Jeff Carlson - The Frozen Sky

“An epic of apocalyptic fiction: harrowing, heartfelt, and rock-hard realistic.”

—James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author of Bloodline

“Terrifying.”

—Scott Sigler, New York Times bestselling author of Nocturnal

“Chilling and timely.”

— RT Book Reviews

“Jeff Carlson packs riveting storytelling with a lot of fresh ideas.”

—David Brin, New York Times bestselling author of Existence

“One of the best apocalyptic novels I’ve read. Part Michael Crichton, a little Stephen King, and a lot of good writing… Carlson makes it all seem plausible and thrilling.”

— Quiet Earth ( www.quietearth.us)

“Compelling. His novels take readers to the precipice of disaster.”

— San Francisco Chronicle

“Intense.”

— SF Reviews

“Excellent.”

— SF Scope

“A breakneck ride through one of the deadliest and thrilling futures imagined in years. Jeff Carlson has the juice!”

—Sean Williams, New York Times bestselling author of Star Wars: The Force Unleashed

“Carlson’s nightmarish landscape presents a chilling albeit believable picture of a post-apocalyptic world. Strong, dynamic characters bring the story a conclusion you won’t see coming.”

— RT Book Reviews

“Gripping. An epic struggle among desperate nations equipped with nano weapons.”

—Jack McDevitt, Nebula Award-winning author of Firebird

“A high-octane thriller at the core — slick, sharp, and utterly compelling.”

—Steven Savile, international bestselling author of Silver

“I can’t wait for the movie.”

— Sacramento News & Review

“This installment opens with a jolt. If you love dark SF, you can’t go wrong with Carlson’s great Plague trilogy.”

— Apex Magazine

“Striking.”

— Locus Online

“Exciting.”

— SF Revu

“Chilling and dangerous.”

— HorrorAddicts.net

“An amazing collection.”

— Sci-Guys.com

“Captivating. Long Eyes packs a lot of adventure and entertainment.”

— BookBanter.net

“Let’s be honest: Carlson is dangerous. Interrupt is riveting, high concept, and so real I felt the fires and blood. Thumbs up.”

—Scott Sigler, New York Times bestselling author of Pandemic

“This book has it all—elite military units, classified weaponry, weird science, a dash of romance, and horrific global disasters. Carlson writes like a knife at your throat.”

—Bob Mayer, New York Times bestselling author of the Green Berets and series.

“Terrific pacing. Dimensional characters. Jeff Carlson delivers everything and more in a killer thriller.”

—John Lescroart, New York Times bestselling author of The Hunter

“A quantum leap in storytelling. I love the concept unreservedly. Love the writing to the point of jealousy. Carlson is so ridiculously talented, he makes me want to poke my eyeballs out. Interrupt is a phenomenal read.”

—Steven Savile, international bestselling author of Silver

“The ideas fly as fast as jets. This thriller has brains!”

—Kim Stanley Robinson, Hugo and Nebula Award-winning author of 2312

They said I wouldn’t feel a thing, but my dreams were awful. I felt pain and tightness and smothering weight, none of which overcame my excitement. I also dreamed of flying — dreamed I dove right through the ground and smashed into a spectacular new universe — yet I caught only glimpses of brightness before my eyes ruptured and abrasive rock crammed through my mouth and sinus cavities.

The mind persists in making sense of things, even when drugged and unconscious. It remembers.

Waking was the real nightmare. I had no face, I weighed too little, and raw swelling in my throat choked my voice.

The bite of a needle on one leg helped center me even before the tranquilizer took hold. I stopped thrashing and understood that I was submerged in a tank not much larger than myself. I knew it was a horizontal rectangle, knew I was in its middle — yet I had no eyes.

Could my hearing be acute enough to measure distance? There wasn’t time to sort through my senses. The ponderous blood-weight of the tranquilizer could not subdue the breathing reflex and I dug at the water with every limb, moving up, up—

A hard ceiling punched into the smooth metal protrusions of my face before I reached a surface. There was no air. But I could not drown. I snorted water through the generous filter plate where my nose had been, then expelled a shocking pocket of liquid through the gills beneath my armpits.

For a moment I did nothing more than breathe, feeling each exhalation against my elbows. I almost touched my face, hesitated, then grew interested in my hands and brought them together. The index fingers and thumbs felt no different but my other digits were thicker, longer, webbed.

“Garcia?” Stenstrom’s voice was too loud in the VLF transceiver buried high in my cheekbone, distorted by the mumble of other people around him. “How do you feel?”

I thought I heard the vibrations of his enthusiastic tone directly as well, dulled by the water and walls of my tank.

They’d told me the recovery tank would be glass. I imagined his entire research team all around my naked body, bristling with recorders and palmtops, every face intent.

Andrea had always giggled when we skinny-dipped together, watchful for neighbors but emboldened by each other’s daring, in the early days when we lived at her parents’ house in San Diego. Before she got pregnant. “Shark!” she’d whisper, and grab for me. I can be a pensive son of a bitch and her teasing, her smiles, had always been what I needed most.

The thought of her now helped me ignore my embarrassment.

My scrotum had been tucked away, my penis shortened, protective measures that Stenstrom’s people swore were reversible, like all of the surgeries and implants. I had that in writing and an eight figure insurance policy to back it, but there’s not a man in the world who wants to be cut in that area, no matter the compensation.

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