“It is impossible to look away from Mary Thompson.” —Carolyn Ives Gilman, author of Dark Orbit
A wealthy family trying to cheat death is overmatched—by a stubborn teenager hiding in a body that looks just like their son. In this taut tale of genetics and entitlement, nature vs. nurture yields no clear winner.
A wealthy family trying to cheat death is overmatched—by a stubborn teenager hiding in a body that looks just like their son. In this taut tale of genetics and entitlement, nature vs. nurture goes horrifically wrong.
Dina Blake’s fourteen-year-old son, Geoff, has just died for the second time. But everything will be okay. The Blake family’s wealth has bought them thousands of clones of each of their children. These children are farmed out to loving families, but with the caveat that the bodies are always available to the Blakes.
After Geoff dies, the Blakes upload their son’s memories into Nathan, who is an unwilling host, desperate to stay with the family who loved him.
Dina’s younger daughter, Di, is terrified because she knows something her parents don’t—the memory transfer doesn’t always go as planned. The Geoff who’s been living with them since his first death isn’t the person her mother thinks he is, and the families of the bodies the Blakes steal aren’t all innocent.
When Geoff returns to life in Nathan’s body, he has to contend with Nathan’s frustrating desire to live and his unexpected ability to fight for his life. For some children to live, others must die. Dina must decide how far she’ll go to protect her children, and Geoff must find out if, and who, he’s willing to kill.
“Mary G. Thompson has crafted a tightly wound psychological horror story that feels all too real. You’ve been warned.”
—Chris Panatier, Author of Daytide
“An intriguing sci-fi thriller with murder at its heart. Thompson takes one family and shows how people who’ve been handed everything in life will ignore the truth so they can love a lie.”
—Hailey Piper, author of Teenage Girls Can Be Demons
Praise for One Level Down
“Brilliant and beautiful. One Level Down is a perfectly executed gem of a book.”
—Sarah Beth Durst, author of The Spellshop
“A simulation scenario that digs deeper than the Matrix movies ever did.”
—Peter Watts, author of The Freeze Frame Revolution
“It is impossible to look away from Mary Thompson’s provocative story of simulations, power imbalance, and whether kindness can overcome cruelty in the end.”
—Carolyn Ives Gilman, author of Dark Orbit
“A captivating read that you’ll be tempted to tear through in one long sitting.”
—David Ebenbach, author of How to Mars
“Riveting.”
—James Patrick Kelly, author of Burn
“A brilliantly told mind-bender you won’t soon forget.”
—Elly Bangs, author of Unity
Mary G. Thompson is the author of the sci-fi novella One Level Down (Tachyon, 2025), as well as The Word, Flicker and Mist, and other novels for children and young adults. Her contemporary thriller Amy Chelsea Stacie Dee was a winner of the 2017 Westchester Fiction Award and a finalist for the 2018-2019 Missouri Gateway award. Her short fiction has appeared in Dark Matter Magazine, Apex Magazine, and others.
Thompson practiced law for seven years, including five years in the US Navy JAGC, and now works as a law librarian. She holds an MFA in Writing for Children from The New School and completed the UCLA School of Theater, Film, and Television’s Professional Program in Screenwriting.
Thompson lives in Washington, DC.
http://marygthompson.com
1 – Dina
We are in the basement in the room next to the home gym. If I turned my head to the left and looked over my twelve-year-old daughter Di’s head and through the open door, I’d see the pool table. The triangular rack would be hanging from the underside, waiting for Preston to pluck it up, spin it around with one hand and say, “Three out of five, daaaaaarling?”
I would laugh because Preston is not the kind of man to call his wife darling. Preston is . . .
. . . standing to my right, arms folded over his chest. His jaw is set. He hasn’t shaved in a week or slept more than a few hours a night. Our friends Reginald and Bettina stand to Preston’s right. Reginald is in his sixties, a white man with tight, tanned skin and wiry muscles. Bettina is in her twenties and black, with perfect skin, straight hair down her back, and sharp nails. They’re both dressed impeccably in black suits; Bettina’s has red trim around the collar and cuffs, which just reveal a diamond bracelet—natural diamonds, naturally. Behind them, their nanny, a blank-faced Asian woman, holds their newborn baby, a girl who who bears only a passing resemblance to Bettina. They definitely had some work done on the baby’s genes; she’s noticeably lighter-skinned.
