Body, Inc. : Volume II of the tipping point trilogy

IN THE ARENAAN AUTOBIOGRAPHYBy Charlton HestonSIMON & SCHUSTERCopyright © 1995 Agamemnon Films.All rights reserved.ISBN: 0-684-80394-1Chapter One In the Beginning In the beginning . . . the earth was without form, and void. The darkness was over all. - Genesis 1:1-2 No, we're not going back that far. I just mean my beginning.That's how it starts for all of us, isn't it? My first recollection is digging in the sandy Michigan earthwith a red toy shovel. It must've been early spring, because only afew inches down the ground was still frozen. My first frustration. Iwas three ... perhaps only two? I also remember picking up kindlingfor the kitchen stove from the backyard, and feeling the sharpedges of the split quarters of pine against my arms, though I wassurely too young then to have chopped them, as I did later. I canremember my mother's large mirror, which she'd sometimes takeoff the wall and lay on her bed, so I could roll marbles around onit. My true pleasure in that game, though, was the reflection of theroom in the mirror, upside down and mysterious, like in LewisCarroll's Through the Looking Glass. (Was I exploring imaginaryworlds, even then? I don't think so. I was being a little boy.) I wasn't born in Michigan, but in No Man's Land. No, I don'tintend a metaphysical profundity. That was the real name of anunincorporated bit of Chicago's northern suburbs where my parents,Russell Whitford Carter and Lilla Charlton, were living in a tinyhouse on the shore of Lake Michigan on land that's doubtless nowworth forty of fifty thousand dollars a front foot. Please understand, I don't remember this part of my life; mymother told me about it when we left Michigan after she and myfather were divorced and we moved back to Chicago's North Shore.The house, really a cottage, was still there then. It's long since beenreplaced by a twelve-story condominium. Like all of us, I'm an inadequate witness to my own infancy.My father having died a generation ago, the only qualified informantavailable is my mother. She's not far from a hundred years old now,she being the only one alive who knows how far. As she's been allthe years of my life, my mother's a woman of indomitable courageand wide interests, with very firm opinions on many, many subjects. A couple of years ago, she phoned me. "Charlton," shebegan. (My mother has always called me Charlton.) "I need to seeyou." "Wonderful, Mother," I said. "Let me get you a plane reservation;come for a visit." No, that wouldn't do, she said firmly. Sheneeded to talk to me in person, as soon as possible. This began tosound ominous. Was she perhaps seriously ill? Had she decided tosell her house? What could she not discuss on the phone? As it happened, Lydia and I were due to overnight in NewYork the next week, where I was speaking at a banquet. I was dueback on the Coast the next day, but we could easily stop for acouple of hours in Chicago on the way. That suited my mother best,she said. The car met us at O'Hare and delivered us to her Wilmettehome. She greeted us warmly, served us tea, and then said to me,"It has come to my attention that you have signed a contract with apublisher to write your autobiography. Since you have not discussedthis with me, I can only conclude that you think I will notlike it." "On the contrary, Mother," I said. "I hope you will like it. Ihope everyone will. I'm sorry you've decided you won't before I'vewritten a word." That was all I said for the next hour. In civilized but impassioned tones, my mother outlined invivid detail the failure of her marriage to my father, her contemptfor him and his father, and her heartfelt gratitude and love for mystepfather, who, she said, had rescued us all from a life of exile inthe Michigan woods. Over the half century since my parents had divorced, I'dalready heard a good deal of what she told me that afternoon. Still,I didn't argue with her, or even try to stem the flow of her words,though given my own memories of my father, they were painful. Isimply sat, listening. (Lydia said afterward I never moved a musclethe whole time.) When she'd at last finished, I said, "Mother, what you've toldme is part of your life. The only life I have even a chance of capturingon paper is my own. That's what I have to try to do. You surelyknow I have no thought of hurting you." That did not content her,I think, but she let it stand. We've not discussed this book since. My mother has now lived through almost all of what's surelya significant century for America. It includes a technological revolutionunimaginable at her birth; the Great Depression: two majorwars and several small ones, often attended by one or another ofher male relatives, a couple of them killed in the process. Both ofher husbands died relatively young, as did two of her three children,both younger than I. Her only sister's gone now, too. Forfour-score years and more, they shared ocean-deep, almost telepathicties. Of my mother's womb blood, only I survive - and she. I think of my mother as a heroine from a Bronte novel - WutheringHeights or Jane Eyre. I cherish a photograph of herholding me when I was about five months old. We're in a bleak,wintery woodland - there's no snow, but the trees are bare. She'swearing