Literature & Fiction
![Amie Kaufman - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B00BHU47C4.jpg)
Aurora's End (The Aurora Cycle)
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING SERIES • The squad you love is out of time. Prepare for the thrilling finale in the epic, best-selling Aurora Cycle series about a band of unlikely heroes who just might be the galaxy's last hope for survival.
Is this the end?
What happens when you ask a bunch of losers, discipline cases, and misfits to save the galaxy from an ancient evil? The ancient evil wins, of course.
Wait. . . . Not. So. Fast.
When we last saw Squad 312, they working together seamlessly (aka, freaking out) as an intergalactic battle raged and an ancient superweapon threatened to obliterate Earth. Everything went horribly wrong, naturally.
But as it turns out, not all endings are endings, and the team has one last chance to rewrite theirs. Maybe two. It's complicated.
Cue Zila, Fin, and Scarlett (and MAGELLAN!): making friends, making enemies, and making history? Sure, no problem
Cue Tyler, Kal, and Auri: uniting with two of the galaxy's most hated villains? Um, okay. That, too.
Actually saving the galaxy, though? Now that will take a miracle.
Is this the end?
What happens when you ask a bunch of losers, discipline cases, and misfits to save the galaxy from an ancient evil? The ancient evil wins, of course.
Wait. . . . Not. So. Fast.
When we last saw Squad 312, they working together seamlessly (aka, freaking out) as an intergalactic battle raged and an ancient superweapon threatened to obliterate Earth. Everything went horribly wrong, naturally.
But as it turns out, not all endings are endings, and the team has one last chance to rewrite theirs. Maybe two. It's complicated.
Cue Zila, Fin, and Scarlett (and MAGELLAN!): making friends, making enemies, and making history? Sure, no problem
Cue Tyler, Kal, and Auri: uniting with two of the galaxy's most hated villains? Um, okay. That, too.
Actually saving the galaxy, though? Now that will take a miracle.
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
Zila
I am rarely surprised. In any situation, I habitually calculate the odds of all possible outcomes, ensuring I am prepared for every eventuality.
Nevertheless, I am extremely surprised to discover I am still alive.
I spend six seconds in openmouthed shock, blinking slowly. After that, I press two fingers to my neck to check my pulse, which is rapid but unquestionably present. This suggests I am not experiencing an unexpected version of the afterlife.
Interesting.
A glance out of the cockpit viewshields reveals nothing--no stars, no ships, simple blackness. On instinct, I check our failing sensors, long-range and short. Strangely, I do not see any sign of the enormous battle that was raging around us moments ago, just before the Eshvaren Weapon blew itself apart--an incident with no possible outcome but our complete incineration.
Impossible as it may be, the entire Syldrathi armada, along with the Terran and Betraskan fleet, and the Weapon, have . . . vanished.
. . . Interesting?
No. Unnerving.
I let my training take over, instructing the ancient navcom on our Syldrathi ship to catalog all visible stars, FoldGates, and other landmarks or phenomena and then advise on our present location.
Wait. Our.
I flick on comms. "Finian, Scarlett, are you still . . . ?"
"Breathing?" comes Finian's voice, a touch uneven.
"Apparently so."
A wave of relief washes through me, and I do not attempt to prevent it. It is inefficient to combat such sensations. Better to let them pass naturally
"I am one confused boy right now," Fin continues.
"Didn't we just . . . explode a moment ago?" Scarlett asks.
". . . Lemme check," Fin replies.
I hear a small squeak. A soft sigh. A long moment passes, and I am almost tempted to send a query when Finian speaks.
"Yeah," he finally reports. "We're definitely still alive."
"I am investigating," I advise them, as the navcom pings softly. "Please hold."
Consulting the ship's guidance systems, I feel a small frown forming between my brows. Not only is there no sign of the massive battle that should have killed us, there is also no sign of the planetary bodies of the Terran solar system. No Neptune, no Uranus, no Jupiter.
In fact, I can detect no stellar features at all, near or far.
No systems.
No stars.
We have . . . moved.
And I have no idea where.
Interesting AND unnerving.
A new icon pops up on the fritzing sensor display, indicating something is behind us. Our engines are still down, disabled during the fleet battle, so I turn on our rear sensors, looking at the vast stretch of space to our aft.
It . . .
That is to say . . .
I, um . . .
I . . .
Stop that, legionnaire.
I suck in a deep breath, straightening my spine.
I do not understand what I am seeing.
I begin by cataloging what can be observed, as any scientist would.
The ship's sensors are reading colossal fluctuations along the gravitonic and electromagnetic spectrums, bursts of quantum particles and reverberations through subspace. But engaging our aft cameras, I can barely see anything of this disruption in the visual spectrum at all.