The minister shifts from one foot to the other. He’s a tall, thin man with a short beard and watery blue eyes that flit around—from the adults, to Di, to the vaults. This is probably his first entombment of this type, so I’m not surprised if he’s a little unsettled.
“Get on with it,” Preston snaps.
“Of course, Mr. Blake.” The minister clears his throat. He touches the pendant he wears around his neck—the red flame on the cross. I didn’t think Methodists were so superstitious. If it had been up to me, I’d have chosen a simple recordation. But Preston likes appearances. One has to be able to show that one did as expected, in case anyone should ever ask.
Not that anyone has asked yet. Last time we didn’t even have witnesses.
Di is snuffling, a tissue pressed to her face, and I put my arm around her.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to entomb a cherished member of the Blake family. Young Preston Geoffrey Blake Jr.—” He pauses to blink at the side-by-side nameplates, each reading Geoff Blake, one with a date of death of five days ago. Geoff is already inside his vault, of course. This is all just a ceremony, words the minister says that he will later type up and sign, certifying that he said them.
“Young Geoff Blake was an . . .erm.” He struggles to remember the very simple notes we gave him. “Intelligent, curious, and affectionate young man whose energy was boundless and whose future was infinite.”
Preston grunts.
“We hereby commit his soul to God.” The minister bows his head, and I bow mine as well. Yes, Geoff had an infinite future. Each day he was with us was one more in a series that began nearly fifteen years ago and has not yet stopped. He hasn’t ended just because his heart stuttered and skipped and broke and he slipped on the top step and fell, crashing his way from the second floor into the foyer, head smashing against the hardwood. It wasn’t my only son’s still-breathing body I raced toward in my slippers as he rolled down the steps, or my only son’s crushed and lifeless head I held in my arms when I reached him, too late, again.
It was only one version of Geoff, only one iteration. It wasn’t him.
Precious Children
Mary G. Thompson
“It is impossible to look away from Mary Thompson.”
—Carolyn Ives Gilman, author of Dark Orbit
A wealthy family trying to cheat death is overmatched—by a stubborn teenager hiding in a body that looks just like their son. In this taut tale of genetics and entitlement, nature vs. nurture yields no clear winner.
Precious Children
by Mary G. Thompson
ISBN: 978-1-61696-465-8 (print); 978-1-61696-466-5 (digital)
Published: 1 September 2026
Available Format(s): trade paperback, digital
A wealthy family trying to cheat death is overmatched—by a stubborn teenager hiding in a body that looks just like their son. In this taut tale of genetics and entitlement, nature vs. nurture goes horrifically wrong.
Dina Blake’s fourteen-year-old son, Geoff, has just died for the second time. But everything will be okay. The Blake family’s wealth has bought them thousands of clones of each of their children. These children are farmed out to loving families, but with the caveat that the bodies are always available to the Blakes.
After Geoff dies, the Blakes upload their son’s memories into Nathan, who is an unwilling host, desperate to stay with the family who loved him.
Dina’s younger daughter, Di, is terrified because she knows something her parents don’t—the memory transfer doesn’t always go as planned. The Geoff who’s been living with them since his first death isn’t the person her mother thinks he is, and the families of the bodies the Blakes steal aren’t all innocent.
When Geoff returns to life in Nathan’s body, he has to contend with Nathan’s frustrating desire to live and his unexpected ability to fight for his life. For some children to live, others must die. Dina must decide how far she’ll go to protect her children, and Geoff must find out if, and who, he’s willing to kill.
“Mary G. Thompson has crafted a tightly wound psychological horror story that feels all too real. You’ve been warned.”
—Chris Panatier, Author of Daytide
“An intriguing sci-fi thriller with murder at its heart. Thompson takes one family and shows how people who’ve been handed everything in life will ignore the truth so they can love a lie.”
—Hailey Piper, author of Teenage Girls Can Be Demons
Praise for One Level Down
“Brilliant and beautiful. One Level Down is a perfectly executed gem of a book.”
—Sarah Beth Durst, author of The Spellshop
“A simulation scenario that digs deeper than the Matrix movies ever did.”
