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Pity poor Philip Lew. He's a fish-out-water on the satellite Hades, where almost everyone else is fashionably undead. But even laying low is not going to work this time; there's a murderer on the loose and he's crazy enough to take on the job of hunting the killer down. Grave error.
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Philip Lew is an ex-cop who just wanted to get away from Earth and the freak show it has become. Looking back, perhaps Hades was not the ideal spot for him to settle down. An artificial satellite owned and inhabited by The Darker Society -- an organization formed to guard the rights of society's latest minority? If trendy vampires, werewolves, and such were too much to take on Earth, imagine them in close quarters.
But, even in a paradise like Hades, all is not rosy. Someone, alive or undead, has decided to decrease the population, one citizen at a time. And these dead are NOT coming back to life. Or death. They're just not coming back. So, what fool decided Philip was the man to solve the crimes?
Excerpt
Want to start a nest egg, put some credits aside for a rainy day? Thinking of a comfy retirement? Sign up with your local zombie megacorporation and take your pay in advance. You'll spend years as unpaid labour, sweating away at the jobs no one else will take. Well, not sweating, I guess; you're dead, aren't you? That's the big draw. You're not going to know what's happened to you. You're dead. What do you care? Grab the cash now and stop looking over your shoulder. They're not going to come for you early. Your signed and notarized agreement guarantees you the right to slip this mortal coil in your own good time. Live for a hundred more years or flash your credits card in the wrong place; it's all the same to the corporation. People spin out every day, so there's no shortage for the walking dead work force.
Except, it doesn't always work that way, does it? We're safe from the corporations, but it's not the corporations who are out looking for unpaid labour; why lay out credits when you don't have to. Be in the wrong place at the wrong time and you might find yourself facing a zombie gang. No contract, no advance to hole away, just a quick death and a carcass full of chemicals to keep you shuffling away in the shit jobs until you forget to wait for the elevator to arrive or a shipping pallet lands on you and you're too mangled to use anymore. That, or wait for the zombie task force to snag the gang who has you. They get a closed-doors trial and pfft! pop! another jettison. Justice done.
Yep. Call us a frontier town, if you like, but we do things our own way out here. Just don't remind Earth of that.
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