Parasite

Parasite

4.0 35
by Mira Grant
     
 

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A decade in the future, humanity thrives in the absence of sickness and disease.

We owe our good health to a humble parasite — a genetically engineered tapeworm developed by the pioneering SymboGen Corporation. When implanted, the Intestinal Bodyguard worm protects us from illness, boosts our immune system — even secretes designer drugs. It's

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Overview

A decade in the future, humanity thrives in the absence of sickness and disease.

We owe our good health to a humble parasite — a genetically engineered tapeworm developed by the pioneering SymboGen Corporation. When implanted, the Intestinal Bodyguard worm protects us from illness, boosts our immune system — even secretes designer drugs. It's been successful beyond the scientists' wildest dreams. Now, years on, almost every human being has a SymboGen tapeworm living within them.

But these parasites are getting restless. They want their own lives . . . and will do anything to get them.

Parasitology
Parasite
Symbiont
Chimera

For more from Mira Grant, check out:

Newsflesh
Feed
Deadline
Blackout

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Apocalypse Scenario #683: The Box
Countdown
San Diego 2014: The Last Stand of the California Browncoats
How Green This Land, How Blue This Sea
The Day the Dead Came to Show and Tell
Please Do Not Taunt the Octopus

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
In the year 2021, a car crash leaves 20-year-old Sally Mitchell amnesiac. She owes her life to the apparently benign implant of a genetically engineered tapeworm developed by SymboGen. Six years after the crash, as Sally seeks to recover her identity, outbreaks of sinister “sleepwalking” incidents—ignored by the media—fuel Grant’s mordant satire of the corporate public relations world. SymboGen’s widely accepted patented Intestinal Bodyguard tapeworm suppresses illnesses, but Sally’s boyfriend, parasitologist Nathan Kim, wonders what the cost is. A running series of comments by Symbogen cofounder Dr. Steven Banks and his renegade former colleague Dr. Shanti Cale provide a parallel to Sally’s desperate quest for information, as SymboGen’s good intentions become increasingly suspect. Grant extends the zombie theme of her Newsflesh trilogy to incorporate thoughtful reflections on biomedical issues that are both ominously challenging and eerily plausible. Sally is a complex, compassionate character, well suited to this exploration of trust, uncertainty, and the price of progress. Agent: Diana Fox, Fox Literary. (Nov.)
John Joseph Adams on Parasite
"A riveting near-future medical thriller that reads like the genetically-engineered love child of Robin Cook and Michael Crichton."
From the Publisher
"A riveting near-future medical thriller that reads like the genetically-engineered love child of Robin Cook and Michael Crichton."—John Joseph Adams"

Readers with strong stomachs will welcome this unusual take on the future."—Kirkus Reviews"

Fans of [the Newsflesh] series will definitely want to check this new book out. But fans of Michael Crichton-style technothrillers will be equally enthralled: as wild as Grant's premise is, the novel is firmly anchored in real-world science and technology."—Booklist"

Grant extends the zombie theme of her Newsflesh trilogy to incorporate thoughtful reflections on biomedical issues that are both ominously challenging and eerily plausible. Sally is a complex, compassionate character, well suited to this exploration of trust, uncertainty, and the price of progress."—Publishers Weekly"

It's a well-grounded medical wariness that gets at the heart of what the Parasitology series will be asking: What happens when the cure is worse than the disease?"—NPR Books"

An exceptionally creepy medical-horror thriller that's the perfect spine-tingling read for Halloween... [a] roller coaster ride."—Fort Worth Star-Telegram

