Welcome to the book tour for Zosma by Jason Michael Primrose. This is the first book in the Lost Children of Andromeda series. I'm sharing an exclusive excerpt with you today, to check out before you download your own copy from your favorite retailer. You can follow the tour to read reviews, interviews, and more. Plus there's a great giveaway for FIVE paperbacks to enter!
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Zosma (The Lost Children of Andromeda)
ZOSMA IS A POWERFUL PRE-APOCALYPTIC SCIENCE FICTION STORY EXPLORING THEMES OF TRUTH, RESILIENCE, AND DIVERSITYZosma opens the series on Earth in 2052 A.D. as Allister Adams, a young superhuman, begins his search for the planet’s possible savior: Zosma Caster. Zosma is an intergalactic refugee and the vessel for an otherworldly energy source from the Andromeda Galaxy. The rogue organization C20 has been interested in Zosma’s power, but are its intentions entirely pure? Allister’s search for an alien becomes a search for truth as the walls, literally and figuratively, are closing in.
Zosma is the first in the series The Lost Children of Andromeda. Inspired by his personal journey of self-discovery, Jason Primrose has created a world in which even superhumans are challenged by the effects of greed, fear, and natural disasters. The apocalyptic tale explores the themes of reality vs. perception, human extinction and climate change, diversity of thought, and resilience.
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Read an excerpt:
ALLISTER ADAMS
Abandoned C20 HQ, Former Middle East
Foolish and fast, Allister powered toward the storm, his forearms acting as shields, and when he got to its outer rim he dove in, face turned away. Allister veered sideways, losing momentum, and surrendered to gale force. His stride slowed. He sank low to listen and kept both heels up, balancing on his toes, fingertips pressed in the sand.
“We’re under attack, detective!” a robust voice shouted. “Might be one of those goddamn superhumans you warned us about.”
Assuming the soldier’s communication had been routed through Cynque, he watched their formation restructure. Hand gestures commanded action from the cavalry, and they scampered to new posts, preparing their weapons to shoot whatever came through the cloud. Their expressions, hidden beneath helmet visors, failed to shroud their uncertain voices.
“Get ready!” Allister heard a different man scream, holding back none of his frenzy.
They’d gone through rigorous training in preparation for C20’s retaliation, but perhaps they didn’t train for him.
The elemental distraction had backfired, in that now, they’d dispatched to the middle entrance he’d planned to use.
An act that called for more running. Allister pivoted to the side, dodging a plasma blast, fast enough for it to miss, slow enough for him to feel the burn as it passed his ribs. An uppercut to the gut knocked the wind out of the attacking soldier and he doubled over. One down. Another soldier came at him, feet behind the first. Allister threw an elbow at his face. The soldier spun out and landed on his back. Two down. A third soldier swung a right hook. Allister blocked the punch, evaded a blast, crushed the weapon’s barrel, and threw the soldier over his shoulder. Three down. He served violence cold, zipping through to the middle, taking out soldiers as they filed in to halt his infiltration. The last thing he’d wanted was a brawl, yet, after five minutes, he stood surrounded by dozens of unconscious bodies and subsiding winds.
He hopped over the U.S. soldiers, ever cautious of their recovery or the chance he’d missed one in his haste. He clambered up a dune to a somewhat submerged window. Whoomph. His palm hit the concrete wall. Allister’s hand stung from striking it, but he needed the grip to keep from sliding backward. He heel-kicked the window’s edge. It splintered. In the same fashion, he kicked it once more. Fractures wove a web on its surface, and the glass shattered.
A true gentleman, he let the sand enter first then lowered his head to peer in. Empty. Hesitation harnessed around his waist, he hovered at the edge as the hourglass in his mind ran out of sand. He had to keep moving.
His shoes crunched against the sand ridden floor. His breath shortened. His stomach tightened. It sank in. He’d volunteered to revisit the place where he’d lost the pillar of his being, Dolores Edna Adams. Two months prior, April 2052, C20 had captured his mother, Dolores. Allister led the charge to C20’s doorstep to rescue her. A noble effort complicated by the organization’s motives. They wanted him to come. And they wanted him to come alone.
His colleagues, Dr. Florence Belladonna and Lieutenant Leesa Delemar came after him, even when they were ordered not to. The showdown ended with the devastating energy pulse from Leesa, which neutralized the base, Florence’s imprisonment and...
He pressed his hand on the nearest wall. The woozy sensation derailed his progress. If he closed his eyes, he’d see the heart-wrenching moments in high-definition, so he kept them open until they dried from the heat and blinking became reflex. An unexpected reunion with facets of his humanity that had been destroyed there—his purity (if nothing else).
Allister told himself to keep moving. And he did, one foot, then the other, and again. There was less at stake this time around, and still, he found himself performing the same choreography as the last visit. Lukewarm, sheeted metal protested his heavy hand’s need for support as he traversed the musty hallway, heading opposite the dome. The creaks were normal, a result of a foundation built on shifty earth. His vision adjusted to darkness revealing a canopy of wiry, metal nooses and a field of jagged steel scraps, bordered by a forest of dented paneling. Leesa’s telekinetic handiwork.
The wall creaked louder, shouting at him. He swiveled to it and the wall creaked again, not shouting, he’d misjudged. It was warning him to move farther, faster. Its distress brought his attention to the rotting wounds, creases in the metal wall gaining weight and folding over themselves, spreading past him into the dark. The ceiling slid closer to his bun’s curled tips.
Hint taken, he swapped caution for speed. The floor caved and tumbled soon after. As if fueled by their own preservation, each knee lifted double time to carry him out of danger. He dove onto sturdier ground, rolled and thumped a door as the wall and the floor’s final slabs crashed below.
