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Market Forcesby Richard K. Morgan
Synopses & Reviews
Jackknifed there in sweat.
Fragments of the dream still pinning his breath in his throat and his face into the pillow, mind reeling in the darkened room . . .
Reality settled over him like a fresh sheet. He was home.
He heaved a shuddering sigh and groped for the glass of water beside the bed. In the dream he'd been falling to and then through the tiles of the supermarket floor.
On the other side of the bed Carla stirred and laid a hand on him.
“ 'S okay. Dream. He gulped from the glass. Bad dream, ’s all.”
He paused, peculiarly unwilling to correct her assumption. He didn't dream about Murcheson’s screaming death much anymore. He shivered a little. Carla sighed and pulled herself closer to him. She took his hand and pressed it onto one full breast.
My father would just love this. Deep stirrings of conscience. He's always said you haven’t got one.
“Right.” Chris lifted the alarm clock and focused on it. Three twenty. Just perfect. He knew he wouldn't get back to sleep for a while. Just fucking perfect. He flopped back, immobile. Your father has convenient amnesia when it comes to clearing the rent.
Money talks. Why'd you think I married you?”
He rolled his head and butted her gently on the nose. Are you taking the piss out of me?
For answer she reached down for his prick and rolled it through her fingers. “No. I'm winding you up,” she whispered.
As they drew together he felt the hot gust of desire for her blowing out the dream, but he was slow to harden under her hand. It was only in the final throes of climax that he finally let go.
It was raining when the alarm sounded. Soft hiss outside the open window like an untuned TV at very low volume. He snapped off the bleeper, lay listening to the rain for a few moments, and then slid out of the bed without waking Carla.
In the kitchen he set up the coffee machine, ducked into the shower, and got out in time to steam milk for Carla's cappuccino. He delivered it to her bedside, kissed her awake, and pointed it out. She'd probably drift off to sleep again and drink it cold when she finally got up. He lifted clothes from the wardrobe-plain white shirt, one of the dark Italian suits, the Argentine leather shoes. He took them downstairs.
Dressed but untied, he carried his own double espresso into the living room with a slice of toast to watch the seven o'clock bulletins. There was, as usual, a lot of detailed foreign commentary, and it was time to go before the Promotions & Appointments spot rolled around. He shrugged, killed the TV, and only remembered to knot his tie when he caught himself in the hall mirror. Carla was just making awake noises as he slipped out of the front door and disabled the alarms on the Saab.
He stood in the light rain for a long moment, looking at the car. Soft beads of water glistening on the cold gray metal. Finally, he grinned.
Conflict Investment, here we come, he muttered, and got in.
He got the bulletins on the radio. They started Promotions & Appointments as he hit the Elsenham junction ramp. Liz Linshaw's husky tones, just a touch of the cordoned zones to roughen up the otherwise cultured v
"Morgan's brutal, provocative third novel (after Altered Carbon and Broken Angels) charts the moral re-education of executive Chris Faulkner, who joins notoriously successful Shorn Associates, which specializes in 'conflict investment' — financing totalitarian regimes, as well as guerrilla movements, in developing countries that are never allowed to develop. Taking his theme from such well-known critics of Western capitalism as Noam Chomsky, Susan George and Michael Moore (all listed as sources), the author presents a bleak near-future that includes continuing job loss through NAFTA, the undermining of national economies like that of China and the creation of a permanent underclass. Faulkner and other company hotshots compete in highly dangerous, often fatal car races, which reflect the ruthlessness of their corporate careers. Faulkner's auto-mechanic wife, Carla, strives to humanize him, but he will have to kill a lot of people with his car, guns and, in the penultimate bloodbath, a baseball bat before seeing the error of his ways. While some may be put off by the graphic violence and the heavy-handed polemics, most readers will find Morgan's economic extrapolation convincing and compelling. Agent, Susan Howe. (Mar. 1)" Publishers Weekly (Copyright Reed Business Information, Inc.)
From the award-winning author of Altered Carbon and Broken Angels comes a stand-alone thriller set in a near-future world, where the classes are in direct conflict, media sets the rules, and war is just another commodity to be traded.
From the award-winning author of Altered Carbon and Broken Angels–a turbocharged new thriller set in a world where killers are stars, media is mass entertainment,
and freedom is a dangerous proposition . . .
A coup in Cambodia. Guns to Guatemala. For the men and women of Shorn Associates, opportunity is calling. In the superheated global village of the near future, big money is made by finding the right little war and supporting one side against the other–in exchange for a share of the spoils. To succeed, Shorn uses a new kind of corporate gladiator: sharp-suited, hard-driving gunslingers who operate armored vehicles and follow a Samurai code. And Chris Faulkner is just the man for the job.
He fought his way out of London’s zone of destitution. And his kills are making him famous. But unlike his best friend and competitor at Shorn, Faulkner has a side that outsiders cannot see: the side his wife is trying to salvage, that another woman–a porn star turned TV news reporter–is trying to exploit. Steeped in blood, eyed by common criminals looking for a shot at fame, Faulkner is living on borrowed time. Until he’s given one last shot at getting out alive. . . .
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