Library Journal
★ 10/01/2013
As Sally Mitchell's doctors attempt to convince her family to take her off life support following a horrific car accident, Sally opens her eyes and sits up. Her miraculous resurrection is attributed to her Intestinal Bodyguard, a bioengineered tapeworm designed to keep humans free of disease. Six years later, Sal can only remember her life after the accident but trusts completely that her tapeworm kept her alive. However, as ordinary people start showing signs of a brain-altering infection, Sal is drawn deep into the history of the world's first designer parasite. Perhaps SymboGen isn't as altruistic as it wishes to appear. Perhaps the tapeworms are not so benevolent. Perhaps the tapeworms are ready to be in control. VERDICT Horrifying, riveting, and a bit too plausible, this work is a tour de force. Grant ("Newsflesh" trilogy), a pseudonym of Seanan McGuire ("October Daye" series), has penned a layered sf thriller reminiscent of those by Michael Crichton, with perfect pacing, touches of humor, and just enough medical jargon to make one believe. After finishing this first volume in an anticipated trilogy, readers will have a hard time waiting for the next installment. [See Prepub Alert, 4/15/13.]—Jennifer Beach, Cumberland Cty. P.L., VA
Kirkus Reviews
Grant's latest lands readers in 2027, when most people sport implants that help them regulate their health. The book concerns a future in which the population intentionally ingests worms. The parasites in question are tapeworms, and they're programmed to help their hosts overcome disease and other health issues. Since their introduction, tapeworms have become an accepted health resource. SymboGen, the enormous corporate entity that developed the tapeworm technology under the leadership of Dr. Steven Banks, has grown and prospered with the continued employment of the parasites. Now they're interested in Sally Mitchell, or Sal, as she likes to be called. Badly injured in a car accident, Sal finally awoke from a coma to find herself a blank slate. She had to relearn everything, even language. But she's very different from the old Sally, and since SymboGen was in on her recovery, they're continuing to closely monitor her. Sal hates it and distrusts the company's founder, Banks, but she knows she owes her life to SymboGen. She and her doctor boyfriend, Nathan, harbor reservations about SymboGen's motives. When people with implants start turning into zombielike creatures, they know something alarming is going on. After Nathan experiences the death of someone close to him and Sal receives a mysterious message with ties to someone else's past, the two start seeking answers. What they find is surprising and, for one of them, the end to a heartbreaking personal chapter. Grant's fans are accustomed to her tackling unusual subjects, and this is no exception. Despite a great deal of silly melodrama along the way, and lots of rambling filler, the action moves at a good pace. Readers with strong stomachs will welcome this unusual take on the future. The ending is a place holder for future volumes in the series.
Sci-Fi Magazine on Feed
"The zombie novel Robert A. Heinlein might have written."
Booklist
"Fans of [the Newsflesh] series will definitely want to check this new book out. But fans of Michael Crichton-style technothrillers will be equally enthralled: as wild as Grant's premise is, the novel is firmly anchored in real-world science and technology."
John Joseph Adams
"A riveting near-future medical thriller that reads like the genetically-engineered love child of Robin Cook and Michael Crichton."
RT Book Reviews (4 1/2 stars)
"It will definitely be worth readers' while to invest in this new series."
NPR Books
"It's a well-grounded medical wariness that gets at the heart of what the Parasitology series will be asking: What happens when the cure is worse than the disease?"
Fort Worth Star-Telegram
"An exceptionally creepy medical-horror thriller that's the perfect spine-tingling read for Halloween... [a] roller coaster ride."
SciFi Now (UK)
"Unnervingly believable...disturbingly realistic...a suspense ridden read."
Sci Fi Now Magazine (UK)
"Great premise, fun characters...! What's not to love?"

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Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780316218955
Publisher:
Orbit
Publication date:
10/29/2013
Series:
Mira Grant's Parasitology Series, #1
Pages:
512
Product dimensions:
6.00(w) x 9.30(h) x 1.80(d)

Read an Excerpt

Parasite


By Mira Grant

Orbit

Copyright © 2013 Mira Grant
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-316-21895-5


CHAPTER 1

JULY 2027


Dark.

Always the dark, warm, hot warm, the hot warm dark, and the distant sound of drumming. Always the hot warm dark and the drums, the comforting drums, the drums that define the world. It is comfortable here. I am comfortable here. I do not want to leave again.

Dr. Morrison looked up from my journal and smiled. He always showed too many teeth when he was trying to be reassuring, stretching his lips so wide that he looked like he was getting ready to lean over and take a bite of my throat.

"I wish you wouldn't smile at me like that," I said. My skin was knotting itself into lumps of gooseflesh. I forced myself to sit still, refusing to give him the pleasure of seeing just how uncomfortable he made me.

For a professional therapist, Dr. Morrison seemed to take an unhealthy amount of joy in making me twitch. "Like what, Sally?"

