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Zosma by Jason Primrose - Book Tour

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Science Fiction
Date Published: November 1, 2018
Publisher: Mascot Books

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Zosma 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.


Allister Adams
Marrakech, Morocco, 2052  AD

Heavy breathing. racing heartbeats. The intentional pitter-patter of people moving from place 
to place. No, moving closer to him.

Allister Adams came to face-up in a heap of sand.  Every mus- cle throbbed, 
his brain included. He grunted and pushed himself onto his elbows as unfamiliar terrain 
and untrustworthy vision demanded his concentration. He blinked at an image of three 
identical buildings blending into one another and the  darkness abound.

Navy gloom thwarted moonlight from reaching the rooftops. 
Clustered together, the far from welcoming buildings defined themselves in rectangular 
shapes and varied shades  of grey. They towered over Allister, as if demanding an 
explanation from him, the outsider.

Turning toward  the direction of the  last step he’d heard, he squinted, suspicious  
of what lay beyond a stone wall’s decompos- ing edge.

“Get up! Hands in the  air!” someone shouted.

The  building showed  its allegiance to the  city by hiding the body that  carried this robust 
and confident voice.

“I’m getting  there,” he mumbled. He couldn’t believe it worked. 
He’d  completed a successful transport before, but it had never taken  this long to recover 
from its physiological side-effects.

Six simultaneous click-clacks and a collective, fearsome whirring confirmed new military  
weapon prototypes charging for action.

“Hands in  the air intruder!” the  same voice shouted from somewhere above him.

“Yeah, okay, give me a second!”

Gun-toting soldiers  slinked into view: behind opposite build- ings, two waited for him to walk 
forward;  a third stepped in front of him; a fourth emerged behind him. On the adjacent roof, 
a fifth and sixth aimed  at him sniper-style. The double-barrel chrome weapons in sight 
wore prized core-reactor technology near the trigger.

Their possession of the  proprietary war tech doubled his heart rate  and paused his 
sarcasm. He was incapable of tearing his concentration from  the plasma energy building
in the gun’s glass sphere to obey their request.

“Those aren’t on full power, right?” he asked aloud. He needed the nausea  to go away like 
now. The aches pulsed with less inten- sity, the fever subsided, and  his body cooled. 
Better. He sat back on his heels, hands up, as instructed.

The plasma  bonfires, though contained, gave the muddy  fore- ground a distinguishable 
glow. Arriving with the orange energy’s light  were the details in the soldiers’ uniforms, 
their impatient expressions, and their enlarged, exaggerated shadows. The shadows passed
over Allister in an effort toward intimidation. Little did they know, he was intimidated enough 
by the promise of the plasma’s ferocity.  Still, he’d come for answers, and he’d leave with 

Dressed  in a grass green uniform and matching beret,  the lead soldier motioned the gun 
barrel skyward. “Hands higher, where I can see them. How’d you get in here?”  he asked.

“None  of your business.”

The  soldier wouldn’t  understand anyway.  I transported, he thought, imagining the  
conversation play out. I transported here from the United States because I’m looking for an 
alien refugee named—

“How?” the soldier  demanded, voice now unsteady. His finger inched back on the  trigger.

One foot situated on the ground for support, Allister launched upward and  said, 
“I think you heard me the first time.”

Click. Snap. Boom. A plasma  bolt seared the upper flesh on his back. He yelled out and  
tumbled over, scrambling to get air back into his lungs. The  weapons were on full power.

“Should’ve  killed him,”  the soldier behind him said. “Charge ‘em up and  hit him again!”

Allister shook  away the stinging. Through clenched teeth, he seethed, 
“You might  as well put your guns down.” An adrenaline rush refueled his gumption. 
More  bolts whistled past him as he moved forward. Zoom. Twisting  sideways. Zoom. 
Zoom. Dipping and  spinning. Zoom. Zoom.

He cried out. Nicked in the bicep. Not fast enough, not nimble enough, he was distracted by 
the first wound’s pain.  It had chased him, caught up, and kicked him behind both knees. 
One knee gave up and fell, pushing the sand beneath it outward.  The other stayed at a 
ninety-degree angle, supporting his upper body’s hunched weight. Nostrils flaring, 
he reached his dry, cracked  fingers around the opposite shoulder to touch his back. 
Allister glanced at the blood they collected, dragged it along the thigh of his joggers and 
chose to keep  the insults and obscenities to himself.

