garden tools to a wicker patio chair by the porch railing, and I curl up on the cushion to watch a little Mother Nature in action. I’m awed by the super mega-watt power of a dozen dazzling lightning bolts as they blaze across the sky, eerily illuminating the manicured neighborhood lawns and trees.
I was afraid of thunderstorms when I was a kid. Mom used to comfort me by saying it was only “heaven’s fireworks.” She was amazing like that, always seeing the positive side of things. I haven’t let myself think about Mom a lot over the past year. Sure, random thoughts of her float through my head a hundred times a day. But I usually just push them out, forcing myself to think of something else.
Tonight though, with the rain falling softly on the new spring grass, I let her settle gently on my mind—her warm smile, the bright green eyes I was lucky to inherit from her, her amber and spice scent. I close my eyes, conjuring up the feelings of comfort and security I used to have whenever she held me in her arms.
As I sit lost in my memories, the storm grows steadily faster and fiercer. Rain sheets across the back lawn in gust-driven torrents, pulling my thoughts away from Mom. I know I should go inside and finish packing, but the porch is still mostly dry so I linger on, mesmerized by the powerful downpour.
Without warning, an immense shaft of lightning stabs the earth uncomfortably near the house. The intense flash of light blinds me momentarily, and the sonic boom of thunder makes me jump. When I recover my vision, the churning cloud bank in front of me looks exactly like a bunch of guys on horseback, kicking up dust as they speed toward my house.
I rub my eyes to shake off the strange optical illusion, but a second burst of lightning gouges the air, this one brighter and louder than the first. My hands fly to my ears, and in the stark light I see them again, more clearly now. Horsemen!
I spring from the chair. My head’s telling me it’s not real—just a trick of the storm, like a mirage. But another lightning bolt rips the sky, and there they are again, in IMAX 3-D, bearing down on my back porch at breakneck speed. Real or not, all my instincts scream at me to get the hell out of here. Now!
There’s no time to find a path to the door. They’re closing in too fast. I can hear their shouts above the storm.
“There she is.” “Take her alive.” “Don’t let her jump.”
My nearest escape route is over the porch railing into the remains of Mom’s rosebushes. It’s a three- or four-foot drop into thorns and mud, but it’s my only shot at getting out of here before being trampled by dozens of thundering hooves. My heart tries to kick its way out of my chest as I scramble like mad for the rail and dive to the other side.
THREE
I’m floating a few inches above my body. It feels bad, but in a good way. I know I’m not supposed to be outside my body, but I’m so light and carefree. Muffled voices hum in the background. The words are unclear, the tones low and serious. Something’s wrong. I don’t remember what, but my attempt to compose my thoughts pulls me back down to earth. Zip. I’m back in my body and, oh man, I ache all over.
I try to move. I try to speak. I hear a low moan. Did it come from me or someone else? The background voices change abruptly, becoming more urgent. Someone sits down beside me and places an icy cold object on my forehead. It stings like hell. I move my head to make it go away.
A soothing voice says, “Be at peace. Rest assured you are safe.”
My brain commands my eyes to open, but they don’t obey. It’s maddening. I want desperately to see what’s going on. I concentrate very hard, and with enormous effort I open my left eyelid a slit. That’s when I see the angel.
He’s the most radiantly beautiful being I’ve ever laid eyes on. A golden glow emanates from the light coppery skin of his muscular arms and smooth face. His eyes are summer-sky blue and his hair shiny and black as a crow’s feather. I stare at him brazenly, enthralled by the movement of his full lips.
He’s speaking, I realize belatedly. The angel is speaking to me. “Are you well, Princess?” he says.
“Uh, that depends… am I dead?”
The angel thr
ows back his silky hair and laughs a thrilling, throaty laugh. “No, thank the spirits, you are not dead. You gave us quite a scare though when you launched yourself from the cliff. You could have been killed.”
His long fingers lift a stray lock of hair from my face and tuck it behind my ear. “Whether bravery or idiocy I do not know, but I hope you will not attempt such a thing again.”
The background voices burble with soft laughter.
What is this guy talking about? I know I didn’t jump off a cliff, but something sounds familiar. A wisp of memory struggles to break the surface of my mind. I close my eyes and try to coax it to the top, but I lose the thread. Something touches my forehead again, accompanied by another cold stab of pain. My eyes fly open, and I see the beautiful man dabbing at my forehead with a strange kind of instrument.
