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3.7 4
by Michael Marshall Smith

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Talking fridges, human clone farms, flying shopping malls – we must be in the Michael Marshall Smith zone. A world all too close to our own…Spares – human clones, the ultimate health insurance. An eye for an eye – but some people are doing all the taking.Spares – the story of Jack Randall: burnt-out, dropped out, and way overdrawn at


Talking fridges, human clone farms, flying shopping malls – we must be in the Michael Marshall Smith zone. A world all too close to our own…Spares – human clones, the ultimate health insurance. An eye for an eye – but some people are doing all the taking.Spares – the story of Jack Randall: burnt-out, dropped out, and way overdrawn at the luck bank. But as caretaker on a Spares Farm, he still has a choice, and it might make a difference…if he can run fast enough.Spares – a breathless race through strange, disturbing territories in a world all too close to our own.Spares – it’s fiction. But only just…

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Coma meets Blade Runner in this future noir thriller, a compulsively readable melding of hardboiled narrative and hardware invention. Smith forecasts a decadent future in which the rich clone themselves at birth and callously harvest replacement organs from their "spares" as they need them. Narrator Jack Randall, a debauched but conscientious ex-cop, flees to the megalopolis of New Richmond with seven clones he has liberated from a spare farm and is almost immediately relieved of them by a gang of thugs. Jack's efforts to find out who has abducted the spares and marked them for death plunge him into a mystery that ultimately links the two events that have shattered his life: the brutal unsolved murder of his wife and child, and his soul-searing tour of military duty in The Gap. A virtual world built from the flotsam and jetsam cluttering the Internet, The Gap is an awesome conception made to seem supernaturally eerie yet scientifically feasible. Smith elaborates this creation brilliantly, as a surreal battleground where Jack confronts the demons that have haunted him for a decade, and as a symbol of emptiness and waste that brings the novel's numerous depictions of personal and social devaluation into sharp focus. Both a disconcerting portrait of a future that might be, and a poignant study of one man's fight to resist it, this novel augurs a promising future of another sort for its author. Film rights to Dreamworks SKG. (May) FYI: This novel is an expansion of Smith's horror short story "To Receive Is Better."
Library Journal
Smith whisks readers into a surreal, futuristic Clockwork Orange-like world of frighteningly easy violence. In New Richmond, Virginia, former police lieutenant Jack Randall roams the dank ventilation chutes and festering floors of a 200-story MegaMall with "food courts the size of small towns," determined to rescue his seven buddies-make that six and one half-who are made up of spare parts. Jack, a refugee from better times with a price on his head, deals with a killer stalking him as well as bad guys from the Spares Farm who want their inmates back. The nastiness of the dismembering theme is relieved by a piquant humor and suspense that pace the reader through amazingly inventive scenes. Jack doesn't rise much above the tough-talking one-dimensional thriller hero who perseveres through all battles. But the Spares, including the six-foot-five Mr. Two, who carries a bag with a talking head, take on an endearing quality. Visually fascinating, Spares is scheduled to be a major film from Dreamworks SKG. Recommended for suspense collections.-Molly Gorman, San Marino, Cal.
A Guran
Anyone reviewing Michael Marshall Smith's cross-genre novel Spares is apt to fall back on a variety of comparisons. And they are all accurate -- Spares does evoke hard-boiled detective writers like Jim Thompson and Raymond Chandler; Philip K. Dick and his cyberpunk descendants; the filmic atmospheres of A Clockwork Orange, Chinatown, and Blade Runner; even the humor of Douglas Adams. But to do so does a disservice to Smith, who deserves credit for his own unique imagination, skill, and this wonderfully diverse novel.

Spares is told in a poignant first-person by Jack Randall, an ex-cop, ex-soldier, ex-husband, ex-father, ex-member of the human race, and ex-addict -- except there is no such thing as an ex-addict. At the outset of the novel he's come back to his former home -- New Richmond, Virginia: a 200-story flying megamall that has been "grounded" for 83 years due to technological failure compounded by bureaucratic ineptitude. Jack's brought seven "spares" with him that he rescued from a "farm" that, shattered and drug-addled, he found himself in charge of. Spares are clones who exist only to provide spare parts -- skin, eyes, organs, limbs, faces -- for their legally "human" counterparts. Jack has treated the spares as humans -- teaching them to communicate, to actualize their emotions, and allowing them to think for themselves -- and is attempting to save them from the system that exploits their bodies and ignores their minds, feelings, and souls. In New Richmond Jack becomes embroiled in a deadly mystery involving denizens of both the underworld and overworld, his ex-partner, a former enemy, and The Gap -- the surrealistic ex-war zone born from a virtual world that had "grown too heavy and sloughed off the wires and coalesced into something solid."

