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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
The discovery of an injection that wards off ageing is hijacked by ruthless men who hunger for immortality, with catastrophic consequences. Two women race against time to stop them, before it's too late … a chilling, prescient, high-stakes speculative thriller by the bestselling author of One. `Like most speculative fiction, Eve Smith's novel is a commentary on the contemporary … a thought-provoking thriller with much to say about our obsession with looking youthful´ The Times `Another triumph of speculative fiction by Eve Smith … a brilliant concept, skilfully executed and disturbingly believable´ Guy Morpuss `Yet another piece of insightfully thrilling writing from the master of ethical science dystopia´ SciFi Now `Had me hooked from the opening chapter, right through to the brilliantly shocking ending … We should all be reading Eve's cautionary tales´ Philippa East `With compulsive plotting, crackling dialogue and a third-act twist that took my breath away, it cements Smith's position as the queen of the speculative crime thriller´ David Goodman ***New Scientist and SFX Book of the Month*** ––––– Living forever can be lethal… Ruth is a law-abiding elder, working out her national service, but she has secrets. Her tireless research into the disease that killed her young daughter had an unexpected outcome: the discovery of a vaccine against old age. Just one jab a year reverses your biological clock, guaranteeing a long, healthy life. But Ruth's cure was hijacked by her colleague, Erik Grundleger, who hungers for immortality, and the SuperJuve – a premium upgrade – was created, driving human lifespan to a new high. The wealthy elite who take it are dubbed Supers, and the population begins to skyrocket. Then, a perilous side-effect of the SuperJuve emerges, with catastrophic consequences, and as the planet is threatened, the population rebels, and laws are passed to restore order: life ends at 120. Supers are tracked down by Omnicide investigators like Mara, and executed… Mara has her own reasons for hunting Supers, and she forms an unlikely alliance with Ruth to find Grundleger. But Grundleger has been working on something even more radical and is one step ahead, with a deadly surprise in store for them both… ––––– `The plot is thoroughly gripping. The high, deadly stakes make our protagonists' hunt a game of cat and mouse. She has an uncanny knack for addressing current issues with a scrutinising, almost prophetic mirror´ BSFA Review `Eve Smith has done it again! Thrilling, provocative and downright scary, The Cure is a powerfully clever novel, and Smith an author at the top of her game´ Russ Thomas `Gripping and utterly believable, a terrifying glimpse into the near future that seems all too real and a call to arms in the present, as we watch safeguards against abuse of power being removed on a daily basis´ Trevor Wood `A chilling glimpse into the near future – an original, gripping, masterful blend of crime and suspense. The most original story I've read in a long while´ Leye Adenle `A magnificent achievement – as powerful as the finest documentaries, as exciting as the most inventive thrillers´ Greg Mosse
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TEAM ORENDA
PRAISE FOR THE CURE
‘Another triumph of speculative fiction by Eve Smith! A brilliant concept, skilfully executed, and disturbingly believable: billionaires battling for eternal youth. What could possibly go wrong?’ Guy Morpuss
‘Unafraid of tackling complex ethical issues, Eve Smith is a prophet of a possible, terrifying future. Intelligent, thrilling speculative fiction at its finest’ Sarah Moorhead
‘Gripping and utterly believable, a terrifying glimpse into the near future that seems all-too real, and a call to arms in the present as we watch safeguards against abuse of power being removed on a daily basis’ Trevor Wood
‘With compulsive plotting, crackling dialogue and a third-act twist that took my breath away, it cements Smith’s position as the queen of the speculative crime thriller’ David Goodman
‘Had me hooked from the opening chapter right through to the brilliantly shocking ending. Deeply researched and chillingly realistic … we should all be reading Eve’s cautionary tales of the near future. Highly, highly recommend’ Philippa East
‘A chilling glimpse into the near future – an original, gripping, masterful blend of crime and suspense. The most original story I’ve read in a long while’ Leye Adenle
‘A magnificent achievement – powerful as the finest documentaries, exciting as the most inventive thrillers’ Greg Mosse
‘A triple threat – a moving exploration of what it is to be human, an exciting thriller in which everyone has a secret, and a shockingly plausible vision of what our near future could be like’ Paul Waters
‘Examining the darkest depths of human vanity, near-future fiction queen Eve Smith triumphs again … A twisted, super-charged thriller. Brilliant, shocking and perilously close to reality’ Suzy Aspley
‘Eve has done it again! Tackling a problem too close for comfort. You won’t stop thinking about it and neither will your book club. Perfect for tense debates and sleepless nights’ Bookscape Books iii
‘Eve Smith is unparalleled in her ability to craft compelling dystopian worlds and explain complex scientific concepts in an engaging way … a page-turner that also explores thought-provoking ideas that will resonate long after you finish reading’ Simon Bewick
‘Her best so far. It has a fascinating premise; wouldn’t we all like to live, healthily and wealthily, forever? … In the late Professor Erik Grundleger she has an excellent villain … Yet the emotional heart of the story lies with the two avenging furies … There is edge-of-the-seat jeopardy and pace as the hunters close in upon their all-powerful prey, with more than one surprise awaiting them and the reader … Highly recommended’ Julie Anderson
‘Hauntingly prescient, The Cure is a book I raced through at the speed of light. Utterly compulsive and electrifying, it cements Smith’s reputation as the empress of speculative thrillers. A veritable powerhouse of talent!’ Awais Khan
‘A chilling vision of an all-too-likely future and is guaranteed to keep you thinking about it long after you put it down. Thrilling, provocative and downright scary, The Cure is a powerfully clever novel, and Smith an author at the top of her game’ Russ Thomas
‘The best science fiction is the kind you can see playing out, and Eve Smith is a master of the art … a deep dive into a world where aging has become obsolete. You’ll be asking yourself hard questions long after turning the final page’ Christina Dalcher
‘An incredibly exciting ride through a believable future. It had me gripped!’ Gaia Vince
