by Naomi Foyle
Praise for
“Foyle is effective at building tension and creating villainy all the more sinister for its well-meaning smile.” —SFX
“[Seoul Survivors] is international, with strong and diverse and active characters, but more than anything I love the energy of the book. It’s sheer adrenalin to read, pumping and fast, breaking down all genre clichés and genre distinctions in its unstoppable momentum . . . It’s very addictive and so now, full of electricity and interest and deserves to be an enormous hit.” —Bidisha
“This novel is the work of a remarkable mind, and a remarkable writer. It’s fast-moving and incredibly inventive, with all-too-real characters that leap off the page. And it also grapples with some very big questions indeed. With style, wit, and great fearlessness, Naomi Foyle has written a book that will shock, entertain, move, and keep you gripped to the very last page.” —Bethan Roberts
“A detailed and fascinating debut that deals with love, betrayal and an impending apocalypse. A fast paced, riveting story set in an all-too-real dark near future, this is a character driven novel that is not for the faint-hearted.” —British Science Fiction Association
“The research that must have gone in tocreating this novel [is] incredibly impressive. Not only research in to Korea, its cultures, people and history, but in to science, genetics and what could be feasible in the not too distant future.” —Book Geek Says
Jo Fletcher Books
An imprint of Quercus
Copyright © 2013 Naomi Foyle
Cover design and Illustration: www.velladesign.com
First published in the United States by Quercus in 2016
Excerpt from “Europa and the Pirate Twins” courtesy of Thomas Dolby, Lost Toy People, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.
Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use or anthology should send inquiries to [email protected].
e-ISBN 978-1-623-65019-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016022460
Distributed in the United States and Canada by
Hachette Book Group
1290 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10104
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
www.quercus.com
For John Luke Chapman
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
PART ONE / NEW ARRIVALS
1 / Long Day
2 / Johnny Boyfriend
3 / Seeing Double
4 / The White Line
5 / Shiteawon
6 / Miyeok Soup
7 / Soft Landing
PART TWO / CONTACT
8 / Naked Brunch
9 / The Hotel
10 / First Night Out
11 / The American
12 / Gongjang
13 / Passion Show
PART THREE / GROOMING
14 / Gene Genie
15 / Body Snatch
16 / The Anbang
17 / Blind Date
18 / Enlightenment
PART FOUR / KEEPING MUM
19 / The Flock
20 / King Bling
21 / The Beloved Leaderess
22 / Womb Raider
23 / Pebbles
24 / Su Jin
25 / Oasis Boy
26 / The Bluebird
27 / Independence Park
28 / Carving Knives
29 / Dr. Tae Sun
30 / Pig Bar
PART FIVE / MISCONCEPTIONS
31 / Chusok
32 / Pusan
33 / A Hard Place
34 / The Homecoming
35 / And a Rock
36 / Pillow Talk
37 / The King
38 / Render Unto
PART SIX / ROYAL JELLY
39 / Getaway Plans
40 / Han Gang
41 / VirtuWorld
42 / Miscarriage
43 / Fruition
“How should it be sown? How should it dawn? Who will fatten the sacrifice?”
The Popol Vuh
The Sacred Mayan Book of Life
Part One
NEW ARRIVALS
1 / Long Day
“Ni-suh, Sy-duh-nee—Choigoya—look at camera—thank you—better—pro-fesh-ional—Now, play with Hot-Cold, plea-suh!”
A shock attack of Nu Destruction beats was battering her body, the studio lights were melting her make-up—melting her face—and the scent of her own fried nerves still lingered in the air, but Sydney was on fire now and this was a war zone she never wanted to leave. Jutting her hip toward the camera, she slithered her palms up the black GrilleTexTM jacket. Beneath its slashing neckline, a tight contraption of silk, wire and pump-foam was pushing her tits out beyond maximum volume. Fuck, this outfit was a knife-free boob job: she’d never had such amazing cleavage in her life. But that wasn’t all the OhmEgo designers could do. Tossing her hair, she pinched the metal button stitched over her heart and twisted it all the way round to the left.