Smith's future noir world of urban decay is one in which computers create their own programming and are sometimes more human than the humans. protagonist,The society is a plausibly corrupt extension of our current era with The Gap an obvious Vietnam allegory. And, of course, it is all the more chilling because we can so easily believe it. Smith falters in his culture only in one respect: his emphasis on class stratification is devoid of any racial overtones whatsoever -- as is the case in most SF. But, like the best SF -- and hard-boiled detective fiction -- Smith provides compelling philosophical and sociological underpinnings along with his energetic action.

For all the other comparisons, Spares reminds me most of John Shirley's early cyperpunk novel City Come A Walkin', and Jack Randall is reminiscent of the flawed heroes in Shirley's work. Like Shirley, Smith writes of dark things in dark worlds where the horror -- disturbingly familiar no matter what the trappings -- is often found within our own souls.

Spares could easily become a classic cherished by readers, argued over, dissected and discussed for years. And because it has been optioned by Steven Spielberg's DreamWorks SKG it has a chance of becoming more than a cult classic. Whatever Spares becomes -- it is required reading now.

Kirkus Reviews
British writer Smith's first US publication, an action fantasy about a future dystopia.

Ex-soldier, ex-detective Jack Randall, 39, is a victim of The Gap, a weird area in rural Virginia where collapsing computer codes of the "virtual world had grown too heavy and sloughed off the wires and coalesced into something solid." Computers have long since been given the job of writing code, of programming themselves, because, the narrator notes, "They were better at it, much better than us." However, "their motivations were sometimes uncertain, and after the code was sealed it was impossible to tell what was in there. Perhaps . . . a conversation humans weren't invited to eavesdrop on anymore." Twenty years ago, when The Gap was first discovered, Jack and his buddy Mal and Johnny Vinaldi were soldiers sent into the area to secure it; they emerged two years later, their psyches scarred by The Fear, a weapon generated by The Gap to protect itself. Jack and Mal became cops, while Vinaldi began his rise to drug kingpin. Meantime, in The Gap, Jack had become an addict of Rapt, the only known drug that was able to fight The Fear. Eventually, Jack ends up working at a complex where he guards Spares, clones of living people who are cannibalized when their originals require replacement parts. Jack grows attached to a group of Spares and, trying to save them, takes them to New Richmond, a fabulous, five-mile-square MegaMall 200 stories high, a cubic city that has the power of flight. When his Spares are kidnapped, Jack races about the vast hallways and villages of the MegaMall, pursued by weird figures from The Gap and involved in a series of increasingly bloody encounters leading to a surprising showdown.

Newcomer Smith has originality plus and a wicked flow of philosophic twists. If a novel was ever destined to follow Ridley Scott's classic filming of Philip K. Dick's Blade Runner, this is it.

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Read an Excerpt

"Two hundred dollars," the man said, his eyes trying to look cool and watchful at the same time, and making a fearful mess of both. He wasn't talking about what I was trying to sell. I wasn't even in New Richmond yet. It was after eight o'clock at night and I was losing patience and running out of time.

"Bullshit," I said. "Fifty is the rate."

The man laughed with genuine amusement.

"You been away or something, man? Shit, I can't barely remember when fifty dollars was the rate."

"Fifty dollars," I said again. I guess I was hoping if I said it often enough I'd end up neurolinguistically programming him. I was standing in front of a door, a door which was hidden in the basement of a building in the Portal settlement, the high-rise nightmare of ragged buildings and shanty dwellings which surrounds New Richmond. I was there because this particular building had been constructed right up against the exterior wall of the city, inside which I needed to be. I'd put up with being frisked on entry by the street gang which was currently controlling the building, and had already paid twenty dollars "tax" on my gun. I didn't have two hundred dollars. I barely had a hundred, and I was in a hurry.

The man shrugged. "So go in the main entrance."

I stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets, fighting back anger and panic in equal measure. "And don't be thinking about bringing out your gun," he continued, mildly. "Cos there's three brothers you can't even see with rifles trained on yo ass."

I couldn't go in the main gates, as he well knew. No one came to this part of the Portal town if they could enter New Richmond through one of thelegitimate entrances. Going in that way meant running your ownCard through the machines, thus broadcasting your name to the cops, the city administration and anyone else who had a tap on the line.

"Look," I said. "I've been this way before. I don't need a guide, I just need to get past you. Fifty dollars is what I have."

The man turned away and signaled into the darkness with an upwards nod of his head. I heard the sound of several sets of feet padding out of the darkness towards me.

"You still piecing your action from Howie 'The Plan'?" I asked, casually. The footsteps behind stopped, and the man turned to look at me again, eyes watchful.

"What you know about Mr. Amos?" he asked.