‘A sparkling FIVE stars. The Cure is a thrilling, compelling read that feels so close to our world, I could almost smell the age-altering chemicals … thoroughly entertains, but intelligently provides clear warnings’ Katherine Bradley
‘This is a scarily real, thought-provoking read!’ Fiona Sharp
‘We are fortunate indeed that we have authors like Eve Smith, who challenge us to imagine, to dare to do what each of us can do, to make the world we have now a better place’ Tim Rideout
PRAISE FOR EVE SMITH
‘Combines the excitement of a medical thriller à la Michael Crichton with sensitive characterisation and social insight in a timely debut novel all the more remarkable for being conceived and written before the current pandemic’ Guardian
‘A touching, gut-wrenching story of family mystery and tragedy … a thriller that punches on two fronts – heart AND mind’ Sun
‘An astute, well-researched and convincing novel of ideas’ The Times
‘Pleasingly terrifying’ New Scientist
‘If you could create a “perfect” baby through genetic engineering, would you? A disturbing and interesting thriller, perfect for book-club discussions’ Prima
‘With echoes of V for Vendetta, One serves as a stark warning, challenging societal norms and individual sacrifices in the face of adversity’ SciFi Now Book of the Month
‘Engrossing and eye-opening, with heart-stopping plot twists … a stunning medical thriller set in a terrifying possible future’ Foreword Reviews
‘STUNNING and terrifying … The Waiting Rooms wrenches your heart in every way possible, but written with such humanity and emotion’ Miranda Dickinson
‘Chillingly close to reality, this gripping thriller brims with authenticity … a captivating, accomplished and timely debut from an author to watch’ Adam Hamdy
‘Another taut and terrifying thriller from Eve Smith’ Louise Swanson
‘A very good and thought-provoking book. It is not that hard to see the type of society that exists in this portrayal of the future’ Trip Fiction
‘Such a gripping, thought-provoking thriller; it’s not a far-fetched dystopia that’s portrayed here, it’s a moving, objective exploration of what our innate desire to protect our children may soon lead to. Complex, frightening and almost certainly eerily prescient’ Karen Cole v
‘Terrifyingly plausible, this is one of those stories that is just impossible to forget’ Novel Delights
‘All too convincing and scientifically plausible … as much a warning as an entertainment’ Paul E. Hardisty
‘Horrifying and gripping in equal measure … a jaw-dropping glimpse of the catastrophe around the corner … Astonishing’ Lucy Martin
‘Amazing, beautiful writing, jam-packed with clever ideas’ Helen Fitzgerald
‘This is what speculative fiction should be – plausible, pacy, and with a story that packs real emotional punch’ Louise Mumford
‘When a writer’s work is compared to Michael Crichton’s, there’s reason to sit up and pay attention … a cautionary tale that’s full of thrills’ LoveReading
‘Margaret Atwood is one of my all-time writing heroes and The Handmaid’s Tale is probably the best book I’ve ever read. Eve Smith and The Waiting Rooms really do challenge that long-held crown’ Random Things through My Letterbox
‘Thoroughly engaging … an eye-opening read’ Crime Fiction Lover vi
vii
THE CURE
EVE SMITH
ix
For Dad
x
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Excerpt from ‘Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night’ by Dylan Thomas, from THE POEMS OF DYLAN THOMAS, copyright ©1952 by Dylan Thomas. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.
‘…we have made a thing, a most terrible weapon, that has altered abruptly and profoundly the nature of the world. We have made a thing that, by all standards of the world we grew up in, is an evil thing. And by so doing, by our participation in making it possible to make these things, we have raised again the question of whether science is good for man, of whether it is good to learn about the world, to try to understand it, to try to control it, to help gift to the world of men increased insight, increased power.
Because we are scientists, we must say an unalterable yes to these questions; it is our faith and our commitment, seldom made explicit, even more seldom challenged, that knowledge is a good in itself, knowledge and such power as must come with it.’
J. Robert Oppenheimer, Speech to the American Philosophical Society, 1945
Then the LORD said, ‘My Spirit will not contend with man forever, for he is mortal; his days will be a hundred and twenty years.’
Gen 6:3
CONTENTS
1
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CHAPTER 1
Mara
NOW
It looks like a collage I did at school. Shreds of reds, pinks and browns stuck together, glue oozing over frayed edges; the odd tuft poking out of the gunge. But this is a brain. Splattered and leaching into paving cracks. Its inert body splayed alongside in a grimy lab coat.
I think of that immortal jellyfish that regrows dismembered tentacles from its stumps. The one that started all the trouble. This brain won’t regenerate, no matter how many therapies it’s had. There is no cure for murder.
Jen nods at one of her team. ‘OK, tell the CSM we’re done.’ She purses her lips. ‘Fucking clan labs.’
Clan labs. Short for clandestine laboratories: illicit biolabs that churn out black-market therapies and drugs. The most lucrative of all are rip-off ReJuves, for punters who don’t meet the government’s eligibility criteria but want to stay healthy and young.
That trade is booming.
My eyes skirt the smashed security cameras, the cables dangling from corrugated roofs, the paint flaking off walls. It looks like any other run-down factory park. Apart from the blacked-out windows and white biohazard tents.
And the corpse.
‘How long have you been tracking them?’ I ask Jen.
‘We haven’t. A guy in the delivery warehouse round the back heard shots and called it in. If I’d known this was an active lab, I’d have got the rubber-suit brigade out straight away. The entire complex has been evacuated. I’ve been itching to get inside for hours.’
‘Rubber-suit brigade’ is an affectionate term for CBRN responders: the emergency response team who investigate chemical, biological, radioactive or nuclear hazards. Some of these labs do a 4sideline in biological weapons. Jen told me many are booby trapped. The lab cooks electrify door or window handles for extra security, and the electrics are so dodgy that sometimes the whole place goes up in flames.
‘Anyone else in there?’ I ask.
‘Not that they’ve found.’
The warehouse door grinds open, and six officers emerge in biohazard suits and respirators, cameras fixed to their helmets.
‘At last,’ breathes Jen, mopping her forehead. ‘Man, this heat. It never lets up.’
As the responders start hosing down their suits, she messages the forensics team.
‘So, come on then,’ I say. ‘Why d’you call me in?’
Jen didn’t elaborate on the phone. There’s no way she’d bother me for a routine lab raid. She knows better than anyone where my personal and professional interests lie.
