A Splendid Chaos by John Shirley

By John Shirley

0 is a tender movie maker who believes his complete lifestyles and profession are mapped out ahead of him. that's, till the evening he and his buddies stroll right into a rock membership ... and are stuck in a blinding capture that spans worlds.

They are dropped onto a dreamlike planet whose surrealistic good looks can't disguise its ugly truth. Fool’s desire — a global, so stunningly weird and wonderful, nightmares are beside the point. the following, abductees — either human and alien — are pitted opposed to a neverending succession of hellish parasites, carnivores, shape-changers, and symbiotes.

Yet the best enemy of all may be human. while former professor Harmon Fiskle is reworked through the present — a roving mutagenic strength — he's freed to pursue his megalomaniacal nature. He advocates a wicked coverage of social Darwinism, and forges a gruesome alliance of Twists: women and men who've sacrificed their very own humanity to turn into immense mutations in their former selves.

With a whole global at stake, in basic terms 0 can resolve the secret of Fool’s desire ... if it isn’t already too late.

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The bodies were lying head to head at forty-five-degree angles from one another, like "casualties of airport terrorism" in a blurred newspaper photo. Zero looked closer at Kelso and saw what Angie meant. Kelso's head was separated from his body. By only a few inches, but clearly separated, and it oozed a puddle that reflected the starlight. Kelso's hands were gripping his head, clapped over the ears. He lay utterly motionless. But Fiskle was moving. He was getting to his knees, and softly, with a hideous knowingness, he was laughing.

She stood up and stretched. He stole a look at her bare legs. "Come on. " It was just a shed; the heavy, still air in it was held in place by the sour Elmer's Glue smell of scumballs. There were two long, irregular wooden tables, and baskets of scumball pods against the synthetic wall to the right. Thunk thunk thunk thunk thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk. Like that, over and over again with the wooden mallet. Zero would spread out the heap of pasty yellow-white scumball pods, each one marshmallow-size, and remove the scumball pod-cup, toss it aside, squash a few scumballs together, compress them, then pound them thunk thunk thunk thunk, four times or so, hit them hard with the hammer to flatten them out some, then again a whole lot of times but fast and more lightly, all over, to make them into a kind of matzo wafer.

I'm not going to be able to handle this, he thought. Uh-uh. He saw a ten-by-five-foot rectangular box standing to one side, twenty feet away. It looked like something of dull metal. As he watched, its facing side slid away, revealing a shimmering interior in which the form of a man took shape—a man Zero knew. Professor Arnold Samuel Garrison, who'd lectured at New York University on the theoretical intricacies of the fourth dimension. Zero knew Garrison as a verbose eccentric. And a clothes horse.

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