"Not much," I said, though I did. Howie was a medium-time crook operating out of the eighth floor. He ran some girls, owned a bar, and had pieces of the drugs action so far down the chain that he was tolerated by the real heavy hitters above. Howie was a fat, affable man with a surprising shock of blond hair, but he was fitter than he looked and knew how to keep a secret. Late at night, when most of the customers were gone, he'd been known to sit in with his house blues band and play a hell of a lot better than you'd expect. He didn't have the Bright Eyes, but he could have. He was a stand-up guy.

"Just enough," I continued, "to tell the wrong people about some of the deals they don't know he's into. And if he thinks that information came from you guys, well . . ."

"Why would he get to thinking that?" the man asked, though he was losing heart. These guys were below bottom-rung lowlife: hardly on the ladder. They most likely didn't even know where the ladder was, and had to use steps the whole time. Running this door was as close as they got to operating in New Richmond. Guys like this don't want to tangle with the jungle inside. It bites.

"I can't imagine," I said. "Look. Fifty dollars. Then on my way out I give you the other hundred fifty."

For all he knew I was never coming out, but fifty was better than no cash and a lot of potential grief. He stepped aside. I peeled the notes off, and he opened the door.

"And an extra twenty," I added, "if you keep any mention of me off the list you sell to the cops."

"Don't know what you're talking about," he said stonily, but there was a change in his attitude. "But I'll take your twenty."

I nodded and walked through the door. It shut behind me, and for the first time in five years I was inside New Richmond.

The door led into an old service corridor, which meandered towards the lower engine block through miles of dank and creepy corridors. There's nothing of value to be had there, and that's why nobody had cared when external construction had covered up the entrance. The one thing no one was going to be trying to do was get the engines going again. There's an old story which says one of the original repair drones still toils away down there somewhere, grown old and insane, but even I don't believe that.

For a long time the door was forgotten, and then somebody rediscovered it and realized its potential value as a covert entrance to the city. An adjunct to the service corridor leads via the exhaust ducts to a hidden and little-known staircase, which leads up to the second floor of the old Mall.

But I wasn't going to be going that way. I quickly followed the corridor for two hundred yards, past panels etched and stained with rust. It's eerily silent down there, perhaps the only truly quiet part of the city. The corridor took a sharpish right turn, and you could see the dim and intermittent lights in the ceiling disappearing towards the next turn, about half a mile ahead. Instead of following the lights I gathered myself and leapt upwards, arms straight above me, hands balled into fists. They hit a panel of the roof and it popped up and over, revealing a dark space beyond. I took a quick glance back to ensure no one was watching, jumped up again and pulled myself up through the hole.

When I replaced the ceiling panel I was left in a darkness broken only by yellow slivers of light which escaped through cracks in the floor. I straightened into the slight hunch which is required for New Richmond's lost ventilation system, and hurried forwards into the gloom. Every now and then I heard some fragment of life floating down from the city. An aged gurgle, soft clanks grown old, the occasional ghost of speech caught accidentally in some twist of corridor above and echoed down to the graveyard below. I had always felt that walking this corridor was like creeping through New Richmond's ancient and barren womb, but then I've always been a bit of a moron.

After about half a mile I passed under one of the main entrances. You can tell because of the sound of hundreds of feet coming in, going out. I stood underneath the entrance for a moment, remembering. I used to come the covert way sometimes for kicks, or for some particular purpose, but the main gates are the way you enter if you want to appreciate what you're getting into. You walk into a foyer which is twenty stories high, a taste of the opulence you can expect if you've got clearance to go above the hundredth floor. There used to be glass windows on all of the levels which tower above you, but they were walled in once they'd become low-life areas. It's like standing in the biggest and gaudiest shower cubicle of all time. You walked up to the desk, ran your ownCard through the machine, and established your clearance. I used to live in the seventies, and so I'd walk over to one of the express elevators, get in, and be shot up into the sky.

Not tonight. Tonight I was threading my way like a snake through endless tunnels, and I wasn't going to the 72nd floor because there was nothing left for me there. I was in New Richmond because I needed money, and had only one way of getting some. I was going to go in, get the money, get out--and then turn my back on Virginia for good.

What People are Saying About This

Clive Barker
Shocking, moving and surreal.

Meet the Author

Michael Marshall Smith lives in north London with his wife Paula, and is currently working on screenplays and his next book, while providing two cats with somewhere warm and comfortable to sit.

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Spares 3.8 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 4 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Guest More than 1 year ago
When I finished reading Spares, I new that it was one of the best books I'd ever read. The writing was not only superb, but seemed, natural, and made the characters seem more life-like. The addition of humor made Spares one of the best books I've ever read. I would recommend it to anyone who enjoys science fiction or mysteries.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
My name is alice