{"product_id":"the-gone-world-isbn-9780425278901","title":"The Gone World","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eInception\u003c\/i\u003e meets \u003ci\u003eTrue Detective\u003c\/i\u003e in this science fiction thriller of spellbinding tension and staggering scope that follows a special agent into a savage murder case with grave implications for the fate of mankind....\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I promise you have never read a story like this.”—Blake Crouch, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eDark Matter\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShannon Moss is part of a clandestine division within the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. In western Pennsylvania, 1997, she is assigned to solve the murder of a Navy SEAL's family—and to locate his vanished teenage daughter. Though she can't share the information with conventional law enforcement, Moss discovers that the missing SEAL was an astronaut aboard the spaceship \u003ci\u003eU.S.S. Libra\u003c\/i\u003e—a ship assumed lost to the currents of Deep Time. Moss knows first-hand the mental trauma of time-travel and believes the SEAL's experience with the future has triggered this violence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDetermined to find the missing girl and driven by a troubling connection from her own past, Moss travels ahead in time to explore possible versions of the future, seeking evidence to crack the present-day case. To her horror, the future reveals that it's not only the fate of a family that hinges on her work, for what she witnesses rising over time's horizon and hurtling toward the present is the Terminus: the terrifying and cataclysmic end of humanity itself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLuminous and unsettling, \u003ci\u003eThe Gone World\u003c\/i\u003e bristles with world-shattering ideas yet remains at its heart an intensely human story.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Gone World\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eOne of the A.V. Club's Top 10 Books of the Year 2018\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eOne of BookPage's Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of 2018\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Gone World\u003c\/i\u003e has already created quite a stir....The book probes questions about consciousness and crime that call to mind, among others, \u003ci\u003eTrue Detective \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003e12 Monkeys\u003c\/i\u003e.”—\u003ci\u003eEW.com\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I like to be freaked out and mystified simultaneously. \u003ci\u003eThe Gone World\u003c\/i\u003e, a gory time-travel thriller, does both in surprising ways...\u003ci\u003e.Inception\u003c\/i\u003e meets \u003ci\u003eTrue Detective\u003c\/i\u003e, but it also contains elements of \u003ci\u003eSolaris\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Interstellar, Twin Peaks, Minority Report\u003c\/i\u003e, and even \u003ci\u003eStargate\u003c\/i\u003e. To all this, it adds some innovative time-travel shenanigans.”—\u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e “Page-Turner”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Gone World\u003c\/i\u003e will horrify and fascinate readers in equal measure. It is also a primer on cutting-edge theories about time travel and astrophysics...Prepare to be dazzled.”—\u003ci\u003ePittsburg Post-Gazette\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“This is big-idea fiction that defies genre in the best possible way. Epic and mind-bending in scope, it carries the reader through on beautifully rendered, human moments.”—Blake Crouch, author of \u003ci\u003eDark Matter\u003c\/i\u003e and the Wayward Pines trilogy\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Time travel is a classic science fiction plot element, but it’s rarely used so well as in Tom Sweterlitsch’s \u003ci\u003eThe Gone World\u003c\/i\u003e...Proof that superb world building isn’t only the domain of extensive series.”—The A.V. Club\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In a word: Whoa! Edge-of-your-seat crime fiction that bends both time and mind.”—Sylvain Neuvel, author of \u003ci\u003eSleeping Giants\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Gone World\u003c\/i\u003e...is going to blow readers away....[Sweterlitsch’s] ingenious apocalyptic thriller weaves a spell of rapture within each carefully composed page burnished with shimmering prose.” —\u003ci\u003eSyfy Wire\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A complicated, dazzling novel that keeps the reader hooked until the last pages...In many ways, it feels like it blends the supernatural and cosmic elements from \u003ci\u003eTrue Detective, \u003c\/i\u003eand the alternate universe elements of \u003ci\u003eFringe.” —The Verge\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Another visionary blend of science fiction and mystery.”—\u003ci\u003ePittsburgh Tribune-Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“As if [\u003ci\u003eThe Gone World\u003c\/i\u003e did not have] a thrilling enough premise, Sweterlitsch stirs an intriguing end-of-the-world scenario into the mix...How the murder inquiry and the enigma of the terminal event are linked is just one of the many enjoyable aspects of this dark, page-turning SF thriller; another is the character of Moss... She is a resilient, vulnerable, and likable protagonist.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A fascinating blend that doesn’t skimp on the criminal investigation or the [sci fi]...Describing much more than [the] simple setup would rob the reader of the trippy experience of navigating the time-travel intricacies of this nail-biting speculative thriller.”