a full, heavy cloak with a deep cape collar. She holds meclose against her cheek, an amorphous baby face in a wool cap. Herhair is black and full, in slight disarray, her eyes glowing with fiercedefiance, unafraid. I'd know her anywhere. While I have no early memories of Chicago, my, mother'sheart is rooted in that city. She was born there, of Scots/Englishstock who came to America through Canada. The Scots line is ClanFraser of Inverness. The title and the lands were the gift of Williamthe Conqueror as part of the spoils of his conquest of England in1066 to one of his Norman captains, making him a baron in thebargain. The Normans were of course Norsemen, like the Vikingswho had been raiding and raping along the Scottish coast for somecenturies, thus accounting for the preponderance of tall, blond,blue-eyed males in our family - a blood strain I'm very proud of. The clan motto is in ancient Norman French: Je suis prest - "I amready" - a good motto for an actor (or a medieval Scots chieftain,for that matter). (Scots tend to thrive in any climate, century, or circumstance,but the Fraser best known to history was Simon, the TwelfthBaron. After the bloody Scottish defeat supporting Bonnie PrinceCharlie at the battle of Culloden in 1745, he avoided capture by theEnglish so cleverly and so often that he earned the nickname"Simon the Fox." Snared at last, he was thrown in the Tower ofLondon and condemned to death as a traitor. On his way to theblock, a woman in the jeering crowd taunted him, "They'll cut yerugly head off now, ye filthy Scots dog!" "Aye, so they wull, ye bluddy English bitch," he retortedequably. And so they did. He was the last nobleman executed inBritain, and the last man beheaded in that country. Dubious distinctions,but there they are. We take our family memories where wefind them.) My mother seldom speaks of her father, who was a professionalgambler. He divorced (or was divorced by) her mother andseems to have disappeared from family annals, at which point mygrandmother took her two little girls home to her father. His namewas James Charlton; I think he was the strongest male influence inmy mother's life. His photographs show a powerful, impressively beardedface that had the look of a man who understood his own life. Hewas a senior railway executive, more than moderately affluent. Iguess he had to be. He lived in a large house, with a library ofconsiderable distinction, where he maintained a household composedentirely of women. As well as my grandmother and her two daughters, whowere small girls at the time, and several servants, there were mygreat-grandmother and at least two of her other daughters, whowere unmarried. Oddly, my great-grandfather also became mygrandfather, many years before my birth. He adopted my motherand my aunt when he took them into his home, perhaps simply togive them a father. (These things counted then.) Though he undertook responsibility for all of his femaleblood kin, it's clear that the center of his own life was his wife, aninvalid who spent most of her day, in her rooms, in the company ofa female companion - which made nine women in the house. When James Charlton came home from his office each evening,he'd hold the tip of his stick against the doorbell until someoneanswered it, then go directly upstairs to see his wife. He'd visitwith her for an hour, consuming two ounces of single-malt scotchand water, then, if she was feeling well, he'd bring her down todinner with the rest of his extended family. On such occasions, mymother often had the pleasant chore of carrying her grandmother'strain. Almost a century later, it's hard to flesh out the image ofJames Charlton beyond the easy take of him as a turn-of-the-centurypatriarch. Modern political correctness would demand that his generosityto the women who lived on his bounty be dismissed as thelargess of a sexist tyrant, though there's no evidence of this. Mymother has often pointed out that, though her grandfather supervisedevery detail of his household affairs with the same close attentionhe gave to his railroad, whatever his wife wanted done in thehouse was carried out without question or delay. James Charlton spent only an hour or two a day in his wife'scompany. When she died, he supervised every detail of her funeral,presiding in sober courtesy at the reception in his home afterward,which was attended by many guests. When they'd left, he wentupstairs to his own bedroom, got into bed, and was dead three dayslater. Clearly, his wife meant a great deal more to him than wemight have imagined. James Charlton left the many women dependent on himwell provided for, though his considerable fortune was much diminishedwithin a generation. My grandmother's elder sister seemsto have become the head of the family. My grandmother marriedagain, and produced a son, killed in the Anzio landing in WorldWar II. My mother and her sister, May, went to good schools, traveledto Europe, and, at some point, my mother met my father. Their marriage, which can't have lasted more than a dozenyears or so, is to this day such a source of pain and bitter regret tomy mother that it's difficult for her to discuss it with any degree ofcalm, though it produced her two eldest children. It's painful to meto distress her, so we