Counterfeit Youth by Narbeh Avanessian

 

 

Narbeh Avanessian lives in Los Angeles as a freelance writer and marketing professional. Narbeh Profile PicHe spends his free time writing science fiction and studying video games.

 

Author Links –

NarbehAvanessian.com

Twitter.com/TheNarbs

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Narbeh-Avanessian/313966922092707

 

 

Book Genre: Science Fiction

Publisher: Self-published

Release Date: April 28, 2014

Buy Link(s):

 

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Counterfeit-Youth-Narbeh-Avanessian-ebook/dp/B00K0QR7Y6

 

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/counterfeit-youth/id874926895?mt=11

 

Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/counterfeit-youth-narbeh-avanessian/1119379259?ean=2940149175413

 

 

Book Description:

 

What does the man who has everything want? The answer is simple: for it to never end. Jackson Riley is a young billionaire living in the year 2052 with a single obsession – to discover immortality within his lifetime. But what happens when this obsession tears him apart from reality and his one true love Nicole? And why have untraceable special agents taken an interest in his medical experiments? Counterfeit Youth is an emotionally charged sci-fi thriller that explores the concept of happiness, and what it means to live forever.

Excerpt:

October 7th, 2052

Manhattan Beach was still considered a California oasis. It was not filled with the typical electro-chauffeurs that drove inches apart from each other; these compact cars were present only in the large cities. The town was a relic from the past, with human drivers, and with the sensorless roads it was known for in the past half-century.

As the sun further ascended, the shades of fall were captured by the magenta paint of the Alexander Estate. The estate rested at the far end of the shore and resembled a feudal lord’s castle, with timeless limestone cladding the main building. A surrounding outer brick wall began thirty yards in front of the house and went all the way around the five-acre backyard, inexplicably enclosing Jackson Riley from the shoreline. The adoption of stained-glass windows, the lack of archers to employ, and the mistake of not including a moat and drawbridge retired the mind back to present day. Midnight had arrived.

The phantom figure of a man dressed in a black, reflective hoodie materialized in the beach town. The figure, scarcely visible, was walking on the road that led to the estate. The rustling of sand on asphalt beneath shoes was unavoidable. Nevertheless, the figure was somehow inaudible; proceeding with sharp, calculated steps.

As he came within visual range of the estate, the phantom’s demeanor noticeably altered. He moved with steps strange and sudden. Only the figure’s scarce outline now was visible as the hoodie, pants, and shoes seemed to flash reflectively. Three middle-aged men sat in a covered security post right by the entrance gate. They had several flex monitors at which they took occasional glances in between watching a streaming football game; they didn’t notice the outline of a man pass by. The figure cleared the eight-foot brick wall surrounding the estate with alarming ease. He landed and remained still and crouched. His image immediately blended in with the gray bricks behind him, hiding his body once again. Slight visual distortions appeared when he moved, only hinting at his current position.

A microchip one tenth of the size of a needle-head was implanted in the shrouded man’s left shoulder. With the application of proper decryption devices, the chip would identify his name: Special Agent Michael Turner.

The lights of the building revealed the detective’s face for a half-second as he entered the estate through the side door. The face had smart-looking eyes and was glistening with a layer of sweat. Just as Michael had presumed, he found himself alone inside.

The entrance revealed an eighty-foot-high ceiling and the floor consisted of black marble, large enough to host weddings as a grand ballroom. The stairs were covered in Persian carpets that led to the second and third stories of the estate. The agent sprinted up to the second floor and into a narrow hallway, which contained a black, spiraling, ladder-like stairway. He climbed, his sprinting speed constantly increasing. The steps of the stairway were peppered with the same large gaps found in the fire escapes of buildings, but Agent Turner traversed them at a dangerous-looking speed.

The library room was over two-thousand square feet of endless shelves and pathways. Painted black wood shelves twenty feet high obscured the agent’s view. Most of the books in these shelves enjoyed hard-covered rose leather bindings, first and second editions. The extensive collection and massive room could have passed as an old university library.

Michael arrived at his predetermined section near the far left end of the wall. Above the shelf, a small bold-faced font read: History. He pushed in the bookshelf. Nothing happened. He tapped all the books on the shelf with a palm slap that had immense force behind it. The history shelf began rotating to reveal a room that belonged to Alexander’s only son, Jackson Riley. A security siren instantly began to blare. Another layer of sweat spread across Agent Turner’s face as he walked inside.

 

 

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