—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sweterlitsch has crafted a powerful and compelling protagonist in Shannon Moss...\u003ci\u003eThe Gone World\u003c\/i\u003e displays the mesmerizing power of rich speculative fiction, which drives the investigation forward (and backward) in time. Transporting readers to increasingly hostile timelines, Sweterlitsch delivers visceral and unflinching action in this dynamic merger of murder mystery and futuristic vision.”—\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A mind-blowing fusion of science fiction, thriller, existential horror, and apocalyptic fiction...The power of this novel is two-fold: Sweterlitsch’s intricately plotted storyline will keep readers on the edges of their seats until the very last pages, and his extended use of bleak imagery coupled with his lyrical writing style make for an intense and unforgettable read.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sweterlitsch offers a highly engaging—and deeply human—story informed by hard science and a refreshing sensitivity to trauma and disability...\u003ci\u003eThe Gone World\u003c\/i\u003e is as unsettling as it is unforgettable.”—ShelfAwareness\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Billed as \u003ci\u003eInception \u003c\/i\u003emeets \u003ci\u003eTrue Detective\u003c\/i\u003e, this scifi thriller follows a secret agent within the NCIS as she investigates a strange murder and a related missing-person case that...could possibly bring about the end of life as we know it.”—Io9\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“An engrossing literary mashup of crime fiction and mind-blowing science fiction...There is endless invention in this novel. Sweterlitsch touches upon alternate realities, time travel, advanced technologies, and even Philip K. Dick-inspired notions of pre-crime warrants...This is marvelous stuff!...Highly recommended.”\u003ci\u003e—The Missourian\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Sweterlitsch follows his futuristic, cyberpunk thriller \u003ci\u003eTomorrow and Tomorrow\u003c\/i\u003e with a complex mystery involving time travel, alternate possibilities, murder, terrorism, and one woman’s determination to prevent the end of time...For hard-core science-fiction fans.” \u003ci\u003e—Booklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Amazing...combines science fiction and thriller with classic crime noir, time travel, existentialism, philosophy, religion and end-of-the-world scenarios, all strung together in the style of the best literary fiction you will find out there today....Tom Sweterlitsch has created an all-time original story that is both genre-breaking and trendsetting.”—Bookreporter.com\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“At once futuristic, nightmarish and hard-boiled. Once again Sweterlitsch takes readers to another world and back again. Take the trip.”—Stewart O'Nan\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Compelling...The multiple futures and the contemporary setting showcase world-building at its finest, while the characterizations are thought provoking and grittily realistic...A page-turner from beginning to end!”—\u003ci\u003eRT Book Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[An] investigation into the gruesome murder of a Navy SEAL’s family takes some science fictional turns...Sweterlitsch juggles all of these balls masterfully. His Moss feels fully realized and the plot is propulsive.”—\u003ci\u003eLocus\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Thought-provoking and entertaining in equal measure. The way the future is presented, as one possibility of many, is good, solid theory and the author describes it in remarkable clarity...The character of Moss shines through.” \u003ci\u003e—SF Book Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eTom Sweterlitsch\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of \u003ci\u003eThe Gone World\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eTomorrow and Tomorrow\u003c\/i\u003e. He has a Master's Degree in Literary and Cultural Theory from Carnegie Mellon and worked for twelve years at the Carnegie Library for the Blind and Physically Handicapped. He lives in Pittsburgh with his wife and daughter.|  One  |\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Hello?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Special Agent Shannon Moss?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She didn't recognize the man's voice, though she recognized the      drawl on the vowels. He'd grown up around here, West Virginia, or      Pennsylvania-rural.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"This is Moss,\" she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"A family's been killed.\" A quaver in his voice. \"Washington      County dispatch logged the 911 a little after midnight. There's a      missing girl.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Two a.m., but the news was like an ice bath. She was fully awake      now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Who am I speaking with?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Special Agent Philip Nestor,\" he said. \"FBI.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She turned on her bedside lamp. Cream-colored wallpaper patterned      with vines and cornflower-blue roses covered her bedroom walls.      She traced the lines with her eyes, thinking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Why my involvement?\" she asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"My understanding's that our SAC communicated with HQ and they      instructed him to involve you,\" said Nestor. \"They want NCIS      assistance. Our primary is a Navy SEAL.