‘It looks like a territory spat, but I put out a couple of feelers. Tried-and-tested sources. They reckon there’s more to this lab than rip-off ReJuves.’
Her amber eyes flicker. She’s been giving me that look since we were teens.
‘Apparently, they were cooking up some new hybrid therapy. The S-word was mentioned…’
My pulse notches up. S for Super. A title adopted by the privileged elite who could afford the SuperJuve therapy. This wasn’t your standard ReJuve; it was a genetic upgrade designed to extend lifespan. For an exorbitant sum, one lifelong injection promised limitless years. What no one knew then was that it also promised an increased risk of developing psychosis, with severe delusions and paranoia. Rather a concern, given the power and influence most Supers possessed, but this only emerged later. Even then, it didn’t stop those with the requisite funds queuing up to get their jab. It took decades of SuperJuve-induced crimes, culminating in a nuclear attack, to spur most governments to act. Selling or taking the therapy was made a capital crime.
Which is where I come in. 5
Jen checks her watch again. ‘Jesus, sorry about this. Can’t be much longer. So: how are things back home? How’s your mum doing?’
‘Oh, you know.’ I sigh. ‘Doesn’t change.’
‘When were you last down there?’
I shrug. ‘Two, maybe three weeks back?’
Guilt pricks. More like six.
‘Are her tenants behaving?’
‘I think so, but even if they aren’t, there’s not a lot she can do. You know how bad it is; still way too many people on the streets. I don’t see the government getting rid of compulsory rentals any time soon.’
When the housing crisis worsened, homeowners were forced to rent out rooms if the occupancy of their property fell below the prescribed quota. Now Mum has to share with two tenants. Another reason she resents me for leaving home.
‘Yeah, well my mum still complains, and it’s her own parents who moved in,’ says Jen. ‘Mind you, I get it. I love them, but I wouldn’t want to be living with my mum and dad in my sixties. Thank God for one-bed studios.’
‘You said it.’
A pigeon tightropes an electricity wire as clouds scud past.
‘How are they, Jen – your folks?’
‘Fine. You know, my dad still bangs on about that Super you tracked down last year in Germany. I reckon he brags more to his mates about you than he does about me.’
I smile, but it’s bittersweet. I’d rather my dad was the one doing the bragging.
‘Ah, here we go.’
Jen nods at the CBRN responder striding over, fresh from his hosing; his hair is slicked to his scalp with sweat. I’ve only had to wear a biohazard suit once. I nearly passed out from heat stroke.
‘You’re clear to proceed, ma’am. Four toxic chemicals have been identified and removed, no active biological agents. Lots of product in the freezers, but it’s all contained. It’s now safe to enter and you can take command of the scene.’
Jen claps her hands. ‘Excellent news, Thorn. Thank you.’ She turns 6to me. ‘Thorn is our tactical advisor. He’ll be accompanying us inside. Thorn, this is Investigator Black, from Omnicide. She’s here on a consultative basis.’
Consultative: that’s a good one. Thorn must have guessed why I’m here. Omnicide don’t show up on police turf for no reason.
Thorn’s eyes slide over me as he inclines his head. The tightness in his face is familiar. Regular law enforcers have an uneasy relationship with Omnicide investigators. Or bounty hunters, as they like to call us. They aren’t happy about us operating outside the system, and they don’t approve of our methods. But Jen and I have an understanding. We’ve known each other more than half our lives, so we’re no strangers to blurred boundaries. Plus the delinquents I hunt forfeited any entitlement to rights long ago.
She hands me a white coverall, shoe covers and gloves. ‘Time to suit up.’
The crime-scene manager joins us. I acknowledge her with a nod.
As we approach the building, Jen points out an electric cable running from the warehouse into the ground.
‘Classic giveaway: tampering with supply. So they can nick their electric.’
Thorn heaves the door open. As it clangs shut, daylight is eclipsed; all I can make out are amorphous grey shapes. There’s a vaguely acidic smell mixed with damp. We switch on our head torches.
And a whole new world appears.
Metal tables teem with cylinders and test tubes; flasks and beakers marked up in pen. Jerry cans litter the floor, some with hoses sticking through their caps. A lab coat flops over a chair, as if its owner has only just left. My eyes are drawn to a steel machine with a transparent glass hood, a jaunty yellow biohazard sticker on its front. Inside is a bottle of orange liquid, two pipettes and a dish with wells that look like tiny egg cups.
‘That’s the cell-culture hood,’ says Jen. ‘Where they do their cooking. I guess you probably know that.’
We wander past fridges caked in stains; six rubbish bins, all overflowing; a filthy sink. Wires droop from roof panels, improvised 7ventilation ducts run up the walls. I wouldn’t want to lay an ungloved finger on the stuff they concoct here, let alone have it injected.
Jen catches the look on my face and grins. ‘Hey, this is one of the good ones.’
‘What’s the mortality rate with the gear in these places?’
‘About twenty percent.’
I shake my head. One fifth of punters will die, but they still take these rip-off therapies. That’s how desperate they are. But what’s their alternative?
Grow old, get sick, die.
The crime-scene manager starts directing her team. I almost feel sorry for them. Processing all this is going to take hours.
Jen pushes aside some plastic sheeting, and we step through into a massive storage area with aisles of racks, boxes stacked to the rafters. One has tumbled over, unleashing a river of petri dishes. Freezers line the length of one wall; there must be at least ten of them quietly humming away, paper charts stuck to their doors.
I walk over and scrutinise one. I recognise dates. The other numbers must be batch codes of some sort.
‘OK if I peek inside?’
Jen checks behind. Thorn and the crime-scene manager haven’t come through yet.
‘Be quick. And don’t touch anything, unless you want frostbite. These freezers are minus-eighties.’ Minus eighty degrees centigrade. The temperature biological samples are stored.
A bitter cold blasts my cheeks the moment I open the door. Each freezer drawer is packed with vials, piled in together like popsicles. There must be hundreds of them.
‘Are these the hybrids you mentioned?’
Jen shrugs. ‘Can’t tell until they’re analysed.’
