Download The Revisionists by Thomas Mullen PDF

By Thomas Mullen

A fast moving literary mystery that recollects dystopian classics similar to 1984 and Fahrenheit 451, from the award-winning writer of The final city on Earth.

Zed is an agent from the long run. A time whilst the world's difficulties were solved. No starvation. No conflict. No despair.

His undertaking is to maintain it that manner. whether it skill making sure each cataclysm all through historical past runs its course-especially the nice Conflagration, an forthcoming catastrophe in our personal time that Zed has been ordered to guard in any respect costs.

Zed's challenge will disrupt the lives of a disgraced former CIA agent; a tender Washington attorney grieving over the lack of her brother, a soldier in Iraq; the oppressed worker of a international diplomat; and numerous others. yet will he end his ultimate project ahead of the current takes priority over an ideal destiny? one who can have extra cracks than he realizes?

The Revisionists places a clean spin on modern worldwide crises, twiddling with the character of heritage and our personal position in shaping it. It firmly establishes Mullen as probably the most intriguing and creative writers of his iteration.

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Extra info for The Revisionists

Sample text

The GeneScan is supposed to look like a series of dots and images superimposed on what my eyes perceive in front of me or spread out radar-like over my internal GPS. But the GeneScan isn’t working. Hopefully it’s just the headache from that blow with the rock interfering, and this is only temporary. I use a towel to clean up the last of the blood from the base of the tree. The towel too I toss in the river, which darkly glitters at me like tinfoil. I must seem like some odd throwback, not to this time but an even earlier one, what they once called prehistory, when strange little cringers offered sacrifices to sea gods they themselves had invented, throwing possessions of varying import into the murky waters.

As far as I can tell, he doesn’t have any friends. His apartment is devoid of women’s clothes or toiletries, not even a secret photograph of an idolized, untouchable someone in his top drawer. It’s because of his dedication to work, or that’s what he tells himself. He is, after all, very good at what he does, and it’s getting him into trouble. We crossed paths in the hallway of his building earlier today and I slipped a Tracker onto him, so I know when he leaves his office and enters the elevator.

I tried to enjoy this unprecedented ability to tour an ancient time, to take in wonders that would soon cease to exist. The white limestone gleaming in the afternoon sun, the awestruck comments in countless languages, the yawning buses and bored taxis, the sweaty office workers squeezing in lunch-break jogs. Silver jets seemed to hang in the blue sky as they dipped their wings seconds after lifting off from across the river. Government-crested helicopters passed at low altitudes, buzzing our chests.

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