avoid the subject. It's possible that they met while my father, Russell, was goingthrough boot training at the Great Lakes Naval Training Centernorth of Chicago before serving in the Mediterranean in WorldWar I. I doubt this, though. My mother would still have been ateenager; her background makes it unlikely that she'd meet a sailoron liberty. I think they met a year or two earlier in Michigan, in thehamlet of St. Helen. Certainly my mother and her sister, May, spentsome summers there, probably before America entered the war. Ibelieve that's where my parents met. My father was a good-looking man of immense charm, witha rich bass voice. (The latter was perhaps his most useful bequestto me - it's gotten me a lot of parts.) He was the second son of JohnCarter, who'd been a pit boy in a Yorkshire coal mine at the age ofseven, then somehow made his way to America and a measure ofsuccess. Like most men who've succeeded on their own, he was afirm conservative. But at the height of World War II, when PresidentRoosevelt threatened to jail John L. Lewis, the radical leader of theUnited Mine Workers Union, for striking the miners in wartime, mygrandfather said in an interview, "You can't pay a man too muchmoney to dig coal." I remember him only as a somewhat portly man with ahouse on top of a hill and a gold chiming watch he'd let me listento. I'd like to have known him as a young man, when he seems tohave roamed around the country, starting a family in San Diego,where my father was born, and a magazine in St. Louis, Carter'sWeekly, which later became Redbook. What brought him to Michigan around the turn of the centurywas opportunity, though how he perceived it I can't imagine.He had somehow discovered that the County of Roscommon wasabout to dissolve as a governing entity of the state because theStevens Lumber Company, having logged the northern half of Michigan,had no further use for the land and planned to abandon it toavoid further tax liability. John Carter offered to put the county backon the tax rolls in return for title to half its land. I gather he wasoften hard-pressed to meet this obligation (perhaps that was whyhe sold his magazine), but he managed to bring it off, nonetheless. All my early memories, to my mother's intense annoyance,are of the Michigan woods. There were still a few groves of virgintimber untouched by the loggers - great mossy cathedrals ofhundred-foot pines blocking the sun, denying any undergrowth onthe flat forest floor. In the decades since the timber operations hadshut down, the second-growth trees had proliferated, too; not onlythe dominant white pine but a range of smaller evergreen, birches,maples, some oak, as well as all sorts of wild fruit trees, berries,and ferns that have no chance of sustenance in a virgin forest. Itwas wonderful country for a boy. Wild game was plentiful, of course, as it still is, though thelarger predators had disappeared by then, migrated north over theMackinac Straits to Canada. I never saw a moose there, or a timberwolf, though there were a few black bear, and occasional wolverines.It was the edible game that concerned people who lived in St.Helen - white-tailed deer, principally; also partridge and duckwhen they flew south in the fall along the great flyway from Canada.Rabbit was always available, and perfectly tasty. Deer was the mostdesirable game, of course; if hung properly, venison is delicious,and a good-sized buck will provide a lot of meat. Aside from my mother, just about all the adults in the settlementhunted, and all the boys over nine or so. There were generouslimits on most game except deer. The yearly license allowed thetaking of one buck per hunter, a limit generally respected, thoughcertainly no one in the county ever went hungry, for want of venison. There was no hunting in the summer, but there were threelakes within a mile or so of my house, with plenty of good pan fish - bullheads,bluegills, sunfish, northern pike, a few bass. You could fish in the winter, too, which I enjoyed a lot more.By the end of November, usually, the ice on the lakes was thickenough to drive a truck on, towing a fishing shanty behind onrunners. They were sturdy little structures, about six feet by six,with room inside for a stove and plain benches around a squarehole cut in the floor. Under that, a hole was cut in the ice. With thestove going and the door shut, it was comfortable even at ten andtwenty below zero, as it often is in Michigan in the winter. We fished with a spear, some six feet long, with three sharptines - like Neptune's trident. The bait was a handmade woodenfish about eight inches long, weighted with lead and suspendedfrom fish line fixed to the roof over the hole. Like most fishing, it was a very sedentary sport, but therewas a certain cozy, contemplative comfort, especially for small boys,sitting there in the warm dark with the men, the wind hissingover the ice outside. The water beneath your knees was green,translucent. You swam your little wooden fish in lazy eights till thedark shape of a pike drifted into range to inspect your bait. Thenyou speared him (more easily than you might imagine), yankedhim up, and tossed him out the door on the ice, where he froze ina minute or two. Hunting is a solitary occupation, unless you count