"With the teeth," I said, and shuddered. I don't like teeth. I liked Dr. Morrison's teeth less than most. If he smiled too much, I was going to wind up having another one of those nightmares, the ones where his smile spread all the way around his head and met at the back of his neck. Once that happened, his skull would spread open like a flower, and the mouth hidden behind his smile—his real mouth—would finally be revealed.

Crazy dreams, right? It was only appropriate, I guess. I was seeing him because I was a crazy, crazy girl. At least, that's what the people who would know kept telling me, and it wasn't like I could tell them any different. They were the ones who went to college and got degrees in are-you-crazy. I was just a girl who had to be reminded of her own name.

"We've discussed your odontophobia before, Sally. There's no clinical reason for you to be afraid of teeth."

"I'm not afraid of teeth," I snapped. "I just don't want to look at them."

Dr. Morrison stopped smiling and shook his head, leaning over to jot something on his ever-present notepad. He didn't bother hiding it from me anymore. He knew I couldn't read it without taking a lot more time than I had. "You understand what this dream is telling us, don't you?" His tone was as poisonously warm as his too-wide smile had been.

"I don't know, Dr. Morrison," I answered. "Why don't you tell me, and we'll see if we can come to a mutual conclusion?"

"Now, Sally, you know that dream interpretation doesn't work that way," he said, voice turning lightly chiding. I was being a smart-ass. Again. Dr. Morrison didn't like that, which was fine by me, since I didn't like Dr. Morrison. "Why don't you tell me what the dream means to you?"

"It means I shouldn't eat leftover spaghetti after midnight," I said. "It means I feel guilty about forgetting to save yesterday's bread for the ducks. It means I still don't understand what irony is, even though I keep asking people to explain it. It means—"

He cut me off. "You're dreaming about the coma," he said. "Your mind is trying to cope with the blank places that remain part of your inner landscape. To some degree, you may even be longing to go back to that blankness, to a time when Sally Mitchell could be anything."

The implication that the person Sally Mitchell became—namely, me—wasn't good enough for my subconscious mind stung, but I wasn't going to let him see that. "Wow. You really think that's what the dream's about?"

"Don't you?"

I didn't answer.

This was my last visit before my six-month check-in with the staff at SymboGen. Dr. Morrison would be turning in his recommendations before that, and the last thing I wanted to do was give him an excuse to recommend we go back to meeting twice a week, or even three times a week, like we had when I first started seeing him. I didn't want to be adjusted to fit some model of the "psychiatric norm" drawn up by doctors who'd never met me and didn't know my situation. I was tired of putting up with Dr. Morrison's clumsy attempts to force me into that mold. We both knew he was only doing it because he hoped to write a book once SymboGen's media blackout on my life was finally lifted. The Curing of Sally Mitchell. He'd make a mint.

Even more, I was tired of the way he always looked at me out of the corner of his eye, like I was going to flip out and start stabbing people. Then again, maybe he was right about that, on some level. There was no time when I felt more like stabbing people than immediately after one of our sessions.

"The imagery is crude, even childish. Clearly, you're regressing in your sleep, returning to a time before you had so many things to worry about. I know it's been hard on you, relearning everything about yourself. So much has changed in the last six years." Dr. Morrison flipped to the next page in my journal, smiling again. It looked more artificial, and more dangerous, than ever. "How are your headaches, Sally? Are they getting any better?"

I bared my own teeth at him as I lied smoothly, saying, "I haven't had a headache in weeks." It helped if I reminded myself that I wasn't totally lying. I wasn't having the real banger migraines anymore, the ones that made me feel like it would have been a blessing if I'd died in the accident. All I got anymore were the little gnawing aches at my temples, the ones where it felt like my skull was shrinking. Those went away if I spent a few hours lying down in a dark room. They were nothing the doctor needed to be concerned about.

"You know, Sally, I can't help you if you won't let me."

He kept using my name because it was supposed to help us build rapport. It was having the opposite effect. "It's Sal now, Doctor," I said, keeping my voice as neutral as I could. "I've been going by Sal for more than three years."

"Ah, yes. Your continued efforts to distance yourself from your pre-coma identity." He flipped to another page in my journal, quickly enough that I could tell he'd been waiting for the opportunity to drop this little bomb into the conversation. I braced myself, and he read:

Had another fight with parents last night. Want to move out, have own space, maybe find out if ready to move in with Nathan. They said wasn't ready. Why not? Because Sally wasn't ready? I am not her. I am me.