Big mistake.
The music hit a disco vein and she made a stab at vogueing, but as she cocked and sliced her arms at asymmetrical angles to the world, an oven of heat bloomed through the jacket.
“This is brutal, Jin Sok,” she panted, fumbling for the dial.
“No!” he ordered. “Go wi-thuh. Go wi-thuh.”
He was totally crazy. But so was she. She reached off-set, grabbed a bottle of water from a white designer stool and, facing front again, squirted the cool liquid down her neck and chest. Ahhh. The photographer stomped in applause and she chucked the bottle aside. Bending low enough for the camera to practically capture her navel, she pouted and traced the glossy circle of her lips with her tongue. A dark blush tingled in the pit of her stomach. Johnny would kill for her to do that at home.
Jin Sok jumped on a chair. “Loo-kuh up. Now,” he commanded.
She raised her chin and he zoomed in on her chest. Beneath her mask of gold make-up her cheeks flared. For a breath-taking instant she imagined scooping her wet tits out of the bra and thrusting them into the shot.
A gush of fear soaked her panties; her bare legs trembled and she thought she might stumble. Fuck. What was she doing, getting turned on at her first major league shoot? What if she stained the OhmEgo shorts?
If Jin Sok noticed her panic, it only aroused his approval. “Okay! Ye-suh! Baby—smi-luh!” He hopped off the chair and kicked it away into the corner of his studio where it sent an orchid pot flying. She threw back her head and laughed out loud. “Beauty!” he roared. “Now kissing, Sy-duh-nee—ki-suh please!”
Crisis past, the GrilleTexTM heat now just bearable, she smacked the air noisily. Her blonde braids tipped with metal cones knocked against each other with empty precision as she strutted to the front of the set. Arms crossed, she toyed with the OhmEgo logo warped into the jacket’s left shoulder. Peeping at
Jin Sok from behind a web of storm-proof mascara, she turned to display the puckered omega. What felt like a bucket of sweat sluiced down her spine.
“No, really, I’m too hot!” she complained, louder this time. Jin Sok couldn’t expect her to keep going under these blazing lights, not with the GrilleTexTM temperature cranked up to the top. No wonder her body had zoomed out of control.
Jin Sok’s shaved head gleamed above the lens and with his free hand he jabbed the air, keeping the momentum of the music moving through the room. “Cool it, baby—i-suh cream option—chill out!” he called.
Thank fuck for that. Sydney twisted the dial round to the right. An icy shiver ran through the thermo-threads embedded in the jacket and goosebumps pinged up on her arms. Shit, that was no good either. Even in a sauna of a studio, who wanted to be cold and clammy inside full-blast air-con clothes?
She shrugged off the jacket and let it slip to the floor. Her abs were still a work-in-progress—okay, non-existent—but the bra was fringed with silky black tassels that hid her puppy fat and felt lovely and swishy against her skin as she moved. Johnny hated them—“Fringes? What are you, a lampshade?” he’d sneered when she’d showed him the MoPho files—but he wasn’t here, so fuck him. Shaping her hands into pistols, she sprayed the room with bullets, picking off all-comers before merging the guns into one and pointing the barrel directly down toward the camera.
Jin Sok urged her on in Korean and as she wiggled and winked, blew kisses and blinked, her heart finally dared to dart all its little silver arrows up into the music, up up up to the high white ceiling of the studio. Was it really true? Was she really posing for a leading international techno-fashion photographer, not being told just to “look pretty” by some dork in a tacky suit? Thank fuck Jin Sok had spotted her in that cheap lipstick campaign. This was where she was supposed to be. Johnny could go find himself a new girl scout: she didn’t need to sweet-talk his stupid clients anymore—maybe she didn’t even need to suck his big cock anymore . . . Please, she silently groaned, closing her eyes, please let this never stop, let this feeling never end, set fire to my clothes, let me die now, please . . .