As I’m about to shut the door, I hear it. A faint thud.
My head shoots round. Jen frowns.
It’s coming from the freezers at the far end.
We march over and listen. The only noise I hear is the CSM, in the other section, talking to her team. 8
I crouch down by one of the freezers. ‘Look at these scratches. Would the responders have moved the freezers?’
‘Unlikely.’
There’s another thud. It’s coming from directly underneath.
Jen grips the freezer. ‘Let’s get it out.’
After five minutes of huffing and heaving, we’ve got nowhere. The freezer is wedged tight.
Jen turns. ‘Thorn? Get in here!’ Her voice echoes off the walls.
Thorn barrels through the plastic sheeting like a bull through a toreador’s cape. He clocks my arms wrapped around the freezer and comes to an abrupt halt.
‘You missed something,’ I say.
His eyes taper to slits. ‘What the hell—?’
‘Ssh.’ Jen silences him with her hand. ‘Listen.’
The banging from below the freezer starts again. And something else, muffled but unmistakeable.
A yell.
Jen squats down. ‘My name is DI Crowley. Can you hear me?’
There’s another thump.
‘OK, we’re going to get you out as fast as we can.’
Thorn straddles his arms round one side, Jen and I round the other, swivelling the freezer from left to right. The yells are louder now: no words, just bellows. Whoever’s down there must be gagged.
‘We’re almost there,’ shouts Jen, her face a fiery puce. ‘Hang on.’
Finally the freezer grinds out, its plug stretching to the socket behind, like an umbilical cord.
‘Shit.’ Thorn gawps at a rectangular cut in the floor.
Jen squats down. ‘The hide.’ She traces her glove along the edges. ‘Normally, it’s weapons or cash.’
Thorn scurries back through the sheeting and returns with a long piece of metal shaped like a ruler. He kneels down and jams it into the slit. Jen grabs a section of shelving and angles it underneath.
‘OK, slowly does it.’
They jimmy the slab onto the shelving and lug it out.
Jen shines her torch into the hole. Thorn mutters another expletive. 9
A hooded man is lying in the foetal position, his arms cable-tied behind his back. The hide is tiny: he’s lucky he hasn’t suffocated. His ankles are also bound, gashes where the ties have bitten in. The soiled lab coat tells its own story.
Thorn hauls him into a sitting position, and together with Jen, lifts him out.
She removes the hood. Thorn gasps.
Jen and I remain silent. We’ve become immune. We liked to shock each other when we were younger; we used to feast on it, before.
An inverted pentagon has been carved into the man’s forehead: a rusted crust where the blood has dried. At the centre, a single letter has been scored deep into the flesh.
This used to be the emblem for a comic-book hero, but it was hijacked by the kingpins who thought they could cheat death. Just as the Nazis hijacked the swastika.
It’s a symbol of everything I loathe.
The letter is an S. S for Super.
CHAPTER 2
Ruth
NOW
I carry my coffee to my desk, drop into the chair and log on. It doesn’t start for another five minutes, but you really don’t want to be late. If you believe the stats, at least one of us on this course is a Super. And this is how some are caught.
An androgynous avatar requests I stare at them for verification, its voice a blend of human and machine. Is it the same voice that announces your authentication has failed, I wonder. Perhaps that abrupt inflection is the last thing you hear. Or maybe there is no voice. Just an eternity of seconds before the investigator crashes through your door.
I take long, slow breaths, channel yogic waves on a calm sea. I picture the other attendees doing the same in front of their screens. We have to attend these sessions every three years after our hundredth birthday, in the run up to transcendence. I remember when people used to get a letter from the king when they hit their century; now you get an invitation to one of these. All part of the sales pitch preparing you for the big 120. You get a different invitation then.
A lurid green tick appears with a chime.
‘Welcome, Ms Sharp. Your course leader will be with you shortly. Please keep your camera on and microphone unmuted.’
They say this is to encourage engagement. We know better. They monitor your expression and tone, any fidgets or blurts. They check your medi-patch feeds, too. It’s enough to make an innocent’s pulse race.
A woman with short black hair appears. She folds her hands neatly on her desk.
‘Good morning, everyone. Welcome to the Serenity Familiarisation Programme. My name is Elisa Carinson and I am your course leader today.’
I keep my breathing steady, gaze direct, as other attendees’ thumbnails spill into view. 11
‘Please remain at your screen,’ she continues. ‘If you leave without my authorisation, I will be obliged to notify my superiors of a breach.’
My bladder twitches. I compel it to endure.
‘Before we start, does anyone have any questions?’
I take the opportunity to study my fellow coursemates. They stare back in sombre compliance. Some have aged better than others, but there is not one bald or grey head amongst us.
‘No questions?’ she asks after the inevitable silence. A man with ash-blond hair blinks incessantly. I hope for his sake it’s on his record as a tic.
‘In which case, let’s begin.’
The Serenity Programme logo invades my screen: a white oak against a blood-red sunset, accompanied by a sentimental flurry of violins. Once upon a time, people read the lines on your palms to predict how long your life would be. Now there’s no need. Bar the odd accident, suicide or murder, we all know when we’re going to die.
But I’m ready. I’ve been ready for decades.
The music slows to a dirge as tower blocks rear up next to mountains of rubbish and tyres. Oily residues leach into a stagnant lagoon; queues of women and children lug water canisters from blackened creeks. The ocean cowers beyond a harbour, the horizon caked in a muddy smog.
‘Does anyone know where this footage was taken?’
I do. I say nothing.
The camera pans out to corridors of tarpaulined shacks and smoking heaps of litter. It keeps panning out, further and further, until all you can see are hundreds of grey and brown squares like bricks, intersected by snaking lines of roads. The scale is biblical. Not one of the pixels is green.
‘Lagos. The first gigacity outside China. It consumed the landscape for nearly six hundred miles. Over fifty million citizens: two thirds of them without proper housing, forced to live in slums. No access to sanitation or fresh water, no refuse facilities. Not enough food. No wonder disaster struck. One outbreak followed another, while the world looked on. No one really knows how many died; they had to burn the bodies as fast as they could. But it was millions.’ 12
She swallows as the rest of us look on in silence.
