Smith The Cure

The chilling, powerful new speculative thriller from the author of ONE
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-916788-55-8
Verlag: Orenda Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 300 Seiten

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

Eve Smith writes speculative fiction, mainly about the things that scare her. Longlisted for the Not the Booker Prize and described by Waterstones as 'an exciting new voice in crime fiction', Eve's debut novel The Waiting Rooms, set in the aftermath of an antibiotic resistance crisis, was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize First Novel Award and was selected as a Book of the Month by Eric Brown in The Guardian who compared her writing to Michael Crichton's. The critically acclaimed Off Target was published in 2022, with One out in 2023. Eve's previous job as COO of an environmental charity took her to research projects across Asia, Africa and the Americas, and she has an ongoing passion for wild creatures, wild science and far-flung places. When she's not writing she's racing across fields after her dog, trying to organise herself and her family, or off exploring somewhere new.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Smith, Eve

Leseproben

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 sideline 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.

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 to 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 ventilation 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...