I will never be her again.

He lowered the book, looking at me expectantly. I looked back, and for almost a minute the two of us were locked in a battle of wills that had no possible winner, only a different order of losing. He wanted me to ask for his help. He wanted to heal me and turn me back into a woman I had no memory of being. I wanted him to let me be who I was, no matter how different I had become. Neither of us was getting what we wanted.

Finally, he broke. "This shows a worrisome trend toward disassociation, Sally. I'm concerned that—"

"Sal," I said.

Dr. Morrison stopped, frowning at me. "What did you say?"

"I said, Sal, as in, 'my name is.' I'm not Sally anymore. It's not disassociation if I say I'm not her, because I don't remember her at all. I don't even know who she is. No one will tell me the whole story. Everyone tries so hard not to say anything bad about her to me, even though I know better. It's like they're all afraid I'm pretending, like this is some big trick to catch them out."

"Is it?" Dr. Morrison leaned forward. His smile was suddenly gone, replaced by an expression of predatory interest. "We've discussed your amnesia before, Sally. No one can deny that you sustained extensive trauma in the accident, but amnesia as extensive and prolonged as yours is extremely rare. I'm concerned there may be a mental block preventing your accessing your own memories. When this block inevitably degrades—if you've been feigning amnesia this whole time, it would be a great relief in some ways. It would indicate much better chances for your future mental stability."

"Wouldn't faking total memory loss for six years count as a sort of pathological lying, and prove I needed to stay in your care until I stopped doing it?" I asked.

Dr. Morrison frowned, leaning back again. "So you continue to insist that you have no memory prior to the accident."

I shrugged. "We've been over this before. I have no memory of the accident itself. The first thing I remember is waking up in the hospital, surrounded by strangers."

One of them had screamed and fainted when I sat up. I didn't learn until later that she was my mother, or that she had been there—along with my father, my younger sister, and my boyfriend—to talk to my doctors about unplugging the life support systems keeping my body alive. My sister, Joyce, had just stared at me and started to cry. I didn't understand what she was doing. I couldn't remember ever having seen someone cry before. I couldn't remember ever having seen a person before. I was a blank slate.

Then Joyce was throwing herself across me, and the feeling of pressure had been surprising enough that I hadn't pushed her away. My father helped my mother off the floor, and they both joined my sister on the bed, all of them crying and talking at once.

It would be months before I understood English well enough to know what they were saying, much less to answer them. By the time I managed my first sentence—"Who I?"—the boyfriend was long gone, having chosen to run rather than spend the rest of his life with a potentially brain-damaged girlfriend. The fact that I still hadn't recovered my memory six years later implied that he'd made the right decision. Even if he'd decided to stick around, there was no guarantee we'd have liked each other, much less loved each other. Leaving me was the best thing he could have done, for either one of us.

After all, I was a whole new person now.

"We were discussing your family. How are things going?"

"We've been working through some things," I said. Things like their overprotectiveness, and the way they refused to treat me like a normal human being. "I think we're doing pretty good. But thanks for asking."

My mother thought I was a gift from God, since she hadn't expected me to wake up. She also thought I would turn back into Sally any day, and was perpetually, politely confused when I didn't. My father didn't invoke God nearly as much, but he did like to say, frequently, that everything happens for a reason. Apparently, he and Sally hadn't had a very good relationship. He and I were doing substantially better. It helped that we were both trying as hard as we could, because we both knew that things were tenuous.

Joyce was the only one who'd been willing to speak to me candidly, although she only did it when she was drunk. She didn't drink often; I didn't drink at all. "You were a real bitch, Sal," she'd said. "I like you a lot better now. If you start turning into a bitch again, I'll cut your brake lines."

It was totally honest. It was totally sincere. The night she said that to me was the night I realized that I might not remember my sister, but I definitely loved her. On the balance of things, maybe I'd gotten off lightly. Maybe losing my memory was a blessing.

Dr. Morrison's disappointment visibly deepened. Clearing his throat, he flipped to another point in my journal, and read:

Last night I dreamt I was swimming through the hot warm dark, just me and the sound of drums, and there was nothing in the world that could frighten me or hurt me or change the way things were.