—Peter Watts, author of The Freeze Frame Revolution
“It is impossible to look away from Mary Thompson’s provocative story of simulations, power imbalance, and whether kindness can overcome cruelty in the end.”
—Carolyn Ives Gilman, author of Dark Orbit
“A captivating read that you’ll be tempted to tear through in one long sitting.”
—David Ebenbach, author of How to Mars
“Riveting.”
—James Patrick Kelly, author of Burn
“A brilliantly told mind-bender you won’t soon forget.”
—Elly Bangs, author of Unity
Mary G. Thompson is the author of the sci-fi novella One Level Down (Tachyon, 2025), as well as The Word, Flicker and Mist, and other novels for children and young adults. Her contemporary thriller Amy Chelsea Stacie Dee was a winner of the 2017 Westchester Fiction Award and a finalist for the 2018-2019 Missouri Gateway award. Her short fiction has appeared in Dark Matter Magazine, Apex Magazine, and others.
Thompson practiced law for seven years, including five years in the US Navy JAGC, and now works as a law librarian. She holds an MFA in Writing for Children from The New School and completed the UCLA School of Theater, Film, and Television’s Professional Program in Screenwriting.
Thompson lives in Washington, DC.
http://marygthompson.com
1 – Dina
We are in the basement in the room next to the home gym. If I turned my head to the left and looked over my twelve-year-old daughter Di’s head and through the open door, I’d see the pool table. The triangular rack would be hanging from the underside, waiting for Preston to pluck it up, spin it around with one hand and say, “Three out of five, daaaaaarling?”
I would laugh because Preston is not the kind of man to call his wife darling. Preston is . . .
. . . standing to my right, arms folded over his chest. His jaw is set. He hasn’t shaved in a week or slept more than a few hours a night. Our friends Reginald and Bettina stand to Preston’s right. Reginald is in his sixties, a white man with tight, tanned skin and wiry muscles. Bettina is in her twenties and black, with perfect skin, straight hair down her back, and sharp nails. They’re both dressed impeccably in black suits; Bettina’s has red trim around the collar and cuffs, which just reveal a diamond bracelet—natural diamonds, naturally. Behind them, their nanny, a blank-faced Asian woman, holds their newborn baby, a girl who who bears only a passing resemblance to Bettina. They definitely had some work done on the baby’s genes; she’s noticeably lighter-skinned.
The minister shifts from one foot to the other. He’s a tall, thin man with a short beard and watery blue eyes that flit around—from the adults, to Di, to the vaults. This is probably his first entombment of this type, so I’m not surprised if he’s a little unsettled.
“Get on with it,” Preston snaps.
“Of course, Mr. Blake.” The minister clears his throat. He touches the pendant he wears around his neck—the red flame on the cross. I didn’t think Methodists were so superstitious. If it had been up to me, I’d have chosen a simple recordation. But Preston likes appearances. One has to be able to show that one did as expected, in case anyone should ever ask.
Not that anyone has asked yet. Last time we didn’t even have witnesses.
Di is snuffling, a tissue pressed to her face, and I put my arm around her.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to entomb a cherished member of the Blake family. Young Preston Geoffrey Blake Jr.—” He pauses to blink at the side-by-side nameplates, each reading Geoff Blake, one with a date of death of five days ago. Geoff is already inside his vault, of course. This is all just a ceremony, words the minister says that he will later type up and sign, certifying that he said them.
“Young Geoff Blake was an . . .erm.” He struggles to remember the very simple notes we gave him. “Intelligent, curious, and affectionate young man whose energy was boundless and whose future was infinite.”
Preston grunts.
“We hereby commit his soul to God.” The minister bows his head, and I bow mine as well. Yes, Geoff had an infinite future. Each day he was with us was one more in a series that began nearly fifteen years ago and has not yet stopped. He hasn’t ended just because his heart stuttered and skipped and broke and he slipped on the top step and fell, crashing his way from the second floor into the foyer, head smashing against the hardwood. It wasn’t my only son’s still-breathing body I raced toward in my slippers as he rolled down the steps, or my only son’s crushed and lifeless head I held in my arms when I reached him, too late, again.
It was only one version of Geoff, only one iteration. It wasn’t him.