Date Published: October 24, 2025
Publisher: Manhattan Book Group
Superstorms flatten cities. Coastlines collapse. Climate change is no longer
theoretical—it is lethal. When a near-apocalyptic storm nearly kills
their family, teenage siblings Jimmy and Lizzie Marshall urge their brilliant
but reluctant father, nanoscientist Greg Marshall, to deploy a technology
before he’s brave enough to release it.
WhiteGrass—a self-replicating nanotechnology capable of removing carbon
from the atmosphere is the parent technology. It saves golf courses and ski
resorts and the towns they serve. Icarus could reverse climate change on a
global scale. It could also reshape global power forever.
To protect the technology, Greg and his wife Ginny, an elite AI expert,
reprogram the world’s most advanced humanoid android, Valada. Designed
as property—an object without rights—Valada begins to evolve,
developing emotional awareness, moral judgment, and something disturbingly
close to humanity.
As governments unravel and climate disasters accelerate, a covert alliance of
oligarchs, corporations, and political power brokers moves to seize
WhiteGrass/Icarus for themselves. Led by the President of the United States,
the syndicate will stop at nothing—surveillance, blackmail,
assassination—to control the technology that could save the world or
enslave it.
They deploy their own deadly android.
Now the Marshalls are trapped in a global sci-fi political conspiracy, hunted
by forces with unlimited resources, as skyscrapers fall, cities burn, and
artificial intelligence begins to ask questions no human is prepared to
answer.
“because it’s not just the heat.”
sea level… even the acidification.” It could change everything.
At its core, WhiteGrass is a gripping near-future climate change thriller
about family survival, technological power, and the terrifying moment when
artificial intelligence stops serving humanity—and starts judging it.
Blending nanotechnology science fiction, AI humanoid emotional evolution, and
hard-science realism, WhiteGrass delivers relentless pacing, cinematic stakes,
and deeply human emotion. It is a story about parents willing to risk
everything to protect their children—and a world forced to confront
whether it deserves saving at all.
Perfect for fans of near-future disaster thrillers, technothrillers with
political intrigue, and science fiction where artificial intelligence becomes
human, WhiteGrass is a powerful warning—and an unforgettable ride.
EXCERPT
Mount Vernon Virginia
April 2048
Hurricanes don’t have preferred targets. Though sometimes seeming malicious, these mindless behemoths simply go where warm waters feed them and warm winds direct them.
On April 1, 2048, Superstorm XXIII, lately a 200 miles per hour Category 7 hurricane, is now merely a 160 mph Category 51 as it heads towards dry land, aiming for a familiar target: the warm Chesapeake Bay and its tributaries. In previous decades, hurricanes hadn’t advanced very far inland; but recently the most severe ones simply went where they went. This one was headed straight towards the home of the Marshall family.
Virginia (Ginny) Marshall, scientist, scientist’s wife, and mother of teenagers, yelled at her husband over the storm’s din, “Greg, let’s get to the safe room.”
Greg replied at the top of his lungs, “I already tried. The stairs to the lab and safe room are blocked by God knows what. And we can’t get through the storm by going outside. That would be suicidal. We have to go to the cis tern.” The family converged in the kitchen pantry and some descended into the dark, dank well, lifting the three-foot square tile out of the ornate marble floor.
Greg said, “Jimmy, could you gather up your mom and Lizzie and tell them to hurry down here? We have to go down. Now. This storm isn’t close to over. It’s getting worse. Oh, and grab Uncle Emmett. And the dog.”
“Daddy, please! Don’t make me go down there!” Fifteen year-old Lizzie Marshall was holding her father’s shins so tightly he couldn’t move. He was above her, still in the pan try while she was halfway down the ladder into the cavernous cement cistern. Why do I have to do this? she thought.
Jimmy, Lizzie’s 17-year-old brother, and Emmett, her 98-year-old godfather, encouraged her to join them. She knew it was probably for her safety. But why do I have to do this?
Greg held her tightly and they continued down the ladder into the dark, dank, frog-infested interior of the sub terranean room. “You’re doing great, Lizzie!” Lied Jimmy from below, “The water’s … fine.”