The  lead soldier, out  of arm’s reach, backed  away to let the gun recharge but  kept 
it pointed at the space between  Allister’s eyes. Smoke, reeking of overheated metal,  
rose from its mouth.

“He’s not  slowing,” the  one behind him  said.

“Hit.  Him. Again,” commanded another, coming  around the corner. “Superhuman or not, 
these  were designed—”
“To  kill, I know,  believe me, I know,”  Allister said. “Those hurt  like shit, but in case you 
haven’t noticed, they won’t kill me.”

The  lead soldier’s  mouth twitched in recognition. “Akhrus,” he said, as a fist-led arm  
shot into the air bent at the elbow. “You know the  law, American. Our borders are closed. 
I suggest you leave the  way you came.”

“Or what? Listen,  I’m not going anywhere  until I speak to—”

Scattered click-clacks  interrupted. Allister leapt  to his feet, maneuvered in a burst  
of speed, wrapping an arm around the lead  soldier’s neck. He wrenched the gun away, 
took  aim, and let loose its firepower. The foundation holding the  snipers at an elevated 
advantage caved, forcing them to evacuate  their posts, while burying soldiers on the 
ground. He spun the man  locked in his grip to face him, and kicked him in the chest 
so hard, he flew back unconscious.

His menacing glare  sent the last soldier stumbling away. 
“Princess Celine will make you pay,” he said, dropping the weapon.

Good, at least I’m in the right place.

Allister  held onto  his commanding stance  for appearance’s sake. 
The orphaned gun’s energy charge  dwindled and its afterglow shrunk below his 
clenched jaw, flexed  neck, and stretched shoul- ders. Staying attached to the man’s 
silhouette as it waded into the grey horizon became  irrelevant. Irrelevant too, was pretending 
to ignore the lingering sensation where the initial bolt had hit him.

His nerve  faltered, and  he gasped, wobbled,  then took a step back to steady  himself. 
Pain he couldn’t picture compelled him to caress the area,  certain flames frolicked atop 
already scorched skin. Yes, his shirt’s fabric had been singed  from existence, and his flesh 
remained in the same condition, tender, swollen, exposed, but there were  no flames. 
His mother had warned him of his overactive imagination. More blood joined what had 
smeared and dried across  his fingers the first time. Inhale through the nose, exhale 
through the mouth. Repeat. There was a pounding in his eardrums, while he  desperately 
sought concentration to inspire his regenerative powers. Inhale through the nose, exhale 
through the mouth. Repeat.

He ran a hand through his afro. The brown ringlets, a result of mixed  African-American and 
Caucasian heritage and infrequent grooming, deposited sand  back to its home, unwilling 
to bring them along the next leg of the journey.

Marrakech, the Red City, had flourished as the Moroccan epi- center of merchant trade and  
melded cultures. Allister wandered its streets. As the wind tiptoed around him, 
it swept sand  flecks between the abandoned civilization’s haunting echoes. 
Overturned, paint-stripped vehicles with blown out  windows. Tattered sheets hung from 
clotheslines. Stone temples and infamous rose-colored buildings overrun by leafy vines, 
cork oaks, and  olive trees. The country’s gem, suspended in tragedy.

“This is Marrakech now.”

He  dusted the  tan particles sticking  to his bare arms and shoulders, then untied a 
bandanna from his  left wrist. A government-issued device known as the Cynque 
watch was hid- den beneath. “What’s Celine’s location,  Cynque?” he asked it, and retied the 
bandanna around his neck.

“Updating,” it replied and repeated, “updating,” and answered minutes later:  
“Celine Nephthys location not found.”

Either the  device was as useless  as he’d come to believe,  or Celine had evaded 
mandatory enrollment in the  global surveil- lance network. Cynque, a one-stop shop 
for personal information: occupation, age, nationality, and citizen status (i.e. fugitive), 
dou- bled as a communication device and  source of entertainment. To an average person, 
the watch’s pros outweighed its cons. Allister was far from an average person, and his 
skepticism had blos- somed into theories of an  all-seeing government cloaked in the 
shiny guise of convenience. “ We are all Cynqued!” the newest commercial tagline 
propagated. Allister liked their initial slogan better: “Cynque makes  life easier.”