‘The West did nothing. The city used to look like this. Before.’
Palm trees border a leafy marina. Behind, you can just make out a modest assembly of houses and shops. The town is fringed with crystal-blue creeks and crop fields. A golden spit stretches along the turquoise lagoon.
‘Now there are dozens of gigacities. Hundreds of megacities across continents, merging into one continuous urban sprawl. It doesn’t take a genius to understand how we got ourselves into this mess. By the middle of the century, four humans were being born every second, but only two were dying. Forty percent of the Earth’s land had already been converted for food production, decimating forests and bleeding rivers dry. But flooding and droughts were making much of that land unfarmable. The ravaging of our planet intensified. One species presiding over the mass extinction of the rest.’
Her words fire out, as news headlines flash up:
Three Quarters of Global Wildlife Populations Lost.
Half of All Flowering Plants at Risk of Extinction.
A Quarter of Earth’s Natural Habitats Will Be Gone by the End of the Century.
‘As climate change wreaked more havoc, great swathes of land became uninhabitable, forcing two billion refugees on the move.’
90% of Coastal Megacities Threatened by Rising Sea Levels.
The Advent of ‘Night Cities’: Fifty-degree Heat Makes Them Too Deadly by Day.
Shanghai and Hangzhou Evacuate Citizens in Largest-Ever Planned Migration.
‘But there was hope. The global population was supposed to peak at ten billion as fertility rates dropped. But instead, this happened.’
The footage switches to an opulent blue stage. Rows of men in white tie and tails, ladies in evening gowns; a bronze bust on a plinth. The Nobel Prize award ceremony.
For a second, I hear nothing.
‘Hammond and Grundleger changed history. They claimed their discovery would usher in a new era of healthy ageing, that the ReJuve 13therapy would benefit mankind. But they opened the gates to a new crisis.’
I use every technique I possess to quell my breathing. My nail scrapes at my thigh, out of sight.
‘In regions where births had been in decline, the population began to rise again, because people were living longer. The death rate plummeted. But for some, even this wasn’t enough.’
A different city looms. Tidy blocks of gleaming metal and polished glass; wide, tree-lined boulevards sporting oaks and magnolia. The iconic spaceship ring hovers below a crest of mountains. Silicon Valley. As it used to be.
‘The wealthy had already secured their lavish boltholes – their money could buy them whatever they desired. Apart from one thing.’ She pauses. ‘Time.’
We watch clips of interviews: suited men gesticulating on podiums, technicians peering down microscopes in labs.
‘A powerful elite weren’t satisfied with a few extra years: they wanted to preside over their dynasties forever. They didn’t care that the Earth was faltering, that millions were already struggling to survive. So they spent their billions until Erik Grundleger found a way. All hail the SuperJuve.’
Lithe, sun-kissed bodies pose on yachts, champagne flutes in hand; their limbs and necks glitter with jewellery.
Suddenly, she thumps the table, making us all jump.
‘Were those Supers right to abuse their privilege and wealth that way? To gobble up resources for eternity while the rest of us went to hell?’
We all vigorously shake our heads.
‘No. And this is what happened.’
At first, it’s hard to make out. And then I realise we’re seeing grids of apartment blocks, packed in together like one giant Lego experiment. Except these towers are hazed in a dark-blue smog.
‘Russia used to count amongst the lowest population densities in the world. Siberia was one of the last great wildernesses, but it was getting warmer. The Russian president had been one of the early 14adopters of the SuperJuve. He wanted to grow his army, fill it with soldiers who would never age. He couldn’t afford to make them all Supers, so as soon as the patent expired, he developed a cheaper, hybrid version of the ReJuve and made it compulsory. Then he launched one of the most aggressive building programmes in history.’
Red-and-white chimneys belch smoke from factories; huge slag heaps border black scars of land. The dark veins of train tracks run cargo and soldiers between snow-capped cities.
‘We didn’t know it then, but the SuperJuve therapy was making people ill. Supers in positions of great power were developing psychotic disorders. Supers like the president of Russia. His burgeoning population needed feeding, and he was running out of food. He turned to the breadbasket of Europe: Ukraine. They refused him. And we all know what happened next…’
I avert my gaze. I cannot watch: those deadly plumes are scorched within me, already mushrooming behind my eyes.
‘Closer to home, the streets of London weren’t paved with gold, they were paved with the homeless.’
I stare at the bodies in sleeping bags bunched in shop doorways, the forlorn encampments huddled in parks.
Highest Homeless Figures on Record; Worst Hit Are Under-Thirties as Youth Unemployment Rates Soar.
Multiple Occupancy Households the New Norm; Entire Families Crammed into One Room.
‘And another psychotic Super, a serial killer, started preying on them.’
Parcel Poisoner Claims God Told Him To ‘Clear the Vermin from the Streets’.
‘The housing crisis worsened. We ran out of land. So we turned to the sea.’
I stare at the stationary cruise ships, barges and ferries moored off-shore. In the old days, we would have called it a blockade.
‘It was only meant to be temporary. Now these convoys have become part of our coastline. But even that wasn’t enough.’
An aerial image of six oil-and-gas platforms appears: an armada of 15metal crustaceans, waves thrashing around their legs. Shelters cover the platform, nudged up against water tanks and generators.
‘Some of these rigs are miles from land. Do you think this is fair, Ruth? Sticking people out at sea, refugees in their own country?’
I can’t hide the flinch. Why choose me?
‘No. Absolutely not…’
Her eyes blaze. ‘And what of the Supers, resting up in their luxury pads? Preying on the vulnerable?’
My throat swells. ‘They must be rooted out. And brought to account.’
The other participants rush to join in with muttered agreements and nods.
‘Yes, Ruth. It’s no wonder our younger generation grew angry. They felt their lives had been robbed.’
Youth rallies march outside government buildings, chanting slogans and jabbing placards.
‘There was no regulation controlling who took these age therapies, or for how long. The economy was in ruins. It was chaos.’
Pension Crisis Worsens as Triple Lock Abandoned and Debt-to-GDP Ratio Spikes.