This did nothing to assuage her fear, and because the waterlogged ladder was built for only one person at a time heading straight down, not for an off-center duo, a faltering step by Greg snapped a rung. The domino effect was instant, and Greg had to push himself and Lizzie away to where they were suddenly dumped into the cold, five-foot-deep water over seven feet below them. Greg was tall enough to touch bottom, but Lizzie splashed underwater and came up with her hair matted down, coughing up the slimy water.
“You’re ok, sweetie, you’re ok. And the gunk will wash off.” said Ginny. “Thank god we have a good filtration system,” she said quietly.
The water was cool, and the air reeked of algae. As the hurricane howled above them, Greg and Ginny took comfort knowing that their extended family (and the dog) were safe.
Greg thanked his lucky stars he’d had the good sense to build his otherwise ultra-modern and immaculate Mount Vernon house above the swimming pool-sized water-catcher. The concrete dungeon was 60 feet long, 24 feet wide and five feet deep, with another two feet above the water line for maintenance. Bigger than most backyard pools, still it induced claustrophobia. Windowless, the only light came from what daylight remained in the kitchen pantry and shined through the portal.
Lizzie, short for her age, imitated their one-year-old puppy, Augie the 4th, with her best doggie paddle. It was hard for her, what with the tumult around her. The sound of tree limbs slamming into the ceramic shutters was deafening in the echo chamber they were in, yet they could all hear little Augie, who was too distracted by the large family of frogs who were engaged in a belching contest all around the chamber. The pup kept changing directions, hoping to find a froggie snack.
Everyone had a moment of amusement. Except Lizzie, who was too cold and scared and tired, and Jimmy, who just stood there with water up to his chin. His face in a grimace, which usually meant he was trying to figure something out. Although he was a good athlete, he considered himself much more of a budding scientist than a football player.
“Jimmy, what are you smiling about?” An up-to-her neck-in-cistern-water Lizzie asked her brother, knowing that he just figured something out.
“I’m smiling because the storm is almost over.”
“How do you know that?” Lizzie asked, irritated.
“During the last big storm, I measured the time from the eye to the end of the big wind. I’m guessing we only have about fifteen minutes before we’re in the clear. The back end will still be rough, but we should be able to go back in the house.”
“Whatever, stop showing off. You act like you’re a PhD in climate science.”
Jimmy retorted, “I don’t need a degree to know about the climate. But this isn’t climate. It’s weather. They’re different. You know that.”
“I know that sometimes you’re a condescending ass.” Then she added in a whisper, “Just like Dad.” They both broke out laughing.
“James Marshall,” Ginny had had enough of the bickering, “stop talking down to your sister. And Lizzie, stop with the insults. Apologize. Both of you.”
“Sorry, Liz.” Jimmy smiled.
“Sorry, Jimmy.” Lizzie choked back a chuckle.
“That’s much more civilized. Thank you, children.”
Emmett Grayson was Greg’s best friend—had been for years, ever since Greg applied for his first research grant for WhiteGrass. Emmett was a congressman then (ND2-Virginia) and a member of the House Appropriations Committee. He was able to convince his fellow New Democrats to give Greg enough funding to launch his flagship product and grow his company from two employees to several hundred. And to make enough money to build one of the most beautiful, intelligent, and sturdy houses in the Washington, DC area.
‘Uncle Emmett’, a gruff 98-year-old in a world where nearly everyone either looked no older than 45 or was quite elderly3, was almost always on the verge of a didactic explication of something. Everyone in the family loved him, but Greg and Ginny remembered him when he was … gentler … and a little less verbose.
“When I was in Congress, nothing was ever accomplished through anger or insult. You see,—” A thundering boom, louder than any of them had ever heard, shook the cistern violently and stopped “Uncle” Emmett in his tracks, much to the relief of Jimmy who had heard Uncle M’s anecdotes hundreds of times.