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Where?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Canonsburg, on a street called Cricketwood Court, just off      Hunter's Creek,\" he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Hunting Creek.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She knew Hunting Creek, Cricketwood Court-her best friend growing      up had lived on that street, Courtney Gimm. The image of      Courtney's face floated from Moss's memory like ice surfacing      through water.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"How many victims are we dealing with?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Triple homicide,\" said Nestor. \"It's bad. I've never-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Slow down.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'd seen some kids hit by a train once, but nothing like this,\"      he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Okay,\" said Moss. \"You said the call came in after midnight?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"A little later,\" said Nestor. \"A neighbor heard commotion,      finally called the police-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Do you have someone speaking with the neighbor?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"One of our guys is with her now,\" he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'll make it there in a little over an hour.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She gained her equilibrium before attempting to stand-her right      leg still the lean, muscled leg of an athlete, but her left      terminated in a conical mid-thigh stump, the end muscle and flesh      there wrapped like a fold-over pastry. She'd lost her leg years      ago when she'd been crucified in the deep winter of the Terminus-a      transfemoral amputation, the Navy surgeons having cut away the      part of her that had gone gangrenous. When she stood, she perched      on her single foot like a long-legged shore bird, rocking on the      pads of her toes for balance. Her crutches were within reach,      Lofstrand crutches she kept propped in the gap between her bed and      nightstand. She slipped her forearms through the cuffs and gripped      the handles, propelling herself through her bedroom, a cluttered      mess of clothes and magazines, loose CDs, empty jewel      cases-slipping hazards her occupational therapist had warned her      against.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Cricketwood Court . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A shiver passed over Moss at the thought of returning. She and      Courtney had been like sisters through middle school, freshman      year-closer than sisters, inseparable. Moss's memories of Courtney      were the sweetest essence of childhood summers-endless days spent      poolside, roller coasters at Kennywood, splitting cigarettes down      by Chartiers Creek. Courtney had died their sophomore year,      murdered in a parking lot for the few dollars she'd had in her      purse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Headline News on the bedroom set while she dressed. She applied      antiperspirant to her residual limb, then nestled her polyurethane      liner against the blunt edge of her thigh, rolling it to her hip      as if she were rolling on a nylon stocking. She smoothed the      rubbery sleeve of any air bubbles that might have accrued against      her skin. The prosthesis was an Ottobock C-Leg, a prototype-a      computerized prosthesis originally designed for wounded soldiers.      Moss slid her thigh into the socket and stood, the volume of her      thigh forcing out air from the carbon cuff, vacuum-sealing the      prosthesis. The C-Leg made her feel as if her skeleton were      exposed-a steel shank instead of a shin. She wore slacks, a blouse      the color of pearls. She holstered her service weapon. She wore a      tailored suede jacket. A last glance at television: Dolly skulking      in her hay-strewn pen, Clinton touting the newly signed      human-cloning ban, promos for the NBA on NBC, Jordan versus Ewing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Cricketwood Court was a cul-de-sac, sirens flaring against row      houses and lawns. A quarter after 3:00 a.m., neighbors would know      something had happened, but they might not know what yet-if they      peered from their windows they would find a confusion of patrol      units, sheriffÕs cars and Canonsburg PD, state police cruisers,      investigations a web of jurisdiction by the time federal agents      were involved. MossÕs cases tended to concern Naval Space Command      sailors home on shore leave from ÒDeep Waters,Ó the black-ops      missions to Deep Space and Deep Time. Bar fights, domestic      violence, drug charges, homicides. She had worked cases where NSC      sailors had snapped and beaten their wives or girlfriends to      death-tragic occurrences, some sailors spiraling after seeing the      terrors of the Terminus or the light of alien suns. She wondered      what she would find here. The county coronerÕs van was parked      nearby. Ambulances and fire engines idled. The FBI mobile crime      lab had backed over the berm into the front lawn of her old      friendÕs house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Jesus Christ . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The house Moss remembered from her childhood was as if      superimposed over the house as it stood-two films playing      concurrently, a memory and a crime scene. Courtney's family had      long since moved from here, and Moss never thought she would set      foot within her old friend's house again, certainly not under      these circumstances. A two-story end unit, the other houses in its      row lined up like mirror reflections, each with a driveway, a      petite garage, each front stoop lit by a single porch light, the      faades identical down the line, brick topped by white vinyl.      