‘Someone needed to step in and restore order. These technologies had to be policed.’
‘Those scientists should never have been allowed to do it,’ blurts one of the thumbnails as more headlines appear.
Liberal Juvocrats Win Historic Landslide.
Population Welfare Act Comes into Force.
The footage switches to a man relaxing on a sofa, a young child on his knee. Cards are pinned above his head: the usual doves, butterflies and trees. One has been decorated with pink finger splodges.
Happy Transcendence Day!
Now we get to the nub of it.
‘This is why the ReJuve eligibility criteria were introduced. To curb the excess and restore equilibrium to everyone, not just the chosen few. As long as we abide by the rules, we are all blessed with six score years of healthy life.’ 16
They like using these archaic words. Perhaps they’re pandering to the religious groups. Or maybe they think it sounds less like a death sentence.
‘The greatest gift we can give our loved ones is the space and the security to flourish. We will not sacrifice their future to prolong our own.’
Images flash up of wooded retreats and secluded spas. A woman hugs her family in a sun-dappled room with white chairs, a discreet green vial by her side.
‘Of course, it’s natural to feel a little apprehensive as transcendence approaches, but this is why we are here. Serenity Programme operators are tightly regulated and abide by the highest standards. You will be in the hands of experts who are there for you and your family each step of the way.’
She pauses.
‘So now we’re going to do an exercise. I want you to imagine you are at your first Serenity consultation, discussing options for your transcendence.’
Interesting choice of words: ‘consultation’, ‘options’. As if it were voluntary.
‘I want you to consider what thoughts you might be having,’ she continues. ‘Do be completely honest. It’s much better to voice any worries together here.’
There are a couple of coughs. A slight rustling. One woman’s gaze flits to the floor.
‘Would anyone like to share?’
No one speaks.
‘Shakira?’
A woman blanches. The one who looked away.
‘Well, I…’ She coughs. ‘Obviously, I’m one hundred percent in favour. For all the reasons you’ve outlined. In fact, one hundred and twenty percent!’ A nervous giggle erupts.
‘No reservations?’ The course leader gives her a poisonous smile.
‘Umm, well, saying goodbye to my family, that might be difficult. Particularly to my son.’ Shakira’s face reddens. ‘That’s not to mean … 17Obviously, I’m committed. Once I talk it all through with a professional, I’m sure I’ll be fine.’
Shakira’s head wobbles on her neck like one of those nodding dashboard toys.
‘Of course you will,’ replies the course leader, eventually. ‘And that’s exactly what the consultations are for.’
Her tone is reassuring, but I expect Shakira’s profile has already been flagged.
‘Remember, your family will thank you for doing your duty. Your friends will thank you. And so will your country.’
I wonder how many years our course leader has left. How committed she’ll be when she’s receiving this presentation, not giving it.
I risk a quick scan of my coursemates. Their smiles are still plastered on.
We are all positively beaming at the thought of our imminent demise.
18
THEN Fifty-two years earlier
GenoCity Enterprises Electrifies Markets with Super Premium Longevity Therapy. But Will Anyone Be Able To Afford It?
By Jared Bakshi
TIME Magazine
Since his runaway success with the ReJuve, Erik Grundleger is a name that has become synonymous with longevity. He regularly takes the podium at events, hinting at more exciting developments under way in GenoCity, the secretive biotech complex founded by anti-ageing tycoon, Jeff Busk. Well now the speculation is over. The SuperJuve is born. Grundleger claims this exclusive therapy will not only save you from ageing, but potentially from death itself.
‘They say you can’t buy time. Well, now you can,’ said Grundleger at the packed London press conference, sporting a GenoCity shirt with the slogan: End Ageing or Die Trying.
‘The SuperJuve is a one-shot gene therapy that rejuvenates your body for life. Unlike the ReJuve, this powerful RNA cocktail reverses biological ageing year in, year out, driving lifespan to a new high.’
GenoCity Enterprises has spent the past decade finessing the SuperJuve, using its top-class team of gerontologists, geneticists and biomedical researchers. Scientists have worked with clinicians and Busk’s extensive connections in the tech industry, combining traditional scientific methods with AI and genomics.
‘Our aim is to drive healthspan and lifespan to levels previous generations could only dream of,’ Grundleger continued, his eyes alight. ‘Not only can we all be supercentenarians, we can thrive in those extra years. We can all be “Super”.’
Not quite ‘all’.
The SuperJuve comes with a super-premium price tag that will be out of reach for most. This product has clearly been designed for the super-wealthy, 19following Busk’s oft-quoted adage, ‘the young want to be rich and the rich want to be young’, which has ignited a storm of criticism from campaign groups.
The Holy Anti-Immortality League, (HAIL) made their feelings known on a march to Downing Street. Their founder, June Whitcroft, handed over a petition signed by thousands of supporters, demanding the government takes a hard line and prohibits the therapy being sold in the UK.
‘This latest product is an obscene bid for immortality, peddled by the same charlatans who claimed they were only interested in saving us from the horrors of degenerative old age,’ said Whitcroft as drums beat behind her, waving a placard with the words:
Life is a gift from God, not of our making.
‘The global population has exceeded nine billion. In Western nations, the old already outnumber the young. We need two planet Earths to sustain us, and this over-exploitation of resources has come at a terrible cost. Which is why we are here today to demand our elected representatives ensure this snake oil never reaches our shores.
‘These so-called “Supers” assume they can buy the right to live forever in their fortress mansions, swanning around on their yachts and private jets,’ Whitcroft continued. ‘But what about the rest of us scrabbling to put food on the table, and keep a roof over our heads? The chasm between the haves and have-nots has never been deeper.’
‘The unnatural extension of life is in defiance of God’s will,’ commented another HAIL protestor.‘God barred man from eating from the Tree of Life in His mercifulness so we wouldn’t live an eternal life of toil and sorrow, but instead pass through death to reunite with Him in heaven. Death is part of life, part of what it means to be human. It is not something to be trifled with by narcissistic gold-diggers preying on people’s fears.’
