I am so excited to be releasing my first novel outside of the Among the Stars Universe! It's really exciting and so different than my other novels and I really hope that you all enjoy it! I am also thinking about having a running blog story (similar to a serial novel) because I want a story utilizing emoticons (emojis for you young-folk!).

Here is the prologue from A Cure Across Time. I hope you all enjoy it. If you haven't already, hit that pre-order button and save the date! February 27, 2026, isn't too far away!

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Reeda

3 Weeks Before Andromeda’s Antidote Departs

The worst part about motherhood? Having to hide from my kids. To be clear, I didn’t want to. Believe me, I’d much rather work during my lunch break instead of scouting a café my family would never come to. I had to hide. If Juniper or Julian caught me, I’d have a lot of explaining to do.

Clawing at the bump on my arm, I shouldered into the building, careful to avoid smashing my satchel into the door. I could hardly afford the coffee here, let alone a new tablet. The café was a hole in the wall some ten kilometers away from Gliese University and the heart of Neos. Few patrons sipped different combinations of coffee and tea, the fragrances surprisingly diluted to my well-trained nose.

I scurried past tables and Bots carrying trays filled with steaming mugs. Most seating was available. In fact, the city as a whole had been eerily silent. On any other day, I’d love the peace and quiet. But today I needed anonymity, and more people made it easier to go unnoticed.

As I slipped into the farthest booth, the seat’s leather stuck to my palms. Maybe this café wasn’t as high-class as I’d thought. Delicately, I brought out my tablet and navigated to my bank account. The number of credits still made my mouth drop.

Part of me wanted to capture an image of the screen as proof that I’d actually had this type of disposable wealth at one point in time. How often did you see this many zeros? People like me lived comfortably but extra credits were always welcomed. Especially considering Juniper. But another part of me—the rational side that always won these internal battles of emotion and realism—knew it would only serve as evidence.

“Hello, Ms. Elara,” a Serving Bot said, the voice resounding inside the hollow cylinder. A digital screen on its body identified it: “Serving Bot 6.” Hearing my own name frazzled me. Apparently this place could purchase new Serving Bots with facial recognition, but not cleaners for the seats. “What would you like?”

My face heated and I glanced at the digital menu, even though I had already decided last night after careful deliberation.

“I’ll have an iced coffee.”

“Cream and sugar?”

“Yes. Three of each, and easy on the ice.” The reviews had said you needed to be firm with the Bots. Specific and terse.

I placed both hands on the table. Sticky teas, long since spilled and dried, pulled my skin like glue. I didn’t hide my sigh. “Tell your operator to check the cleaning Bots.”

“Thank you for letting me know, Ms. Elara. We appreciate your feedback. What size would you like your coffee?”

This part I hadn’t considered. The website didn’t specify sizes—just drinks. I had thought the café was too pretentious to have sizes. I leaned back into the booth and thought.

To some it probably seemed bizarre, but I preferred to fully contemplate all options when presented with selections. Any informed choice, no matter how trivial, needed to be mapped out. A small size wouldn’t have been ideal. What if I liked it? Likewise, a large could’ve been a waste if it tasted terribly, and the credits in my account were allocated for those tickets.

“Medium,” I said.

“I will be back with your order.”

I scanned the café a second time, ensuring no one I knew had weaseled inside. Though I doubted it, my children—Juniper especially—disobeyed my warnings. This part of Neos attracted the rich, and those trust-fund Earth oligarchs who had come years ago to our system didn’t take kindly to the locals.

The Bot returned with the beverage. And thank God I didn’t order a large. “Coffee” was a generous description for the mug of liquid whiter than milk with ice filling half of it. This was why Bots couldn’t be trusted. With anything. Even simple tasks a competent child could do mystified their algorithms and approximations of emotions. Sure, they could perform parlor tricks like reciting exact temperatures or recounting historical events on a whim, but following human commands, no matter how precise, was impossible.

“Would you like anything else, Ms. Elara?”

“No,” I replied curtly, my face sour.

I sipped through the metal straw that dinged against the mug, bracing myself for a rush of sugar. Damn. The reviews weren’t wrong. This was delicious. Coffee had somehow blended with the sweetened cream with hints of bitterness highlighting the spectrum of flavor. I took another sip greedily. It didn’t make amends for the graveyard of ice, but it came close.

