'Science Fiction has always been better at predicting the future than futurists and this believable dystopia could easily be what is ahead. Highly recommended.'
D. S. MILLS. BUZZWORD BOOKS
The white hope in this disaster is Alexander Logos - an innovator with vast enterprises who belongs to a cartel of shadowy world leaders. His Research Lab does work for the Pentagon and CIA. And 'Everyoung', his secretive medical conglomerate, dispenses permayouth for billionaires.
Enter Don West, a hard up science journalist hired to write Logos Corp propaganda. But West gets too involved. He becomes obsessed with one of Logos's twin daughters. And this draws him into the dark side of the family and its outrageous projects.
This expansive SF saga explores the emerging sciences of nano and bio-tech, artificial intelligence, xenotransplantation, stem-cell seeding, human cloning, tissue banks and robotics. And it follows the techniques of life-extension to a logical, ironic conclusion. (95,000 words) Just $3.99! Use our secure shopping cart here:
Equipment purred, clicked.
The room stayed warm.
The dim light - always on.
She couldn't move.
With so little sensory input, her memories were vague dreams. She was no longer sure of anything and mostly slept. The one thing she clearly remembered was her first sight of the outside world.
She'd hidden from the family's security squad - she was just five and saw it as a game - then had slipped out with her Huggie doll through the food machine waste chute.
She'd emerged on a stinking, littered street. People stumbled along carrying bundles as if escaping some disaster. All had filthy faces. Some had missing limbs.
A ragged man crouched by a wall was tending a fire in a tin drum. Beside the drum was a machete, stained with blood and rust. He called, 'Come here, little princess,' and held out a black hand like a claw.
Then she saw what he was doing.
He was cooking a severed arm.
She'd dropped her doll and run shrieking back to the house.
She clung to that memory now like someone dangling by a rope from a cliff.
There was one more thing she was sure of. The number 2081. It blinked on a digital wall display that showed monotonously changing numbers. A long time ago, she'd tried to work them out. Time, date, humidity, temperature, BP, heart rate, blood count...?
But the number 2081 remained constant.
It had to be the year.
And when she looked far left, she could half-see the next one along. The next whatever-it-was. A pale oval on a complex stand.
A technician sometimes came to adjust tubing, electrodes, readings. His steps and the times he stopped meant there were five of them in the room.
The man would work down the row until he stood in front of her, then lean forward. His white smock would snag and his smell foul the aseptic air. His gloved hands would probe beneath her. He'd shine a light into her eyes.
She had no breath but tried to cry out, 'Please switch me off.'
A buzzer would sound below her and something glow red.
The man would glance at the glow, lines deepening near his mouth.
He'd say, 'Fat chance, rich prick,' and move off.
It was all that ever happened.