For now, in the UK at least, HAIL have their wish. The SuperJuve has not yet been approved by the UK’s Medicines and Healthcare products Regulatory Agency, (the MHRA). A spokesperson for the agency cited ‘insufficient quality, safety and efficacy 20data to make informed decisions about product safety’.
A scientist we spoke to who wished to remain anonymous commented: ‘The SuperJuve isn’t a bit of software; it’s a gene therapy for use in human bodies. The tech industry may get away with launching products without rigorous long-term testing, but the medical industry cannot. I would strongly advise anyone considering taking this treatment to think again.’
Even if the therapy remains unlicensed in the UK, it’s unlikely to stop the wealthy boarding their jets to get it elsewhere. SuperJuve clinics have already opened where regulations are more lax, including the birthplace of the SuperJuve: Jamaica. Analysts predict the market for rejuvenation tourism is set to explode.
CHAPTER 3
Ruth
NOW
I shake out the sheets, watch them settle like a bank of swans. I stow them in the cubbyhole with my pillow, and fold the bed back into a chair. I could just leave them; they call it a bedsit for a reason and it’s not as if I regularly entertain. But when your home amounts to one room, it’s important to maintain the illusion of space.
The stiff white dress regards me from its hanger, freshly pressed. I snap the buttons and cinch the turquoise belt tight. I scrape out the last of my mascara, and coil my hair into a bun. It’s as limp and slippery as beached kelp; it’s not been washed for four days. Joel always used to rave about my hair. He never tired of running his hands through it. I comfort myself with the thought of my two-minute shower slot tonight.
The clock says I have five minutes, so I stick in my earbuds, sit down and shut my eyes. A robin trills, joined by a blackbird’s whistle, a wood pigeon’s flap and coo. This is how my mornings used to start. Curled next to Joel in the cottage, serenaded by sounds that were not man-made.
I remove the earbuds, and it returns: the ceaseless clatter of humankind. The hiss of traffic, the clangs of construction. Horns and mechanoid whirrs. I think of that footage from yesterday’s course. Things could be worse.
I join the queue for the lift. The housing collective is buzzing with geriatric worker bees: nursery helpers, librarians, cooks. One woman wearing a shirt emblazoned with a courier logo clocks my dress and gives me a nervous smile. They tell us hierarchy doesn’t exist in National Service, but of course it does. Our uniforms are prescribed for a reason, and I’ve landed near what most consider the top. When they clock your ReJuve scrubs, everyone wants to be your friend. They should have put me on mortuary duty. Or bins. Perhaps fate is having one final laugh. 22
As soon as the lift doors close, conversations falter. It’s been that way ever since the Super’s arrest. They reckon that’s how they got him: a fatal throw-away memory, unwittingly disclosed in rush-hour chat. An investigator was waiting for him at the garden centre. A new resident moved into his bedsit the following week.
A warm breeze cloaks my neck as I march outside, the humidity just about bearable. Commuters stream from high rises decorated with geometric patterns, box windows peeping out amidst the tiles. The customary queues are building outside the food co-ops; tempers already fraying at the communal showers. A woman in a blue headscarf gives a man in front of her a shove; he totters sideways and the line shunts forward like a phalanx, locking him out. Thankfully, my collective has its own ablution blocks, but you can never get more than two slots a week.
By the time I arrive at the station, I am drenched in sweat. The Circular train swoops past the latest developments: forty-storey apartment blocks with heat-reflecting skins sporting images of woodlands, fields and meadows. Usurped landscapes that most of their young residents have never seen. I remember when green belts still existed, when there were wild areas between cities, factories and farms. There’s no space between places anymore.
As we soar over the metal peacocks, a fine mist sprays the carriage windows. Oxford is very proud of these Water Gardens; they’re a spatial luxury most cities cannot afford. National Service volunteers, or nasserves as we are known, have to police them, or people go there to wash and sleep.
I grab my bag and sway to the front as the train approaches a high turret that looks like an old watch tower. The ReJuve clinic is housed in the same building as the police station; a deliberate choice. It deters non-qualifiers, or latent radicals who think they can show up with their placards and make merry hell. When the ReJuve Scheme first launched, it was run out of the hospital complex up the hill. But once age-related conditions disappeared, they didn’t need all those wards, so they were turned into flats. The maternity centre and children’s hospital are still there, and of course A&E. Some rare cancers and other diseases persist, 23but with the rise in depression and other psychological disorders, the largest division by far is mental health.
I walk up the steps and face the scanner. ‘Clinician Ruth Sharp reporting for duty.’
I head down a corridor coated with posters: part-time study courses; fitness studios and yoga groups. One is a plug for National Service, photos of grinning centenarians looking active and fulfilled:
Make the last two decades of your life really count!
I unlock the treatment room and start the system. My appointments are back-to-back. The screen tells me my first client has arrived, and I bring up his file. He has a chronological age of ninety. I think of Lettie and do the sum. I can’t help it, even though it stabs me every time.
Eighty more years than her.
I wash my hands and busy myself with the medication tray. As with many National Service jobs, a bot would be more than capable. But elders need to be kept occupied and connected. To be seen to be contributing. It’s not just about mending the intergenerational divide; it’s to keep us sane.
I pop my head round the door. ‘Mr Baldon?’ He jumps up. ‘Please, follow me.’
I discreetly scan him as he walks in. Broad-chested with a mane of thick, blond hair. The skin has not lost its elasticity, nor the muscles their definition. There’s the odd wrinkle, but no age spots or sags. I remember when the passing of years was etched on our bodies; the clues to a lifespan worn for all to see. At my grand age of 115, I’d be a white-haired wraith if it weren’t for the ReJuve. Now we are as avatars: unchanging.
I smile. ‘So, Mr Baldon, let’s get the admin out of the way. You know the drill. Before you sign, I have to read out the official statement.’
He clenches his hands in his lap and nods.
‘David Baldon, in order to qualify for this ReJuve booster, you are obliged to meet all eligibility criteria listed under the National ReJuve Scheme. This includes paying into an accredited pension scheme for a minimum of sixty years, adhering to the dietary, drug and exercise stipulations, and fulfilling your National Service obligations, after which 24your life term will be complete. Within six months of your 120th birthday, you will transcend in a licensed Serenity establishment of your choice. Do you understand and consent to these terms?’