thecrowds of city guys who crash around in the woods together indeer season, drinking beer and scaring off all the game. When I wasa boy, we hunted for the pot, usually alone. Partridge was the mostreliable game, plentiful in the Michigan woods. They're not muchsmaller than a chicken, though a good deal harder to hit. In fact, Ifound them all but impossible. A covey of partridge exploding outof the brush five yards ahead of you is a startling experience. Thefirst few times I tried it, in my dad's company, I was seriously overgunned,using a borrowed .20 gauge with a stock too long for me.To this day, I am an inadequate wing shot. (In vast areas of thiscountry, that's a serious character flaw. The appropriate, modestappraisal of a neighbor is "Yeah, he can shoot a little.") I did contribute my deer to our table before we left Michigan,but most of my hunting was with a .22 rifle, after rabbits. If youknow anything about guns, rabbits, or boys, you know the rabbitswere not in much danger, though eventually I managed to bringhome a meager bag for the pot. In addition to marksmanship and the ability to read coverand move through it quietly, hunting requires patience and concentration.Life has lent me these qualities since, but I lacked them as aboy. It's then that the firm hunter's discipline wavers a bit. Often Ifound it more interesting to stop being a little kid with a coldhunting rabbits with a single-shot .22 and become Davy Crocketthunting renegade Comanche with a long rifle. I did that a lot. Pretending to be other people. All kids play such games, ofcourse, but I did it more than most, I think. The books my parentsread to me, later those I read myself, gave me wonderful people tobe: Tom Sawyer and Injun Joe and Jim Hawkins and Long JohnSilver, Huck Finn and Nigger Jim, plus all the larger animals inErnest Thompson Seton's Lives of the Hunted. I crowded the woodswith them all, mostly by myself. I went to school too, of course. It was a one-room framebuilding with a bell in a squat steeple, just over a mile through thewoods to the crossroads (a graveled two-lane and a dirt-trail road)that, along with the railroad tracks, defined St. Helen. There werethirteen pupils in eight grades, three of whom were my cousins.The teacher was a strong young man with his hands full. In additionto keeping the school clean, the stove going, and the students inorder, he had to teach us reading, penmanship, history, geography,and arithmetic at every grade level. Well, almost every level. Therewere a couple of grades with no pupils; mine had only me. I learned a lot in that school - most importantly, how toread. True, at first I really did miss the basic concept. My parentsread to me all the time at home. When they'd gone over my readingassignment with me once or twice, I was able to get through it inschool the next day with only an occasional stumble. I was quiteproud of my progress, until one day, I suddenly got the idea: youwere supposed to be able to read things you'd never heard before.I've always had a quick memory; I was simply memorizing eachlesson in turn. I can still remember my surge of delight at realizingI could learn to read anything. I've never gotten over the infinitewonder of that. I have no idea how good our teacher was, though he wasclearly industrious, juggling his whole curriculum at several gradelevels every day. However taxing this may have been for him, ithad advantages for us. We sat at individual desks with hinged topscovering book storage space, with inkwells in the upper right-handcorner (I remember on winter mornings before the stove hadheated the room, the ink would be frozen; you'd dip your pen andget only a dull click). There was a wide bench at the front of theroom where the two or three pupils reciting would sit while therest of us worked on other assignments. I was able to listen to the lessons at the front of the room,however peripherally; I also got one-thirteenth of the teacher'stime. Not many school children today are so fortunate. I had no close friends, really. True, there were my threecousins, but one was older than I, one younger, and one a girl.Besides, they lived several miles away over a rutted one-lane trailwinding through the woods behind our house, so little used thatthe birch branches slashed across the windshield as you drove. Wedid go to each other's birthday parties. I don't remember feelinglonely, though, or ever afraid in the woods, as I might be in partsof any big city. I wasn't "being brave," it was just that I knew therewas nothing there to hurt me. I did get lost once, wandering in the deeper woods on theother side of the state road, where there were no houses. After anhour or so of looking for trees with moss on what I'd been toldwould be their north sides, and taking a bearing from the sun,which kept disappearing behind the clouds, I got a little anxious.