Growing up, Moss had spent more time here than at her own house,      it seemed-she still remembered the Gimms' old phone number. An      oily sensation of one reality oozing into another, like a yolk      pouring through a crack in its shell. She took a swig of coffee      from her thermos and rubbed her eyes as if to wake herself, to      convince herself that this coincidence of houses was real, that      she wasn't caught dreaming. A coincidence, she told herself. There      used to be a flowering dogwood in the front yard that had since      been hacked down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Moss slowed her pickup at a sheriff's blockade, and a deputy      approached her window, a middle-aged gut and Chaplinesque mustache      that would have been humorous except for the weariness weighing in      his eyes. He tried to get her to turn her truck around until she      rolled down her window and showed identification.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What is that?\" he asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Naval Criminal Investigative Service,\" she said, accustomed to      explaining her agency's initials. \"Federal agent. We're interested      in a possible military connection. How bad is it?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"My buddy was in there earlier and told me this is the worst he's      ever seen, just the goddamned worst,\" he said, his breath stale      with coffee. \"Says there's not much left of them.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Reporters been around?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Not yet,\" he said. \"We were told some news vans are on their way      down from Pittsburgh. I don't think they know what they'll find.      Quiet otherwise. Come on through.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A lace of police tape cordoned off the lawn and driveway,      stretching from a lamppost and looping around the house's      wrought-iron stoop railing. Some of the forensic technicians      huddled near the garage, a smoke break. They watched Moss approach      without the casual chauvinism or bald stares she sometimes      encountered at scenes-their eyes were haunted tonight, glancing      her way as if they pitied her for what she was about to endure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The doorway was draped with a plastic tarp, but the smells of the      house assaulted her once she ducked through, the cloying tang of      blood and bright rot and shit mingled with chemical stenches of      the techs' solutions, the collection kits and ethanol. The odors      seeped into her, a metallic tinge from the blood, her saliva      immediately coppery as if she'd sucked on pennies. Criminalists in      Tyvek crowded the foyer, busy with evidence preservation,      photography. A nervous anticipation roiled Moss in the moments      before her first view of a new crime scene; once she turned the      corner and saw what she was dealing with, however, her nervousness      dissipated, replaced by an urgent and sorrowful compulsion to      reassemble the broken pieces as quickly as possible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A boy and a woman lay on the floor, their faces smeared away in a      mince of brain and blood and whorls of bone. Flannel pants on the      boy, a jersey for a nightshirt-ten or eleven years old, Moss      guessed. The woman's nightgown was filthy with blood, her bare      legs shading to plum where lividity had discolored her. Both had      voided their bowels, the floor so sopped that shit and standing      blood had pooled in the uneven runnels of the carpeting. The odors      gagged her. The smells of the boy and his mother degraded them,      she thought, their humanity debased by sewage stink and      formlessness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Moss had long ago learned the dissociative technique of viewing      bodies through different lenses, divorcing the mutilation as much      as possible from the personalities they once were-seeing her      colleagues around her through the lens of humanity, seeing the      bodies through the lens of forensics. Moss objectified the      corpses. The kill stroke for the woman had been one of two blows      to her head, either to her left zygomatic or to the parietal on      the same side. The woman's left pupil had dilated to a wide black      saucer. Moss noticed that the boy's fingernails had been removed,      all of them. And his toenails, too, it looked like. She checked      the woman and found that her nails had been removed as well.      Someone-a man, no doubt-had killed these people, then knelt in the      gore to pluck their nails from them. Or had he taken their nails      before he'd killed them? Why had he done that? One of the      technicians ran lengths of thread from the blood spatter on the      ceiling and walls, creating a web of thread that delineated an      area of convergence-it looked like the victims had been on their      knees when they were struck, an execution. The room they had died      in was bland, tasteless-nothing like the room Moss had once known,      the comfortable, cavelike rec room kept by her best friend's      family. Oatmeal tones now, track lighting. Nothing on the walls,      no artwork, no photographs; the room didn't look lived in, it      looked staged for resale.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Shannon Moss?