‘I do.’
I turn the screen round, and hand him a stylus. ‘Please sign here.’
I activate the wall screen as he scrawls his name. His health vitals flicker into view.
‘Your patch indicators are spot on. Scan was normal. DNA methylation rates indicate some ageing, but I see you missed your last appointment, which probably explains it.’
He doesn’t volunteer any explanation. Normally, they’re busting down the door for their next fix.
‘Are there any changes or issues that you’re aware of?’
‘Not really. I suppose I tire more easily, especially in the afternoons.’
I tick the relevant boxes. ‘Well, that will soon be a thing of the past. Based on these physiological factors, your current biological age is fifty-five. But don’t worry, we’ll soon rectify that.’
I wait for some expression of joy or relief. There is none. I’d expect someone to be nervous on their first ReJuve, but not an old hand like him. He hasn’t been to this clinic before. Perhaps he has a fear of needles.
I run my tongue over my lip. ‘Did you have any side effects after your last ReJuve? Or was there anything about the procedure that … troubled you?’
His eyes drop to the floor. ‘Nothing medical, no.’
Ah, so that’s it.
‘Were you targeted?’
Baldon scrapes his thumb over his knuckles and nods. ‘Those maniacs at HAIL.’
The Holy Anti-Immortality League. I have an intimate knowledge of their campaigns. In the early days, their founder used to send me articles. Until articles were no longer enough.
‘A man followed me,’ says Baldon. ‘After my last ReJuve. I didn’t realise at the time.’
HAIL never distinguished between SuperJuves and ReJuves. As far 25as they were concerned, any form of age extension was the work of the devil. Once SuperJuves were outlawed and the Population Welfare Act came in, the group’s popularity dwindled, but numerous diehard cells remain.
‘They waited until I’d gone to work, then came to the house. I got a call from my wife. She was terrified.’ His lips tremble. ‘They sprayed stuff over the walls. Disgusting things. I couldn’t understand it. I mean, why wouldn’t you have the ReJuve? My dad died of heart failure in his early fifties. It was devastating. I didn’t want the same for my family.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. But, just to reassure you, I can’t remember there ever being trouble here, and I’ve worked in this clinic for fifteen years. If they dared turn up, the police would make short work of them.’ I glance at the clock. ‘Shall we crack on?’
I crouch down, open the fridge and select a ReJuve vial.
‘Haven’t you heard about the protests?’ he says. ‘They found another one yesterday. It’s not official yet, but it was leaked.’
‘Another what?’
‘Super. They busted one of those illegal labs that do knock-off ReJuves. Dead body outside, the works. Loads of kit in there, they reckon. So now the campaigners have got all fired up again.’
He brandishes his screen for me to see. A reporter is standing in front of a cordon; an ambulance and fire engine parked up behind. Police are everywhere; I can just make out a white tent in front of a warehouse. A man’s mugshot flashes up.
‘That’s him,’ says Baldon. ‘The Super who was shot.’
The body at the site has not yet been identified. The police have requested members of the public to come forward with any information. The suspect had surgically altered his appearance so a digital composite image of his predicted profile has been released.
Another mugshot appears: hollow chin, piercing grey eyes.
I blink. My eyes must be playing tricks.
I look again.
I tear the needle out of its wrapper and fumble it onto the syringe. 26
‘Please don’t worry yourself, Mr Baldon. The security here is very good.’ I muster something approaching a smile. ‘Left arm or right?’
‘Right, please.’
He rolls up his sleeve. I focus on the scatter of moles above his elbow, the deltoid muscle tensing for the jab.
‘Ready to be thirty-five again?’
‘Hell, yes.’
The needle slides in without protest; I thumb the plunger down.
‘I was against all that Super nonsense from the start. I knew it wouldn’t end well,’ says Baldon, gaze fixed on the syringe. ‘Not that I could ever have afforded it. But even so, going on and on forever…’ He sighs. ‘Frankly, I don’t know why anyone would.’
He carries on talking, but I’m not listening. The buzzing in my ears intensifies.
It cannot be the same person. It’s not possible.
The man whose image I just saw has already been murdered. Thirteen years ago.
CHAPTER 4
Mara
NOW
I peer through the viewing window. The lab cook is cuffed to a chair; his prison scrubs hang off him, making him look even more gaunt. The pentagon on his forehead has browned, some bruises ripening to purple. At least his hair is clean. It was washed and dried as soon as Jen brought him in.
For the procedure.
‘Claims he’s an eighty-seven-year-old lab technician lured into “bad habits”,’ Jen told me. ‘Going by the name Thomas Munn.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Well, he wouldn’t be the first scientist to turn. Some worked with Grundleger’s team way back, developing the SuperJuve. They took payment in kind, got their SuperJuves for free. It costs a lot of money to stay hidden. Clan labs are one way of funding it.’
Supers are notoriously good at disguise. After SuperJuves were banned twelve years ago, they were given a choice: hand themselves in for monitoring, and comply with the stipulated life term of 120 years, or face the full brunt of the law. Most just assumed they could bribe or hustle their way out of it, but after a while, even that didn’t work. So a new industry sprang up around fake IDs: reassigning their DNA to fresh identities. Those that didn’t have face transplants or other surgery acquired the latest disruption tech to spoof the state’s recognition software: anything from iris shields to highly sophisticated masks. As long as they had the cash to pay for it, Supers could reinvent themselves and carry on.
‘Not long widowed, too.’
‘How convenient.’
Supers isolate themselves from everyone. Not to protect their families; to protect themselves. They can’t risk relatives or friends betraying their true identities. 28
‘As for the dead cook, we’re checking out his details,’ Jen continued. ‘Multiple IDs, as you’d expect. Pathologist reckons he had facial surgery. Whoever did this is clearly sending a message, otherwise Munn would be dead, too. He claims his assailant was masked, and attacked him with a scalpel. Once we know what’s in those freezers, we’ll have a better idea what’s going on.’
The man professing to be Thomas Munn sits upright, palms facing up, like some yoga pose. He’s holding it together. So far.
