The First Few Pages of 'Max Quick 3: The Bane of the Bondsman'

Since you are all being so very patient, I thought I would drop a little surprise snack for you ... enjoy!

One: Patchwork Boy

     HE WAS a handsome man.
     You might even call him a dandy.
     His broad, easy grin threw jangling joy at everyone he passed.  Adoring eyes hung on him with child-like wonder.  Love beamed from every face as his tall, lanky form snapped by.    
    And why not?  This was his village, after all. 
    The world was a smile. 
    In his wake, children danced with squeals of delight.  Women stole sly glances.  They admired the smooth perfection of his dark olive skin, his thick ink-black hair, and his strong, sharp-chiseled features.
   He was a lucky man.  He was one of those people who glided through life with a snappy dash.  Yet he was not off-putting, and this was an important point:  You didn’t hate this man.
    You loved him.  You cheered for him.  You couldn’t help it. 
    Because he genuinely wanted to help you.  He wanted everyone else to be just as lucky as he was. 
    He really did!
    His village was much like him.  It was situated on the Italian coast, and was straight out of a picture book.  Tangled trees snuggled thatched roofs.  Cobblestone paths wound like meandering thoughts.  And for miles around, hills of healthy crops swished happily under a blue slate sky dabbed with creamy clouds.
     There was only one thing wrong.  Only one mote of imperfection soiled the serenity.  When the man saw it, his nose crinkled with annoyance.  A twinge of anger bloomed in his bosom.
     A broken boy lay in the street. 
     His street.
     The man frowned.  His face actually hurt from the act: he didn’t frown often.  But the plight of this boy was an abomination.  Such things did not happen here, not in his ancestral home!
    The man stooped for a better look.  The boy was not Italian.  That much was obvious immediately.  Smiling that radiant smile of his, the man pulled the red-and-purple cloak from his shoulder and covered the shivering boy with it. 
    “Hello,” the man said in Italian.  “Can you understand me?”
    Weakly, the boy nodded. 
    “Ah.  You speak Italian.  That is good.  Are you hungry?” the man asked.  “Thirsty?”
    Again, a nod, but this time with a glint of hope.
    “Water!” the man snapped.  Several villagers sprang into action.  Within seconds, the boy was drinking cold mountain water from silver ladles, gulping it greedily down.
    “Now, then,” the man said smiling warmly.  “That’s better.  I see color returning to your cheeks already.  You will come to my house, and dine with my family.  You shall eat your fill!  Then, you shall have a hot bath and sleep in a featherbed.  And when you are yourself, then we shall have a talk, I think.  You and I.  To see what is to be done with you, yes?” 
     The boy nodded meekly.   Utter disbelief at his sudden good fortune was plain in his hazy gaze.  The man laughed uproariously.   His clean, pure joy was the purest music in the world. 
     The boy dredged his voice to life.  The man had to lean in close to catch his words.
     “Who … who are you, sire?” the boy asked.
    The man sprang upright and bowed as a servant might.  The boy noticed the luster and sheen of the man’s dark complexion.  It was impossibly clean and smooth, and radiated almost unheard-of health, especially for Renaissance Italy in 1503. 
    With a rich twinkle in his eye, the man answered, “I am Giovanni di Cyranus, young master.  And I am very pleased to meet you!” 
    And that was how Max Quick first met Johnny Siren.

     ON THE SHORE of a windy world that had been shattered and shorn stood the lone figure of Max Quick.
     His memory was returning.
     Not all at once.  It came in jabs and flashes.  This latest bit where he’d recalled Siren’s face (before it had become horribly disfigured) peering down into his own was only the latest example.  
      His cryptomnesia had been designed to mute his power.  But Max had found a way to unleash that power anyway.  His fist clenched involuntarily as he recalled tearing the Machine apart … 
      The Niburian memory block had never been designed to contain a mind filled with such power.  The cryptomnesia was melting away in chunks, like warming glaciers calving off into the ocean.
      Faces, names, and places from lifetimes spanning millennia were pouring into Max’s consciousness.  Even different personalities, different versions of himself, were intruding on his thoughts.  At times, it was overwhelming and impossible even to focus. 
      He knew that at some point, he would remember absolutely everything.

Comments

[J. Angelo Racoma]

I just finished MQ2 and I'm thirsting for more. Thanks for the preview.

[Ally]

I cannot wait for the third book! I finished Book Two almost an hour ago, and here I am: Impatiently waiting for the third :D

[jannypie]

this is going to be great, i can't wait!

[Justin]

I'm glad to see a #3 on the way. Cannot wait.

[Adrian]

Can't wait!! MQ 1&2 were awesome!!

[Jon]

dude I'm dying for the next one, is their an eta on when it can be expected?

[Chris Hockenberry]

I just finished book one and found to my surprise that book two is no longer available!!!!!!! would someone like to sell me their copy???

ChrisHoc@Hotmail.com