Genre: MG Science Fiction
Word Count: 38,000
My Main Character is most uncomfortable with:
Snow reminds Xavier of his mom, who passed away several years ago while they were living on a rather wintery planet. Come to think of it--that's probably around the time she hid the microchip in his brain. Although he has, on some levels, accepted her death--Xavier still misses his mom.
Dear Fabulous and Wise Agents,
Everyone thinks twelve-year-old Xavier has a knack for causing havoc. In reality he's just terribly unlucky. He's not the one who made "The Man" (the evil head of the Cornucopia Conglomerate) send a spaceship to Kevin 5 to turn his colony into something resembling a burnt pancake. Oh wait—he is.
To be fair, Xavier didn't even know the microchip (the one "The Man" wants to get his hands on) was hidden in his head. See, his mom did leave a message explaining the whole I-put-a-microchip-with-my-research-on-it-in-your-head thing before she died several years earlier, but he didn't get it until after the colony fried to a crisp.
Now, Xavier is stuck on a trip with his dad and other colonists getting supplies for the rebuilding of the colony. Along the way he has to deal with his impending banishment (in the form of living with his grandparents), navigating a new school, keeping his split-personality robot out of trouble, and trying to solve his mom's riddles.
Xavier must unlock the password to the microchip before "The Man" or his goons can cut it out of him. If he doesn't, he'll never know his mom's secret or why it's so dangerous.
Thank you for taking the time to consider my manuscript.
First 250 Words:
I thought to myself: Self, that’s not supposed to happen—just as the second dung bomb exploded. As the smelly, sticky, brownish-green substance flew through the air like shrapnel, I knew somewhere I'd made a slight miscalculation. Taking a moment as I crouched in the wheat field, I reviewed the parameters of my little experiment.
The traps consisted of plastic trays that held a chemical Mr. Finch, the colony's bug guy, assured me would be poisonous to the black bellied grain beetle. The trays were covered by a heap of cow dung to attract said beetles (again according to the illustrious Mr. Finch).Perhaps I should've consulted the colony chemist, too.
The third beetle-trap-turned-dung-bomb exploded.
I cringed. I didn't recognize the voice, the colony was small but not that small, its tone was certainly familiar. My reputation had preceded me. Turning around slowly, I came face to knees with one of the grain farmers. I couldn't remember the man’s name, but I might've been distracted by the fact that he was covered—from head to toe—in dung.
“Yes, sir?” Why does my voice always crack at times like these?
His angry reply was cut off by the fourth and final explosion. The trap I'd proudly dubbed ‘The Hotel’ went out in a blaze of glory, spewing forth a cloud of brown and a jet of yellow flames. The wave of brown speckles struck the farmer's back and then fell lightly on my face.