By Daryl Gregory
It starts in Toronto, within the years after the shrewdpermanent drug revolution. Any highschool scholar with a chemjet and web connection can obtain recipes and print medicines, or invent them. A seventeen-year-old highway lady reveals God via a brand new brain-altering drug known as Numinous, used as a sacrament through a brand new Church that preys at the underclass. yet she is arrested and positioned into detention, and with no the drug, commits suicide.
Lyda Rose, one other sufferer in that detention facility, has a depressing mystery: she was once one of many unique scientists who constructed the drug. With assistance from an ex-government agent and an imaginary, drug-induced healthcare professional, Lyda units out to discover the opposite 3 survivors of the 5 who made the Numinous in a quest to set issues right.
A mind-bending and violent chase throughout Canada and the USA, Daryl Gregory's Afterparty is a wonderful mixture of William Gibson’s Neuromancer, Philip ok. Dick’s Ubik, and maybe a little Peter Watts’s Starfish: a final probability to save lots of civilization, or die attempting.
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He’d done it before. He was doing it now. Fuck him. I didn’t want to die of old age walking out of the south Gobi, but fuck him. Then the intercom crackled to life. The pilot said something fast and tonal—Cantonese, I thought, not that I could follow it. The Antonov banked hard and picked up speed as the engines coughed a bloom of black smoke. Whatever it was we were looking for, we’d found it. Hannaday just smiled. ” Ladder work? Out here? * * * And damn me if we didn’t bounce to a landing somewhere not much different from anywhere else.
He was an Agency cowboy I’d last seen on the wrong end of a Glock in Kandahar two years earlier. Whipcord thin, still wearing the same damned Armani suit. How the fuck had that spook gotten into the camp without me seeing him? My legs still ached whenever it got chilly. I briefly considered firing off my Stinger inside the ger, just punching the warhead into Hannaday’s chest, but that would have pretty much toasted us all. “Stow it,” growled Korunov. Two hundred kilos or not, that man could and did snap necks.
He was pale and sweating. ” I said. ” I went and looked. Our spaceman was a girl, not more than fifteen, eyes bloodshot from reentry gees, barely moving even as she stared at us. Blue-black skin, shaved head. A girl. Who’d dropped out of the Central Asian sky in a Russian spaceship. Kids on the International Space Station? Not fucking likely. Not in this lifetime. ” * * * The Antonov lumbered back to camp. Nichols sat in the back of the plane with his shotgun, watching the kid and cursing in an extended monotone, mostly Russian.