“Eye-suh open!” Jin Sok whooped, blasting the music until it rattled the roof. She hurled herself back into the room with a flying Taekwondo kick. Right now, everything was Ohm-E-Go-Girl-Go.
The truck jerked to a halt, slamming Mee Hee’s head into the corner of the box. Tears stung her eyes, but she swallowed hard and forced herself not to cry out. The doctor had said, No matter what happens, don’t make a sound. She licked her cracked lips and, as silently as possible, took a deep breath. The truck engine died.
Bu-ung, bu-ung. Bu-ung, bu-ung. Mee Hee’s heart hammered at her ribs, in her ears, right down in the pit of her belly: bu-ung, bu-ung; bu-ung, bu-ung, louder and faster, until her whole body was booming, until the truck itself must be shaking like the lid of a rice sot left to boil over by a bad, foolish wife. Oh, why must her own heart betray her? Why couldn’t her heart be small and quiet and still?
A tear slid down her cheek. The pounding in her chest subsided just enough to remind her that her head was throbbing, her neck bent at a sharp angle to her shoulders. But she didn’t dare shift or stretch, not even a finger or toe.
Was this it? Would she hear men barking at the doctor, the back of the truck rattling open? Would the empty crates and sacks piled above her be flung out, one by one, onto the road; would boots clump across the metal floor that was her roof; would the trapdoor heave open and flood her sweating, aching body with light?
No. The truck belched and lurched forward, and a thick shudder ran through her. Stifling a whimper, she pushed herself back onto the blanket the doctor had given her. If only she could sit up—but the box was so small, she could only lie flat, or curled up like a fetus on her side. Try to sleep, the doctor had said—but who could sleep sweltering in this heat, afraid that, at any minute, petrol fumes might start seeping through the air-holes poked into the walls of the box?
Beneath her, the tires crunched over something on the road. She tried to imagine what had just been flattened: not a rabbit or a magpie, she hoped, but a tin can, perhaps, or a farmer’s tool, dropped off a tractor or cart. It was important to picture the day outside, not to lose herself in the box; to remember she was traveling, going somewhere far away. But they were so many miles from her village now that she didn’t know how to think about the land blurring past. She could imagine smudged mountains, beautiful as the ones she had left behind, or terrible scenes of parched paddies and swollen-bellied children lining the road: either way she might be creating a false world in her head, one that could never prepare her for where she was truly going.
A large drop of condensation splashed onto her forehead. She wiped her face with a corner of the blanket, then groped around until she found the water bottle. She took a small sip. The water was as hot as soup, and there wasn’t much left. Maybe soon—oh please soon—the hatch behind the driver’s seat would open again and a cool bottle would rumble down and hit her shoulder with a thud. Would the doctor push another bag of kimbap down as well? Three or four hours to the border, he had said, then eleven or twelve hours to Beijing. It was the longest day of the year, she knew. The longest day of her life.
Oh, how many more hours until she could eat? Mee Hee crossed her arms and squeezed the water bottle between her breasts like a doll. She must stop thinking about food. She’d had two meals today already, a whole bowl of ramyon in the medical tent before dawn and then, later, the eight pieces of kimbap the doctor had given her. She should have saved them, like the water, but once her lips had closed around the first perfect chewy circle of rice and kim, stuffed with thin, crunchy slices of kim chi and cucumber, she hadn’t been able to stop eating until the very last piece had vanished. That was not so long ago; she shouldn’t be hungry now. She shouldn’t be tormenting herself with thoughts of dried squid, warm from the coals, smelling like a man, or soft and heavy dduk, dusted with sugar powder and filled with a dollop of sweet red-bean paste.