Pinching my fingers, I maneuvered to my emails. The contact had been clear with what he wanted, and I wasn’t in a position to haggle. Going to our thread, I composed a concise email. No sense in wasting time. I attached the requested information: my bank account numbers, pre-filled waivers to board Andromeda’s Antidote and identifying details of the passengers.

Juniper Elara, eighteen, sick with the Brianna Virus.

William Elara, forty-one, healthy and father.

Swapping to my photos, I attached images of my daughter and husband. Juniper’s photo was taken at a science fair that I had forced her to take part in. She, of course, resented me for it, often bringing it up in arguments unfairly despite it being nearly a decade ago. That picture was years before the virus infected her. Back when she had her hair and a smile.

The image of William had been taken during our tour of the Farm Orbital responsible for our only habitable city’s food. Kilometers of grain and vegetables stretched behind him as he held the twins. Julian had cried the entire time. I wasn’t sure if Juniper did too.

I gulped in scentless air. Once I sent this email, William and Juniper would be gone for a decade. Ten full years without them. Just me and Julian, at least, until he started school. Then it’d just be me. Alone. This sacrifice—my relinquishment of my family—was a minuscule price to save Juniper’s life. She didn’t need to know the truth about how I obtained the tickets, the things I had to do.

I didn’t know why I had tears in my eyes but I did. They rolled down my cheeks and I angrily swiped each of them. Crying embarrassed me enough, but crying in public was another type of humiliation I wouldn’t stand for.

When the email dinged, I returned to gazing at the patrons and Bot-staff. The lab didn’t need me back for another forty minutes, and traveling to the university would only take twenty. These next few minutes were mine and mine alone.

For the first time in days, I exhaled. The sticky surfaces, empty tables, and Bots who couldn’t visualize light ice all disappeared. Sometimes everything was too much. I preferred the constant go-go-go compared to empty time, but that didn’t mean I had a distaste for relaxing.

This silence previewed the decade ahead. Me alone in that house. Really, this was exactly what I had wanted the past few years. With no family waiting at home, I could finally solve issues plaguing the lab. Maybe even get it back to code. The idea didn’t sound as attractive as it used to be. I couldn’t tell why.

DING!

A crowd of HARM protesters and random citizens piled into the café, stampeding over each other and racing to the back. Customers twisted their faces in confusion as commoners filled the space.

HARM stood for Humans Against Robots Movement. Their ideals, subgroups, and members were clear as mud. A Venn-Diagram of the most conservative HARM members with the least radical would have next to no overlap. But HARM, despite all their inconsistencies, had one basic tenet they all shared: Bots shouldn’t have legal status. No jobs, rights, or identities. So a group of HARM protesters frantically dashing into a Bot-staffed café vexed me like a vegan eating a meat-grown burger.

Some had signs, the famous slogan “HARMing Bots Isn’t Harm,” plastered across the top. Other non-protesters formed pockets in the group, and the entire population scattered to the once empty tables.

A short man with long hair and hollow eyes sat alone next to me. He panted, his chest rising and falling from one moment to the next. He wielded one of the HARM signs, a simple accusation: BOTS STEAL JOBS.

I wouldn’t have said I was antisocial. In a similar manner, I wouldn’t have said I was social. But I was curious. When such an opportunity presented itself like this, what was I meant to do?

I moved the cup of ice away. Serving Bot 6 lunged towards the man, eager to please.

“Hello Mr.—”

“—I don’t want anything,” he snapped.

Something in me shifted. The Bot couldn’t help its programming. Though I supposed I wasn’t exactly the kindest either.

“Excuse me,” I said.

The man turned around to me. “What, you a Clanker supporter?”

I frowned. “I’m just buying coffee.” He lowered his shoulders. “Did something happen? This doesn’t seem like the type of place your people would come to.”

He turned back. “Yeah, something happened.” He laughed ominously. My stomach sank though he hadn’t said anything yet to warrant the reaction. My body had predicted bad news. He clicked his tongue. “There’s a swarm. Bunch of people just got…”

My bump itched. He continued speaking but it was like a grenade exploded behind me. Ringing sounded, and I saw his lips moving but I couldn’t and didn’t listen.

I covered my mouth, gulped, and went back to my tablet. I reopened my email, headed back to my contact, and typed a reply to my most recently sent message.

This time, I didn’t think about the decision. I knew what I had to do.

Change of plans—I will be coming, not my husband.