Then there was a tearing, ripping sound, and the drums went quiet, and everything was pain, pain, PAIN. I never felt pain like that before, and I tried to scream, but I couldn't scream—something stopped me from screaming. I fled from the pain, and the pain followed me, and the hot warm dark was turning cold and crushing, until it wasn't comfort, it was death. I was going to die. I had to run as fast as I could, had to find a new way to run, and the sound of drums was fading out, fading into silence.

If I didn't get to safety before the drums stopped, I was never going to get to safety at all. I had to save the drums. The drums were everything.

He looked up. "That's an odd amount of importance to place on a sound, don't you think? What do the drums represent to you, Sally?"

"I don't know. It was just a dream I had." It was a dream I had almost every night. I only wrote it down because Nathan said that maybe Dr. Morrison would stop pushing quite so hard if he felt like he had something to interpret. Well, he had something to interpret, and it wasn't making him back off. If anything, it was doing the opposite. I made a mental note to smack my boyfriend next time I saw him.

"Dreams mean things. They're our subconscious trying to communicate with us."

The smug look on his face was too much. "You're about to tell me I'm dreaming about being in the womb, aren't you? That's what you always say when you want to sound impressive."

His smug expression didn't waver.

"Look, I can't be dreaming about being in the womb, since that would require remembering anything before the accident, and I don't." I struggled to keep my tone level. "I'm having nightmares based on the things people have told me about my accident, that's all. Everything is great, and then suddenly everything goes to hell? It doesn't take a genius to guess that the drums are my heart beating. I know they lost me twice in the ambulance, and that the head trauma was so bad they thought I was actually brain-dead. If I hadn't woken up when I did, they would have pulled the plug. I mean, maybe I don't like the girl they say I was, but at least she didn't have to go through physical therapy, or relearn the English language, or relearn everything about living a normal life. Do I feel isolated from her? You bet I do. Lucky bitch died that day, at least as long as her memories stay gone. I'm just the one who has to deal with all the paperwork."

Dr. Morrison raised an eyebrow, looking nonplussed. Then he reached for his notepad. "Interesting," he said.

Somehow I managed not to groan.


The rest of the session was as smooth as any of them ever were. Dr. Morrison asked questions geared to make me blow up again; I dodged them as best as I could, and bit the inside of my lip every time I felt like I might lose my cool. At the end of the hour, we were both disappointed. He was disappointed because I hadn't done more yelling, and I was disappointed because I'd yelled in the first place. I hate losing my temper. Even more, I hate losing it in front of people like Dr. Morrison. Being Sally Mitchell sucks sometimes. There's always another doctor who wants a question answered and thinks the best way to do it is to poke a stick through the bars of my metaphorical cage. I didn't volunteer to be the first person whose life was saved by a tapeworm. It just happened.

I have to remind myself of that whenever things get too ridiculous: I am alive because of a genetically engineered tapeworm. Not a miracle; God was not involved in my survival. They can call it an "implant" or an "Intestinal Bodyguard," with or without that damn trademark, but the fact remains that we're talking about a tapeworm. A big, ugly, blind, parasitic invertebrate that lives in my small intestine, where it naturally secretes a variety of useful chemicals, including—as it turns out—some that both stimulate brain activity and clean toxic byproducts out of blood.

The doctors were as surprised by that as I was. They're still investigating whether the tapeworm's miracle drugs are connected to my memory loss. Frankly, I neither care nor particularly want to know. I'm happy with who I've become since the accident.

Dr. Morrison's receptionist smiled blandly as I signed out. SymboGen required physically-witnessed time stamps for my sessions. I smiled just as blandly back. It was the safest thing to do. I'd tried being friendly during my first six months of sessions, until I learned that I was basically under review from the time I stepped through the door. Anything I did while inside the office could be entered into my file. Since those first six months included more than a few crying jags in the lobby, they were enough to buy me even more therapy.

"Have a nice day, Miss Mitchell," said the receptionist, taking back her clipboard. "See you next week."

I smiled at her again, sincerely this time. "Only if my doctors agree with whatever assessment Dr. Morrison comes up with, instead of agreeing with me. If there is any justice in this world, you'll never be seeing me again."
(Continues...)


Excerpted from Parasite by Mira Grant. Copyright © 2013 Mira Grant. Excerpted by permission of Orbit.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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