In fact, at first, I mistakenly assume our visual arrays have been damaged. Everything is totally black. And then a pale light flares in the distance, a small pulse of disintegrating photons. And by their brief mauve glow, I glimpse what can only be described as . . .
A storm.
A dark storm.
It is enormous. Trillions upon trillions of kilometers wide. But it is utterly black, save for those brief photon flares within--an oily, seething emptiness, so complete that light simply dies inside it.
I know what this is.
"A tempest," I whisper. "A dark matter tempest."
Its presence would be strange enough, given that mere moments ago we were on the very edge of Terran space, where no such spatial anomaly exists. But stranger still, I see something more. Engaging my magnification settings, I confirm my suspicion. To our starboard, etched in silver against that seething storm of blackness, is a . . . space station.
It is a bulky, ugly thing, clearly built for function, not aesthetics. It appears to have been damaged--great crackling bolts of current slither over its surface, blinding and white. From the side closest to us, vapor is venting: fuel, or if the cr...
Zila
I am rarely surprised. In any situation, I habitually calculate the odds of all possible outcomes, ensuring I am prepared for every eventuality.
Nevertheless, I am extremely surprised to discover I am still alive.
I spend six seconds in openmouthed shock, blinking slowly. After that, I press two fingers to my neck to check my pulse, which is rapid but unquestionably present. This suggests I am not experiencing an unexpected version of the afterlife.
Interesting.
A glance out of the cockpit viewshields reveals nothing--no stars, no ships, simple blackness. On instinct, I check our failing sensors, long-range and short. Strangely, I do not see any sign of the enormous battle that was raging around us moments ago, just before the Eshvaren Weapon blew itself apart--an incident with no possible outcome but our complete incineration.
Impossible as it may be, the entire Syldrathi armada, along with the Terran and Betraskan fleet, and the Weapon, have . . . vanished.
. . . Interesting?
No. Unnerving.
I let my training take over, instructing the ancient navcom on our Syldrathi ship to catalog all visible stars, FoldGates, and other landmarks or phenomena and then advise on our present location.
Wait. Our.
I flick on comms. "Finian, Scarlett, are you still . . . ?"
"Breathing?" comes Finian's voice, a touch uneven.
"Apparently so."
A wave of relief washes through me, and I do not attempt to prevent it. It is inefficient to combat such sensations. Better to let them pass naturally
"I am one confused boy right now," Fin continues.
"Didn't we just . . . explode a moment ago?" Scarlett asks.
". . . Lemme check," Fin replies.
I hear a small squeak. A soft sigh. A long moment passes, and I am almost tempted to send a query when Finian speaks.
"Yeah," he finally reports. "We're definitely still alive."
"I am investigating," I advise them, as the navcom pings softly. "Please hold."
Consulting the ship's guidance systems, I feel a small frown forming between my brows. Not only is there no sign of the massive battle that should have killed us, there is also no sign of the planetary bodies of the Terran solar system. No Neptune, no Uranus, no Jupiter.
In fact, I can detect no stellar features at all, near or far.
No systems.
No stars.
We have . . . moved.
And I have no idea where.
Interesting AND unnerving.
A new icon pops up on the fritzing sensor display, indicating something is behind us. Our engines are still down, disabled during the fleet battle, so I turn on our rear sensors, looking at the vast stretch of space to our aft.
It . . .
That is to say . . .
I, um . . .
I . . .
Stop that, legionnaire.
I suck in a deep breath, straightening my spine.
I do not understand what I am seeing.
I begin by cataloging what can be observed, as any scientist would.
The ship's sensors are reading colossal fluctuations along the gravitonic and electromagnetic spectrums, bursts of quantum particles and reverberations through subspace. But engaging our aft cameras, I can barely see anything of this disruption in the visual spectrum at all.
In fact, at first, I mistakenly assume our visual arrays have been damaged. Everything is totally black. And then a pale light flares in the distance, a small pulse of disintegrating photons. And by their brief mauve glow, I glimpse what can only be described as . . .
A storm.
A dark storm.
It is enormous. Trillions upon trillions of kilometers wide. But it is utterly black, save for those brief photon flares within--an oily, seething emptiness, so complete that light simply dies inside it.
I know what this is.
"A tempest," I whisper. "A dark matter tempest."
Its presence would be strange enough, given that mere moments ago we were on the very edge of Terran space, where no such spatial anomaly exists. But stranger still, I see something more. Engaging my magnification settings, I confirm my suspicion. To our starboard, etched in silver against that seething storm of blackness, is a . . . space station.
It is a bulky, ugly thing, clearly built for function, not aesthetics. It appears to have been damaged--great crackling bolts of current slither over its surface, blinding and white. From the side closest to us, vapor is venting: fuel, or if the cr...