(Half a lifetime later I made a film, The Mountain Men, about thefur trappers in the Rockies in the 1830s in which my characterinsists, "Ain't never been lost. Been fearsome confused once ortwice, mebbe." That was me, thirty years earlier.) About then, I stumbled on the railway tracks. While I wastrying to decide which way to follow them, a handcar came alongand gave me a ride back to St. Helen. I even got to help pump. Itwas a great day. More often, I roamed the woods nearer my house. We acquireda dog, a very large, dark-coated shepherd named Lobo. Ofcourse I loved him, cherishing my understanding that he was partwolf. (I doubt now that this was true.) He was the first of three greatdogs among the many in my life. In winter, he could easily pull meon my sled (when he felt like it), allowing me to play out The Callof the Wild. The autumn I was nine Lobo was shot by an angryneighbor whose dog he'd mauled in a fight. It was the first loss ofmy life. I still think of him. Living in the woods, we had no sidewalk to shovel nor lawnto mow, and there was no point in raking leaves. I did learn to splitkindling for the kitchen stove, using a single-bit ax as my fathertaught me. My younger cousin, wandering behind his older brotherwhile he was chopping wood with a double-bitted ax, was badly cutin the head on the backswing. "A boy can't handle a double-bit"was my father's pronouncement. "That's a lumberman's tool." Actually, I liked chopping wood (as did Abraham Lincoln,Kaiser Wilhelm, and Ronald Reagan, though I adduce no trickledownvirtue from this). It gave me a feeling of useful work, reducingsmall logs to stacks of sweet-smelling kindling so my mothercould cook dinner. The genes are involved here, too, I think. Man'sdominance over the other territorial carnivores was earned in partwith the edged flint ax. It wasn't frontier life, though. We had running after andcentral heating, with a furnace burning larger logs than the ones Isplit for the kitchen range. We also had electricity, generated by atwo-cycle diesel engine. Every so often, it came up to speed in atonal range that would snap the stems on a couple of dozen cut-crystalglasses my mother kept in a glass cabinet. When the glassesstarted to jitter on their shelves, Mother would call for me and we'drace to lift them to safety. Unlike her, they were too fragile tosurvive their time in the North Woods. Even so, I think my mother may have felt a little like thosecrystal glasses, marooned in the wilderness. If that's true, she nevertold me, nor so far as I know, my father. If they quarreled, I neverheard them. I think she was determined to play out the hand she'dbeen dealt. However mismatched they may have been for each other,my parents were wonderful for me. This didn't change when mysister, Lilla Ann, was born, when I was six. When I was in the house,reading or refighting The Great War on the carpet with my toysoldiers, my mother was there, pointing me toward books, talkingabout the theater in Chicago, or playing Caruso records on thewind-up Victrola. She used to take me out sometimes to pick blueberries(in Michigan, we call them huckleberries) in the woodsaround the house, with my little sister. It was easy to get enoughfor the table, even with Lilla eating most of what she picked. Iremember my mother most vividly in soft summer dresses, verybeautiful. My dad gave me time, too. He often took me with him,usually in a truck, sometimes with Lobo standing on the runningboard, with his front paws braced on the fender. He loved it. We'drattle over new-cut roads to inspect the various building projectsthe Carters had under way. They were building an earth dam Ifound fascinating, though I have no idea what it was for. It involveda lot of very loud explosions of dynamite, diverting streams, anddraining swamps, which was enough for me. In memory, my father is dressed for the field, in khaki shirt,open collar, and rolled-up sleeves, wide brass-buckled belt andbritches, with tall boots. Indeed, the word "father" still triggers animage of those boots for me, perhaps because they were a symbolof male stability. I have a picture of him standing beside me in those clothes.I'm perhaps eight years old, formally dressed for running awayfrom home. I have on a white shirt and a black bow tie, certainlynot my normal attire, with my knickers sliding down over my hips.I'm carrying a miniature classic hobo's bindle, which my buddingperformance instincts must have told me was an essential prop formy odyssey. Unfortunately, I can no longer recall what boyhood traumaimpelled my decision - maybe it was just an early career choice. Irecall announcing to my father that I was running away, leaving itto him to pass the tragic news to my mother. He took it very calmly,which disappointed me. "Do you want me to drive you to WestBranch?" he said. "You could catch a train there, if you plan to gosouth to the city." "No, no," I said. I could manage. Well, maybe just as far asthe state road. That was fine with him, though I'd better put apeanut butter sandwich in my bindle, just in case. Yes, he wouldexplain it to my mother. So he drove me half a mile to the road andleft me there, with a cheery wave. The photo was taken an hourlater, when I'd come back home, as dramatically as possible underthe circumstances. I look relieved, my father looks happy, but unsurprised. Actually, thinking back, I did wear knickers mostly, thoughcertainly not a bow tie. Though my mother made most of my babysister's clothes, we, along with just about everyone in the villageand in tens of thousands of towns throughout the country, did muchof our shopping through the Sears Roebuck and Montgomery Wardmail-order