Humidity clung to him like a needy  lover, and he reached the grand La Mamounia Palace  
Hotel’s fading memory drenched in perspiration. The prospect of confronting Celine kept him 
in the sweltering  heat until he gathered the courage to go in.

The statuesque entrance was lined by half-broken pillars spread like downed trees  along 
the ground. In rare cases, they leaned against sturdier companions, held  up by the 
embrace of roots connected to the palace’s upper fixtures.

Damaged chandeliers lowered his expectation for decent  light. He roamed the hall’s 
darkness. He called Celine’s name  over and over. Allister scowled and turned each 
direction in the deteriorated lobby, before  he yelled, “I need to talk to you!”

A  rumble,  similar to  a high-speed train,  foretold the wind-propelled storm. 
Arm over his face, Allister scrunched down, using the pillar for stability and to protect his 
back. Sand swarmed from  all sides, carving a woman’s curvy hips, cinched waist, 
and squared shoulders—then solidified. Smooth, radiant skin sat between a chorus 
of twisted braids  the color of midnight.

He left the pillar’s support and  huffed, “Celine. You look . . . different.”

“Bow,”  Princess  Celine Nephthys  commanded, in a French-inspired North African accent.

Already crouched halfway to the  ground, he replied, “I don’t think  that’s necessary.”

Fingers curved in, she yanked her arm to her body. He dropped to his knees and swayed 
upright. She flattened her palm,  causing him to pitch forward, both hands on the floor.

She’s still upset about what happened, he thought. His core mus- cles contracted, 
fighting gravity. He bowed his head.  “Is this what you wanted?”

She shook  her wrist, erasing the  increased gravitational pull. “It will suffice,” she said. 
“What are you doing  in my country?”

“I need  info on C20.”

“How inconvenient for you.” Celine’s frown straightened. The piercing brown darkening in 
her eyes ignited to the purple energy of her  geokinetic superpowers. Sand spilled in from 
the outside and sloshed like a furious ocean, flooding the room.

Ankle deep. Knee deep. Waist deep. Mouth  hanging open, he edged back and debated 
whether to defend himself.  “Don’t make me fight you,” he stammered. “That’s not why I 
came here!”

“You thought I forgot  what you did? When you saw me impris- oned  and failed to give me 
a second glance. I’ve heard so much about this hero, Allister Adams. All I see is an 
impulsive, self-serving child.”  She raised her arms.

Okay, she’s pissed about what happened. “Celine,  calm down. I’m sure we can—”

More  sand poured in. It swelled into  a tsunami and crested, breaking against  
his chest. Knocked upside down, he flailed inside the  earthen trap whipping en 
masse around his body.

“You left me to die! I beg you to find a reason . . . ”

Her  muffled  words refused  the tumultuous trek to his ears and kept  their distance. 
Swallowing, a bigger mistake  than paddling through the rip current, filled his mouth with 
flavorless particles and  panic.

Stabbing sensation beneath the skin in his left arm, blood-bloated veins, and  a blue glow 
were signs he’d tapped into Z-energy, the peculiar energy inside  him. 
He closed his fists in an attempt to contain the power to no avail. It erupted from  
his forearm, dis- persed the sand and blasted Celine back.

Allister rolled  onto his stomach, gagged, gagged again,  and threw up the grains 
lodged in his esophagus. Fighting the puddle of sick’s smell,  he turned sideways. 
“Crap, I didn’t . . . mean to use that. Did . . . did I hurt you?”

He held his left wrist, palm exposed, demanding the Z-energy’s cooperation under his 
breath as he waited for an answer. It behaved like lightning, crackling  until its temper 
waned. Zig-zag shapes sank into his skin, and the energy’s soft flare dulled to his natural 
honey complexion.

She stood  over him, arms  crossed.

“Look, I didn’t save you, because C20 had my moth—” He coughed and  wiped saliva from 
his chin. “I was scared. For all I knew, you were on  their side.” He reached for her to 
help him stand, to which she let out a scoff and  slapped his hand aside.

“Don’t be an opportunist. Just tell me why you’re here.”

“I told  you. I need  to find C20.”

About the Author

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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. 

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