Her guts curled like the noodles in the ramyon, sending heat corkscrewing through her body. Her skin was grimy and slick, her lungs were burning, her head hurt. If only she could get a message to Dr. Tae Sun, tell him to stop the truck, to let her get out and breathe, paddle in a stream, shelter in some pine trees from the midsummer sun. If only she could ask him to tend to the new bruises she could feel stealthily blossoming beneath the old ones; soothe them with the ointment he had used in the medical tent the day before, his quiet hands smoothing the milky lotion into her skin, not asking how her body had come to be a lumpy porridge of yellow and purple flesh. If only Dr. Tae Sun could lay his hand on her forehead now, smear his sweet-smelling herbal cream along her ribs—but even if he could hear her from his seat beside the driver, she couldn’t cry out, couldn’t scream, couldn’t beat the insides of the box. She was tired, so tired, and her throat was dry as tree bark, her belly bloated, her skin shrinking and tearing . . .
Then, just as she thought she would split open, her whole body began to simmer like a stew. It was almost beautiful, that feeling: her muscle, bone and skin melting into the hot, humid air, until, warm and weightless, she was floating on a greasy pillow of steam, rising up into a golden light, up and far above the stinking cauldron of the truck.
It was a wonder he had any room for Lepidoptera, what with the wall-to-wall cargo packed in his guts, but the butterflies in Damien’s tummy were flapping so wildly a fucking mountain range in China had probably collapsed. He was also bursting for a pee. The second the seatbelt sign went off, he frog-marched himself down the gangway to the loo.
The tang of antiseptics in the cubicle hit his nostrils like a pinch of cheap coke. Christ, he was so keyed up he could have wanked—but he mustn’t disturb his system, Jake had written: for twenty-four hours before the flight, no spicy foods, no coffee, no sex. Besides, he thought, watching his urine swirl down the stainless steel bowl, who’d want to masturbate in a fluorescent-lit ce
ll, stifling every gasp, and keeping your elbows tucked in like you were eating school dinner? Of course he wanted to join the Mile High Club—but he wanted to do it properly, not with himself.
The relief of an empty bladder was almost as good as an orgasm. But his stomach was still uncomfortably, unignorably, there. He splashed his face with water, ran his fingers through his lank black hair and grinned dementedly into the mirror. He didn’t look like an international criminal: same annoyingly boy-band lean cheeks as always; same sky-blue eyes and bloodless white skin. Though there was a tad less stubble on his chin—Jake had said that the clean-shaven look was the best policy. Jake had said a lot of things, and because Damien was flat-broke, legally fucked, shit-scared and a fool, he’d listened.
No. Raising one eyebrow, he fixed himself with a stern, Gregory Peck meets Alex Ferguson, half-time bunker pep talk sort of look. Not a fool. There was another reason—an unimpeachable, winning season kind of reason—why he was flying by the seat of his Asda boxers out of yet another wet Sussex summer into the biggest, daftest gamble of his life. He was out-maneuvering Lucifer’s Hammer. And he had to keep his eyes firmly on the prize: Plan Can.
As pepped as he was going to get, Damien returned to his aisle seat. The Korean beside him, a bloke in a blue Lacoste shirt and Prada specs, was tapping away at his laptop, filling the screen with rows of tiny circles and squares. What had Jake called the Korean alphabet? Anyway, it was easy to learn, apparently—especially if you were locked up for ten years with fuck all else to do.
Damien shifted in his seat. When was the in-flight entertainment going to start? He’d had to sell his own laptop and iPod to help pay for the carbon tax on the flight, and it didn’t look like his neighbor was going to be striking up a friendly chat to distract him from thoughts of acute THC poisoning or imminent lengthy imprisonment. Though according to Jake, Korean jails weren’t so bad—not malarial mosh pits like in Thailand or the Philippines, anyway. He’d also said the whole country ran on a well-oiled system of bribery and corruption, though Damien suspected that young foreigners could probably only pay their way out of stuff like getting pissed and thumping random strangers, or teaching ESL without a work visa. And besides, you needed money to bribe someone and he was on this plane in this condition precisely because he had less than none of that.