houses. They were wondrous horns of postal plenty,announced in seasonal catalogues the size of phone books, theSpring/Summer version in March, Fall/Winter in September. Theysold everything from anemometers to ant farms, barbed wire tobrassieres, and on through the alphabet. My first pubescent juicesstirred while staring transfixed at the underwear models. (Theywere in the first part of the catalogue, just after housedresses.) Idon't think I could've handled ads for a thong bikini. My own clothing needs were simple. One pair of corduroyknickers a year, which I grew out of before they wore out, as I didthe high laced boots boys wore in the winter. They came with apocket on one side, containing a fairly good knife. In summer youwore shorts and sneakers. As far as I know, the only brand then wasKeds, costing two dollars, not two hundred. My boyhood memories are thick with trees - Midwesternoak, poplar, and maple, but mostly the birch and pine of the Michiganpeninsulas. Even in summer, they dominated the other trees.In the fall, the fierce, bright colors of the maples flame through thewoods as the partridge flush out of the brush ahead of the hunters.But in winter, the days shorten early; the snow comes soon. As theafternoon light fades, the pines darken against the white drifts,looming close to the narrow trail roads. Walking through the woods in December, I felt no menace,only promise. It meant Christmas and finding the Tree. There waspassionate local argument as to which kind of pine made the bestChristmas tree. Blue spruce and balsam were the favorites; ourfamily was firmly loyal to the blue spruce. It's dense, short-needled,and dark blue-green, and lasts the longest if it's cut and handledproperly. I feel sorry for people who buy their trees from city, treelots, packed with stubby fledglings grown for the trade each year. Aproper Christmas tree is cut from the top ten feet or so of a mature,forty-foot pine, the top being the newest growth, full of sap thatholds the needles longer. Felling such a tree is not boy's work,though my father let me come along. when the tree toppled in anexplosion of snow, I helped trim the branches from the fallen trunk.When this was cut into short logs for burning in the furnace thatheated our house, I helped load them on the truck, too. The Treewas loaded last, clotted with packed snow from its fall. Truckedback to the house, it was stuck in a snowdrift against the front steps.Then came a dreary hour of boy's work, throwing the heavy logsfrom the sawed-up trunk through the cellar window to feed thefurnace. We never put our tree up until Christmas Eve. For a fewyears I knew this was Santa's work, then I joined in the sweetdeception for my little sister. Everyone knows the pleasure of transforminga tree into a Christmas wonder, the arguments about howmany ornaments, which kind of icicles, the frustration of stringinglights. Then, we used candles the size of your finger, clipped to thebranches in tiny tin cups to catch the wax. These were very dangerous,of course. (So were fireworks, but we all had those, too, onthe Fourth.) By God's grace and my parents' care, we never hada fire. The candles were incomparabl Jurassic Park meets The Hunger Games in this stunning new high-energy, high-concept tale from first-time novelist Ted Kosmatka, a Nebula Award and Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award finalist. NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY PUBLISHERS WEEKLY Set in an amoral future where genetically engineered monstrosities fight each other to the death in an Olympic event, The Games envisions a harrowing world that may arrive sooner than you think. Silas Williams is the brilliant geneticist in charge of preparing the U.S. entry into the Olympic Gladiator competition, an internationally sanctioned bloodsport with only one rule: no human DNA is permitted in the design of the entrants. Silas lives and breathes genetics; his designs have led the United States to the gold in every previous event. But the other countries are catching up. Now, desperate for an edge in the upcoming Games, Silass boss engages an experimental supercomputer to design the genetic code for a gladiator that cannot be beaten. The result is a highly specialized killing machine, its genome never before seen on earth. Not even Silas, with all his genius and experience, can understand the horror he had a hand in making. And no one, he fears, can anticipate the consequences of entrusting the act of creation to a computers cold logic. Now Silas races to understand what the computer has wrought, aided by a beautiful xenobiologist, Vidonia Joo. Yet as the fast-growing gladiator demonstrates preternatural strength, speed, andmost disquietinglyintelligence, Silas and Vidonia find their scientific curiosity giving way to a most unexpected emotion: sheer terror. Praise for The Games Blends the best of Crichton and Koontz. Publishers Weekly (starred review) Outstanding . . . very like something Michael Crichton might have written . . . [a] bold mix of horror and SF . . . Expect big things from [Ted] Kosmatka. Booklist (starred review) Kosmatka successfully captures the thrill of groundbreaking technology. . . . The pleasure of his polished, action-packed storytelling is