The sound abated quickly but the five of them just stared at each other for a very long minute. All they heard was the muffled roar of the retreating storm outside. That, and the terrified barks of Augie4, the fourth-generation clone of the original Augie (who also had never heard a sound like the one that terrified this little black and tan Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.) Augie quivered in Ginny’s arms. Jimmy flinched at the sound and vibration but continued to work on calculations in his head. And the frogs swam, singing of their freedom, caring not at all about the storm.
Lizzie hoped Jimmy was right about the storm but thought, But he and Dad aren’t in control. No one is in control. The storm is in control.
BANG!!!!!!
An ear-splitting explosion of something massive hitting something even more so nearly blinded all of them. It was as if they were standing inside an enormous bell that had been hit with a cannonball. If Ginny had a chair, she would have leapt out of it. Instead, she dog-paddled over to her husband for comfort. Lizzie clutched her brother; Emmett took hold of Augie who had just peed in Lizzie’s arms.” He held the pup tightly, as Lizzie, too, unintentionally made her own water. The family reached their arms around each other’s shoulders as best they could while they all steadied their breaths.
Ginny whimpered through chattering teeth, “Greg? What was ththtthat?” He was an engineering genius, but he hadn’t the slightest clue as to how to identify, much less fix, whatever had caused that horrific noise, catching them off guard just as they had thought the superstorm was waning.
“Dad!” cried a startled Lizzie. “DAD! The water is rising!”
It was indeed rising quite rapidly, and they soon were all unable to touch the bottom. Greg was completely lost in thought and obviously troubled.
He mumbled to himself, “The hurricane has almost completely passed us by. The winds are probably down to 120, maybe 125 miles an hour. The rains may still be heavy but that wouldn’t cause the water in the cistern to rise this quickly.”
“And it’s warm water,” Ginny noticed. She sniffed the air and then tasted the water. “And salty. The frogs are jumping around. What does this mean?” she asked Greg.
“Gin, honey, don’t worry about it. Just please help Lizzie. Lizzie, you take Augie. Emmett, hold on to something. I think I know what happened. Jimmy, come with me.”
Greg and Jimmy swam to the spot below the entrance to the house where the ladder had been. The opening was much closer to the hatch now and they were able to pull themselves out with no problem. The once immaculate home looked like a tornado had dropped out of the hurricane and rearranged everything. ‘Unbreakable’ glass was everywhere. Chairs were upside down. The cupboard was on top of the sideboard and the dishwasher was being violated by the refrigerator. But the two didn’t have any time to speculate or redecorate. Greg ran straight through the family room, through the library, down a hallway to the observation room, and out onto the lanai.
Technothriller Writer
Richard H. Smith, MSc., is a futurist, technologist, and climate policy expert
whose career has placed him at the intersection of nanotechnology, artificial
intelligence, healthcare innovation, and climate change foresight for more
than three decades. Drawing on real-world experience working alongside
scientists, engineers, Fortune 50 companies, and Ohgovernment agencies, Smith
writes hard science fiction grounded in plausible futures, where technology
collides with political power, ethics, and human survival.
Smith’s professional background spans leadership roles in nanotechnology
R&D, AI-based medical diagnostics, strategic technology forecasting, and
science policy, including serving as research director at a major university
medical center and founding multiple technology ventures. He has advised U.S.
and international governments on emerging technologies and was formally
trained on climate change science by Al Gore, giving him a rare combination of
technical depth and policy insight.
Raised in Virginia, Smith built his career while raising a family—an
experience that deeply informs the emotional core of his fiction. Today, he
lives in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, a coastal community already facing the
realities of sea-level rise. He teaches courses on climate change and coastal
vulnerability, witnessing firsthand how future scenarios are rapidly becoming
present-day realities.
WhiteGrass is Smith’s first full-length novel and the culmination of a
lifetime spent studying how advanced technologies shape—and
endanger—civilization. The novel explores nanotechnology, climate
collapse, political conspiracy, and artificial intelligence becoming human,
all through the lens of family survival in a destabilized near-future world. A
prequel, The Iliad Virus, is available now, with the sequel Icarus Rising
currently in development.
Smith writes with one driving purpose: to expose uncomfortable truths about
climate change, technological power, and political control—while telling
a story compelling enough to feel like a blockbuster movie unfolding on the
page.
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