The opulent skyline of New Geneva rises above the neglected Dredges, reflecting a society shaped by disparity. Orphaned by a Dominion explosion, Elara Vayle boards the starship Aurora in search of autonomy. The vessel operates under structured command, yet quiet tensions ripple through its corridors. Captain Mira maintains control while navigating responsibilities that extend beyond protocol. As Elara demonstrates her engineering aptitude, she gains cautious acceptance but continues to struggle with her distrust of the Imperial Dominion. Pulse, an AI embedded with her father’s neural imprint, offers both technical support and emotional complexity.
When irregularities within the ship’s systems point to sabotage, the threat forces the crew to confront hidden motives and fractured loyalties. As uncertainty spreads, Elara must reevaluate her assumptions about power, justice, and what it means to belong to a community under pressure.
Author Q&A
What’s a detail, theme, or clue in your book that most readers might miss on the first read—but you secretly hope someone notices?
The rumpled man in the junk market that Elara sees in her vision is described to resemble Fox Mulder from The X Files, although in this book, he is actually an alien from the race known as the Nords (an alien race that greatly resembles “weird-looking” humans).
When did this story or idea “click” into place for you—was there a single moment you knew you had to write it?
I have been wanting to write since I was in middle school. The decision to write this book was just one in a long string of failed attempts to get started. When the first draft for the book was only 35 pages in length, I asked myself how this could become a book. Mr. Google told me, “Use more subplots,” so I did, and got something of a novel going. At that point, the machine was unstoppable.
Which character or real-life person surprised you the most while writing this book, and why?
When I was writing Zora’s scenes, I couldn’t help but tear up. Her trauma and stoic silence in the face of her innermost fear spoke to me.
If your book had a soundtrack, what three songs would be on it and what scenes or moments would they pair with?
Funny you should mention a soundtrack. I already have one song fully produced for Aurora’s Edge, titled “Aurora’s Edge,” funnily enough. But while writing this book, I was heavily inspired by songs such as “We’ll Meet Again” by The Fat Rat, “Instant Crush” by Daft Punk, and “I Really Want to Stay at Your House” by Let’s Eat Grandma.
What’s one belief, question, or emotional truth you hope readers carry with them long after they finish your book?
Ideological, theocratical, political, and nationalistic viewpoints should not be used as an end-all, be-all of a person’s core. Someone can have their own beliefs and still be unique from the herd that shares their beliefs.
Tell us about a moment during the writing process when the story (or message) took an unexpected turn.
The book almost wrote itself at times, and themes kept creeping into the narrative that tied back into earlier themes. I think when Elara faces down death in the climax, it mirrors a tragedy of her past that makes the loss she faces more visceral.
If your protagonist (or the central figure in your nonfiction) could give the reader one piece of advice, what would it be?
When that little voice in your head that pushes you down your personal paradigm tells you how the world is set up, sometimes it's better to ignore it, especially when the world screams back at you in contrast.
What real-world place, object, or memory helped shape a key element in your book?
As far as the Aurora’s layout goes, I would have to say that the USS Vandegrift was a primary real-world place that helped me describe the cramped space aboard the deep-space freighter.
What’s something you had to research, learn, or experience to write this book that genuinely shocked you?
Well, I have zero background in medicine, so I had to research how Elara breaking her ribs would affect her in both the short term and the long term.
If your book were invited to join a shelf with three other titles, which ones would make you happiest—and what would that shelf say about your story?
File this book between Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and Project Hail Mary, with Dungeon Crawler Carl acting as the bookend to keep them all upright.
Excerpt from Aurora's Edge
Chapter One
2425, EARTH
New Geneva, the jewel of the Allied Planets, hung above the shadowed guts of the Dredges like a gleaming Elysium. The metal-slatted faux sky that split the two worlds cast its silent taunt down onto the grime-choked underbelly below
The neon lights of the cracked, ruined alleyways flickered like dying stars, casting sickly shadows of green and purple across the darkened brick and concrete of the under-city. A rumbling hum of industry permeated the air in an unending cacophony, a constant reminder of the dismal inevitability of cheap labor that fed the utopian ideals that loomed above them.
Among the dark streets and ruined buildings, the shanty Scragtown stood with rusted corrugated sheeting and rotting, moss-covered wooden beams that threatened to collapse under their own weight. The endless sea of shanties lay as a testament to the squalor of those who dwelled here. The criminals, revolutionaries, and runaways of Scragtown often quoted the popular mantra, “The rest of the Dredges are for the workers, the slaves of the AP. Scragtown is for us, the true dredge of society.”
In the dim, gray light, sixteen-year-old Elara Vayle hunched on the rotted sill of a filthy window. Tangled blonde hair hung around her shoulders, a single violet bang falling across her forehead. The panes that weren’t boarded up with cracked, worn wooden wood were covered with a thick layer of filth that made it nearly impossible to see through. Her bright, emerald eyes peered through a strip of smeared grime, staring up at the faux sky of the Dredges. Slim fingers toyed with a silver locket, engraved with a starfield, that hung from her neck on a tarnished chain. Along the rusted walls behind her, loose pieces of scrap paper were plastered, displaying complex technical schematics and calculations, drawn by hand.
“It’s time, Elara,” a familiar, snarky voice buzzed in her brain, “they’re not going to return.”
Elara averted her eyes from the cold steel grating that made up the Dredges’ sky and glanced down at the threadbare doll that had been carelessly cast aside. Her eyes were swollen and dry, she couldn’t produce any more tears, even though she desperately needed to. She exhaled, her voice low as she whispered, “Oh, Milo…” and stepped away from the window, lifted the doll to her reddened eyes, then let her arms fall, the little rag figure dangling limply between her fingers. With a sigh, she set it gently on the teal-painted dresser, her fingertips lingering on the greasy fabric.
“It’s no use fretting about them, Elara,” Pulse hummed, “they’re gone, we will be too if you don’t make up your mind, now.”
She returned to the window, her gaze returning to the sight of the cold, slatted surface, and her tenor shifted—soft, detached, “How long until she departs, Pulse?” she hummed to herself.
“It’s going to be a rough go of it, the streets are buzzing with enforcer drones,” Pulse grumbled, “you waited too long, the odds of reaching the ship now are low…” he ticked with a cold precision in her brain, calculating the exact odds, “... let’s just say it’s really low.”
It’s so dangerous out there, especially after what happened to Jax… and Tess… she glanced back at the doll … and Milo. The stupid thing looked like it was judging her, like everyone always did, as if to say, “You should’ve gone after them, it’s all your fault.” Her gut twisted, and she shoved the thought down, hard, then frowned as she silently mouthed the words to the abandoned doll, “I know…” her voice cracked, she couldn’t manage even a whisper. Her frame shuddered under the imaginations of what perverse horrors might have befallen poor Tess… poor Milo. There was nothing she could do about it, her ship had literally come in.
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A Potion, A Powder, a Little Bit of Magic: Or, Like Lightning in an Umbrella Storm by Philip C. Stead
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