He spent seconds on his bum; skull rested against the door, staring at dust and debris-riddled air. Catching his breath, knowing he could spare seconds at most, he felt a full minute’s burdensome and unwarranted arrival. More seconds passed. He said goodbye to another wasted minute. Time continued to slip from his grasp, it fell and unraveled like yarn, while he, the kitten, pawed at it, hoping to bring it closer, to reclaim it as his own. He needed to keep moving.
Allister rebounded to his feet, faced the door, and was confronted by a name placard affixed to the office’s frosted glass: Captain Jared Brandt, C20’s leader.
“Lying son of a—” He punched at the glass. It didn’t put up a fight and broke down the middle, leaving fragments in its corners.
“We’re under attack, detective!” a robust voice shouted. “Might be one of those goddamn superhumans you warned us about.”
Assuming the soldier’s communication had been routed through Cynque, he watched their formation restructure. Hand gestures commanded action from the cavalry, and they scampered to new posts, preparing their weapons to shoot whatever came through the cloud. Their expressions, hidden beneath helmet visors, failed to shroud their uncertain voices.
“Get ready!” Allister heard a different man scream, holding back none of his frenzy.
They’d gone through rigorous training in preparation for C20’s retaliation, but perhaps they didn’t train for him.
The elemental distraction had backfired, in that now, they’d dispatched to the middle entrance he’d planned to use.
An act that called for more running. Allister pivoted to the side, dodging a plasma blast, fast enough for it to miss, slow enough for him to feel the burn as it passed his ribs. An uppercut to the gut knocked the wind out of the attacking soldier and he doubled over. One down. Another soldier came at him, feet behind the first. Allister threw an elbow at his face. The soldier spun out and landed on his back. Two down. A third soldier swung a right hook. Allister blocked the punch, evaded a blast, crushed the weapon’s barrel, and threw the soldier over his shoulder. Three down. He served violence cold, zipping through to the middle, taking out soldiers as they filed in to halt his infiltration. The last thing he’d wanted was a brawl, yet, after five minutes, he stood surrounded by dozens of unconscious bodies and subsiding winds.
He hopped over the U.S. soldiers, ever cautious of their recovery or the chance he’d missed one in his haste. He clambered up a dune to a somewhat submerged window. Whoomph. His palm hit the concrete wall. Allister’s hand stung from striking it, but he needed the grip to keep from sliding backward. He heel-kicked the window’s edge. It splintered. In the same fashion, he kicked it once more. Fractures wove a web on its surface, and the glass shattered.
A true gentleman, he let the sand enter first then lowered his head to peer in. Empty. Hesitation harnessed around his waist, he hovered at the edge as the hourglass in his mind ran out of sand. He had to keep moving.
His shoes crunched against the sand ridden floor. His breath shortened. His stomach tightened. It sank in. He’d volunteered to revisit the place where he’d lost the pillar of his being, Dolores Edna Adams. Two months prior, April 2052, C20 had captured his mother, Dolores. Allister led the charge to C20’s doorstep to rescue her. A noble effort complicated by the organization’s motives. They wanted him to come. And they wanted him to come alone.
His colleagues, Dr. Florence Belladonna and Lieutenant Leesa Delemar came after him, even when they were ordered not to. The showdown ended with the devastating energy pulse from Leesa, which neutralized the base, Florence’s imprisonment and...
He pressed his hand on the nearest wall. The woozy sensation derailed his progress. If he closed his eyes, he’d see the heart-wrenching moments in high-definition, so he kept them open until they dried from the heat and blinking became reflex. An unexpected reunion with facets of his humanity that had been destroyed there—his purity (if nothing else).
Allister told himself to keep moving. And he did, one foot, then the other, and again. There was less at stake this time around, and still, he found himself performing the same choreography as the last visit. Lukewarm, sheeted metal protested his heavy hand’s need for support as he traversed the musty hallway, heading opposite the dome. The creaks were normal, a result of a foundation built on shifty earth. His vision adjusted to darkness revealing a canopy of wiry, metal nooses and a field of jagged steel scraps, bordered by a forest of dented paneling. Leesa’s telekinetic handiwork.
The wall creaked louder, shouting at him. He swiveled to it and the wall creaked again, not shouting, he’d misjudged. It was warning him to move farther, faster. Its distress brought his attention to the rotting wounds, creases in the metal wall gaining weight and folding over themselves, spreading past him into the dark. The ceiling slid closer to his bun’s curled tips.
Hint taken, he swapped caution for speed. The floor caved and tumbled soon after. As if fueled by their own preservation, each knee lifted double time to carry him out of danger. He dove onto sturdier ground, rolled and thumped a door as the wall and the floor’s final slabs crashed below.
He spent seconds on his bum; skull rested against the door, staring at dust and debris-riddled air. Catching his breath, knowing he could spare seconds at most, he felt a full minute’s burdensome and unwarranted arrival. More seconds passed. He said goodbye to another wasted minute. Time continued to slip from his grasp, it fell and unraveled like yarn, while he, the kitten, pawed at it, hoping to bring it closer, to reclaim it as his own. He needed to keep moving.
Allister rebounded to his feet, faced the door, and was confronted by a name placard affixed to the office’s frosted glass: Captain Jared Brandt, C20’s leader.
“Lying son of a—” He punched at the glass. It didn’t put up a fight and broke down the middle, leaving fragments in its corners.
About the Author
Jason Michael Primrose has been creating alternate worlds and characters since childhood. For nearly ten years, he has used his unique storytelling gift to impact the entertainment, fashion, and tech consumer product industries. His experience spans brand strategy, creative direction, retail merchandising, and influencer/celebrity partnerships.
www.lostchildrenofandromeda.com
https://twitter.com/lostchildrenofA
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