deepened by strong character development. This near-future SF thriller . . . seems destined for the big screen. Library Journal (starred review) Jurassic Park meets The Hunger Games in this stunning new high-energy, high-concept tale from first-time novelist Ted Kosmatka, a Nebula Award and Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award finalist. Brilliant geneticist Silas Williams oversees U.S. selections for the Olympic Gladiator competition, an internationally sanctioned bloodsport with only one rule: No entrants may possess human DNA. Desperate to maintain America's edge in the upcoming Games, Silas's superior engages an experimental supercomputer to design the ultimate, unbeatable combatant. The result is a highly specialized killing machine, its genome never before seen on earth. But even a genius like Silas cannot anticipate the consequences of allowing a computer's cold logic to play God. Growing swiftly, the mutant gladiator demonstrates preternatural strength, speed, and—most chillingly—intelligence. And before hell breaks loose, Silas and beautiful xenobiologist Vidonia João must race to understand what unbound science has wrought—even as their professional curiosity gives way to a most unexpected emotion: sheer terror. “Blends the best of Crichton and Koontz.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review) “Outstanding... very like something Michael Crichton might have written... [a] bold mix of horror and SF... Expect big things from [Ted] Kosmatka.”—Booklist (starred review) “Kosmatka successfully captures the thrill of groundbreaking technology.... The pleasure of his polished, action-packed storytelling is deepened by strong character development. This near-future SF thriller... seems destined for the big screen.”—Library Journal (starred review) "This stunning first novel from Nebula Award and Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award finalist Ted Kosmatka is a riveting tale of science cut loose from ethics. Set in an amoral future where genetically engineered monstrosities fight each other to the death in an Olympic event, The Games envisions a harrowing world that may arrive sooner than you think. Silas Williams is the brilliant geneticist in charge of preparing the U.S. entry into the Olympic Gladiator competition, an internationally sanctioned bloodsport with only one rule: no human DNA is permitted in the design of the entrants. Silas lives and breathes genetics; his designs have led the United States to the gold in every previous event. But the other countries are catching up. Now, desperate for an edge in the upcoming Games, Silas's boss engages an experimental supercomputer to design the genetic code for a gladiator that cannot be beaten. The result is a highly specialized killing machine, its genome never before seen on earth. Not even Silas, with all his genius and experience, can understand the horror he had a hand in making. And no one, he fears, can anticipate the consequences of entrusting the act of creation to a computer's cold logic. Now Silas races to understand what the computer has wrought, aided by a beautiful xenobiologist, Vidonia Joao. Yet as the fast-growing gladiator demonstrates preternatural strength, speed, and--most disquietingly--intelligence, Silas and Vidonia find their scientific curiosity giving way to a most unexpected emotion: sheer terror"-- Provided by publisher This Stunning First Novel From Nebula Award And Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award Finalist Ted Kosmatka Is A Riveting Tale Of Science Cut Loose From Ethics. Set In An Amoral Future Where Genetically Engineered Monstrosities Fight Each Other To The Death In An Olympic Event, The Games Envisions A Harrowing World That May Arrive Sooner Than You Think. Silas Williams Is The Brilliant Geneticist In Charge Of Preparing The U.s. Entry Into The Olympic Gladiator Competition, An Internationally Sanctioned Bloodsport With Only One Rule: No Human Dna Is Permitted In The Design Of The Entrants. Silas Lives And Breathes Genetics; His Designs Have Led The United States To The Gold In Every Previous Event. But The Other Countries Are Catching Up. Now, Desperate For An Edge In The Upcoming Games, Silas's Boss Engages An Experimental Supercomputer To Design The Genetic Code For A Gladiator That Cannot Be Beaten. The Result Is A Highly Specialized Killing Machine, Its Genome Never Before Seen On Earth. Not Even Silas, With All His Genius And Experience, Can Understand The Horror He Had A Hand In Making. And No One, He Fears, Can Anticipate The Consequences Of Entrusting The Act Of Creation To A Computer's Cold Logic. Now Silas Races To Understand What The Computer Has Wrought, Aided By A Beautiful Xenobiologist, Vidonia Joao. Yet As The Fast-growing Gladiator Demonstrates Preternatural Strength, Speed, And--most Disquietingly--intelligence, Silas And Vidonia Find Their Scientific Curiosity Giving Way To A Most Unexpected Emotion: Sheer Terror-- Ted Kosmatka.

New York Times bestselling author Alan Dean Foster has always been on the cutting-edge of science fiction. In Body, Inc., he creates a tomorrow where genetic manipulation has become ubiquitous, and the very meaning of what it is to be human is undergoing drastic transformation.
