Morgan Spraker – YA Sci-Fi – THE FATE OF ALEXANDRIA

Dear Agents:

Eighteen-year-old genius Perry Spade’s revolt against her dictator aunt begins with building a time machine—then stopping a war from three centuries ago.

It’s 2359, and Perry’s aunt, President Ava Westmore, is strengthening her iron hold on Zavia, the alien planet invaded by humans. Meanwhile, Perry searches for what she’s never had—a family. To achieve this, she replicates a time machine based on centuries-old plans, hoping to reunite with her insane mother and dead Zavian father.

But when Perry takes a test flight, she learns she isn’t the only one who wants to change history. Ava has been manipulating historical events with her own time machine to facilitate her rule. Seeing an opportunity to remove her aunt from power and reverse her parents’ fates, Perry assembles a crew and journeys back to before the Earthian-Zavian war with a mission: save three historical figures, including the time machine’s enigmatic creator and Perry’s intellectual inspiration, Milo Valentine, who all appear to be victims of Ava’s interference and could stop the war from occurring.

Upon arrival in the past, Perry’s crew is picked off one by one. Left alone, Perry aligns herself with Milo and rebellion members in a hope she can still overthrow her aunt. Finding herself falling for Milo, Perry must choose between saving who she loves or the historical figure she knows can save the future, all while remembering, thanks to Ava, history isn’t always what it seems.

THE FATE OF ALEXANDRIA, a YA science fiction complete at 92,000 words, combines the revolutionary politics of Netflix’s 3% with the futuristic perspective of TRAVELERS. It is told from multiple points of view and has series potential. I am an English major at the University of Florida.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Morgan Spraker

 

PROLOGUE: FLETCHER VALENTINE

MARCHER LEDGE, NORTHEASTERN QUADRANT

EARTH, 2359

Fletcher Valentine knew somebody was going to die tonight.

On nights after a new issue of the Harbinger was published, someone always did. From the moment the lift emerged from the Coriander Mine, soldiers from the Queen’s Blood Guard—known as Crims amongst quadrant citizen—observed workers like snakes stalking their prey.

They watched everyone. Their eyes didn’t seek him alone.

Fletcher only had to convince himself of that.

On the hour-long Transport ride from the mining site to the pay office in Marcher Ledge, Crims stood at the front, fingers too close to the rifle triggers for Fletcher to fall asleep. Even as miners crowded into the office, lining up in front of an obsidian table that cost more than everyone made that month combined, the Crims lingered. They stood statuesque, red jackets buttoned to their throats, pants to their ankles, black leather gloves and boots covering remaining skin. They could see out, but nobody could see past their domed white masks. It was easy to forget they were human. Fletcher studied the floor so they couldn’t look him in the eyehe didn’t know what they’d discover in his gaze.

Each person collected their pay, clutching their account cards and coin bags close to their tattered, and sometimes bloodied, shirts to avoid slick-fingered coworkers. A dark-skinned boy wearing a faded brown tunic passed him and smiled before a violent cough seized him, thick from a life of breathing polluted air,. Fletcher flinched.

Will you die tonight? Will it be you?

Shelves stuffed with robotic birds carrying air quality sensors, pieces of dissembled century-old technology found underground, and retrieved bones boxed the line of workers in. He stood near the line’s end, blistered hands tucked into his pockets. His stomach demanded food that wasn’t a bland nutritional tablet the Crims handed out at midday, but he had nothing to give.

Will it be me?

The line dwindled; he approached the table. A mini holoscreen, the type only available to palace personnel, projected a three-dimensional image of his identification portrait in unnatural red. Hopkins, the mine boss who workers called Paunch behind his back for his tree-trunk neck and overflowing belly, tapped his name on the screen with a sausage-like finger and slid him a bag. “Credits are loaded on your card. Rest is here.”

Fletcher glanced at the balance on his white account card, then opened the bag and counted ten coins too few. “I’m short.”

Paunch folded his short arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair. Above him, the Earth flag, a crisp white rectangle with a stripe of green and blue, and the Northeastern flag, crimson silk with a white and violet square in the corner, framed his mocking grin. “Do you know how much damage your brother’s accident caused?”

He knew better than Paunch ever would. Fletcher hadn’t been able to scrub all the blood from the floor. Milo still woke screaming.

 

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