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e One of the men in Tyvek had paused in his work. Bloodshot eyes,      nearly crimson, his dark skin ashen, VapoRub daubed beneath his      nostrils in twin greasy streaks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Special agent, NCIS,\" she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He crossed the living room on stainless-steel risers the      investigators used like stepping-stones over the blood. He chewed      gum, said, \"William Brock, Special Agent in Charge. Let's talk.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Brock led her through the narrow kitchen, the few men gathered      there no longer wearing their Tyvek, their shirts and ties rumpled      from hours of work, their faces wan with sleeplessness. Brock,      however, seemed tireless-like he would charge bullish until this      killer was caught. Angry, almost scowling as he led Moss, as if      personally offended by what had happened here. He was sizeable,      his voice a resonant baritone in a room of hushed voices.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Right through here, in this little den,\" he said, pulling aside      the flimsy accordion door of a room that branched off from the      kitchen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The rest of the house had been soullessly updated over the years,      but the den remained unchanged, seemingly untouched since Moss had      seen it last. The effect was unnerving-like this little patch had      been forgotten when the rest of time had passed on. Faux-wood      paneling, a gaudy light fixture that cast the room in amber. Even      the particleboard desk and metal filing cabinets were similar, if      not the same pieces left over. Courtney had once found a stash of      letters in one of those cabinets that her parents had written as      they were divorcing. The girls had sat on the front stoop and read      them aloud to each other-Moss struck by how earnest, how almost      childish a grown man's letters to his wife could be, nothing      different from high-school breakup letters, she'd thought, no      difference at all. Nothing changes. The human heart doesn't age.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Do we have pictures of the victims?\" asked Moss. \"Anything      recent? It's impossible to tell what they might have looked like.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"We have some albums,\" said Brock. \"Fotomat receipts and      negatives. We'll get them to you once they're developed. Have you      had a chance to see the entire scene? Upstairs?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'll need to see upstairs,\" said Moss.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Brock folded closed the accordion door. \"I need to talk with you,      clear up a few things,\" he said, taking a seat behind the      particleboard desk. \"The FBI's deputy director called me in the      middle of the night, pulled me from bed. I don't receive calls      from him on a regular basis. He told me there's a federal crime      scene in Canonsburg, told me to lock it down.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"But that's not all he told you,\" said Moss.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Brock bared his teeth-meant to be a smile, an easing, but it      looked like a pained expression. He wadded his gum into its      silvery wrapper, replaced it with a fresh black stick. Licorice      wafting on a cloud of breath. Moss noticed tooth marks on his      pencil-maybe he'd quit smoking, she thought, or was trying to.      Early forties, maybe mid-forties, muscular-a regular at the gym,      she figured. She imagined him sparring, a boxer. She imagined him      running miles on treadmills in empty exercise rooms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm struggling to understand what the deputy director told me,\"      said Brock. \"To wrap my mind around what we've found here. He      briefed me on a Special Access Program called 'Deep Waters.'\"      Brock spoke the words like an incantation, a shadow of fear      passing over his eyes. \"A Navy program-a black project. He said      our primary suspect, a SEAL named Patrick Mursult, is connected      with the Deep Waters program, part of the Naval Space Command. He      said to include Shannon Moss in the investigation.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The scope of the possible world had opened for this man just a few      hours ago, thought Moss, seeing Brock struggle to believe the      unbelievable. He'd been brought into the secrecy of Deep      Waters-but how much had he been trusted with? Moss remembered her      first dreamlike glimpse of sunlight glaring off the hulls of the      NSC fleet in space, like a spill of diamonds on black velvet-a      sublimity few other people have witnessed. She imagined Brock      taking the phone call at home, imagined him sitting on the edge of      his bed listening to his superior describe what must have sounded      like miracles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Mursult was . . . some kind of astronaut,\" said Brock, his jaw      grinding his licorice. \"Deep Space-I understand deep space, I can      understand we've been farther in the solar system than has been      reported, but I don't understand how. Quantum foam-\"","brand":"G.P. Putnam's Sons","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301016326373,"sku":"NP9780425278901","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780425278901.jpg?v=1767739584","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-gone-world-isbn-9780425278901","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}