 
In a world deeply wounded by centuries of environmental damage, two unlikely souls join forces: Dr. Ingrid Seastrom has stumbled into a mystery involving quantum-entangled nanoscale implants—a mystery that just may kill her. Whispr is a thief and murderer whose radical body modifications have left him so thin he is all but two-dimensional. Whispr has found a silver data-storage thread, a technology that will make him wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. He is also going mad with longing for Dr. Ingrid Seastrom. Their quest to learn the secrets of the implant and the thread—which may well be the same secret—has led them to the South African Economic Combine, otherwise known as SAEC. Or, less respectfully, SICK.  SICK, it seems, has the answers.

Unfortunately, SICK has also got Napun Molé, a cold-blooded assassin whose genetic enhancements make him the equivalent of a small army. Molé has already missed one chance to kill Ingrid and Whispr and now he has followed them to South Africa. This time, he is not only going to succeed, he is going to make them suffer.

Everything Is Going to Be All Right... Thats what Lieutenant Terry Metcalfe keeps telling his friends and co-workers. A hero to the public, just months ago he successfully prevented the veritable destruction of human civilization at the hands of terrorists from the warlike Qraitian Empire. But Metcalfe has changed, grown unhappy with his role as an officer in the Confederate Navy. Distancing himself from his friends, hes decided to join a religious sect which believes its literally found God living beneath the surface of the far-off planet Eleusis. And to be sure, theres something there: an alien intelligence which reaches out to the young Lieutenant and offers him the power to protect everything he loves. But is Metcalfe finding the spiritual fulfilment hes sought so long, or is he falling under the spell of a malevolent new enemy? Steven H. Wilsons original science fiction audio series, The Arbiter Chronicles has captured the imaginations or audiences for over a decade. Winner of the Mark Time Silver Award and the Parsec Award for Best Speculative Fiction Audio Drama, its character-driven space opera in the tradition of Heinleins The Rolling Stones and Joss Whedons Firefly. Drenched in adventure, humor and sexuality, Unfriendly Persuasion joins its predecessor, Taken Liberty, in bringing new depth to the popular audio drama series. In a tomorrow where genetic manipulation has become ubiquitous, the very meaning of what it is to be human is undergoing drastic transformation. After centuries of environmental damage have deeply wounded earth, two unlikely souls join forces. Dr. Ingrid Seastrom has stumbled into a mystery involving quantum-entangled nanoscale implantsa mystery that just may kill her. Whispr is a thief and murderer whose radical body modifications have left him so thin he is all but two-dimensional. Whispr has found a silver data-storage thread, a technology that will make him wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. He is also going mad with longing for Dr. Ingrid Seastrom. Their quest to learn the secrets of the implant and the threadwhich may well be the same secrethas led them to the South African Economic Combine, otherwise known as SAEC. Or, less respectfully, SICK. SICK, it seems, has the answers. Unfortunately, SICK has also got Napun Mol, a cold-blooded assassin whose genetic enhancements make him the equivalent of a small army. Mol has already missed one chance to kill Ingrid and Whispr and now he has followed them to South Africa. This time, he is not only going to succeed, he is going to make them suffer. From the Trade Paperback edition. "Catherine is a soldier. Fast, strong, lethal, she is the ultimate in military technology. She's a monster in the body of an eighteen year old girl. Bred by scientists, grown in vats, indoctrinated by the government, she and her sisters will win this war, no matter the cost. And the costs are high. Their life span is short; as they age they become unstable and they undergo a process called the spoiling. On their eighteenth birthday they are discharged. Lined up and shot like cattle. But the truth is, Catherine and her sisters may not be strictly human, but they're not animals. They can twist their genomes and indoctrinate them to follow the principles of Faith and Death, but they can't shut off the part of them that wants more than war. Catherine may have only known death, but she dreams of life and she will get it at any cost"--Page 4 of cover Claws & Saucers is the fullest, strongest, most complete guide to classic science fiction, horror, and fantasy films ever written. Claws & Saucers describes and critiques 1500+ films: virtually EVERY sci-fi, horror, and fantasy film made from 1902-1982, including dozens of thrillers, exploitation films, psychedelic films, and adventure films. Claws & Saucers offers accurate facts, clear consistent writing, and honest opinions from someone who respects both his subject matter and his readers. Science fiction-tegneserie - graphic novel. 15-årige Tally glæder sig til den plastiske operation, der skal forandre hende fra en overset "ugly", til smuk. Men mødet med Shay, der ikke vil være smuk, ændrer hendes opfattelse