Peter Hamilton - Pandora's Star

“Mark’s right,” David said. “My office has been working some long-range forecasts, we’re in a slowdown right now. They used to call periods like this ‘golden ages.’ Things tick over nicely and there are no upsets.”

“I thought they were recessions,” Carys muttered.

“No, there’s a difference.”

“It’s all a bunch of crap,” Marty said. “My board isn’t making any cutback plans. Our market’s bullish.”

“Nobody’s talking cutbacks,” David said. “The menu is all about reduced growth rates. If anything, Sheldon is playing smart with the starship project. There’s nothing like a sudden deluge of government cash to accelerate growth rates. And the majority of spending is here on Augusta.”

“That’s not the case, actually.”

Everybody turned to look at Amanda as she snuggled up close to Marty. She smiled back coolly, completely unintimidated. “My family has a board seat on the First-Quad bank, I get to see Intersolar finance tables before they’re massaged. The amount of money spent on the starship is irrelevant in macro-economic terms. Twenty billion Earth dollars is barely a couple of minutes’ worth of exports from this planet.”

“We’re doing well from it,” Liz said. “Bitor-UU won the contract to develop bioscreening kits for the starship.”

“I didn’t know that,” Joanne said. “Congratulations. Are you working on them yourself?”

“Some concepts, yes.”

“One kit, for a super-specialist market,” Amanda said. “There can be no spin-off from it. I rest my case.”

“My girl.” Marty leaned over, and they kissed quite lavishly.

“Why do you think there’s only going to be one starship?” Kyle said. “If you ask me, this is just the beginning. People have really taken to this Dyson Alpha mission; it’s going to be bigger than the Commonwealth Cup by the time it’s ready to fly. If you ask me, it’s a perfect antidote to how moribund phase three space has gotten. Everyone with an ounce of poetry in their soul will leap at the chance of taking off for the wild blue yonder, and settling somewhere that CST will never ensnare with their sticky fingers.”

“Crap,” Marty said. “If that were true, all these poets of yours would go live on Far Away.”

“I meant we could find clean fresh worlds, not some violent anarchist hell.”

“Not going to happen,” Marty insisted. “We’ve had breakaways before. I bet all those worlds that severed ties with the Commonwealth to be ‘free’ are all medieval nightmares now. Isolation never works. Look what a mess Earth was in before Sheldon and Ozzie invented wormholes.”

“Interesting model,” Carys said.

“One world, cut off from the galaxy,” Marty said. “I rest my case.”

David refused to be baited, he just smiled at Mark and rolled his eyes.

“Did you hear, they’ve chosen Wilson Kime to captain the mission?” Carys said. “That must really be choking Nigel Sheldon.”

“Is that a story for you?” Antonio asked.

“Could be. Old enemies have to set aside their rivalries for the greater good of the Commonwealth.”

“Sounds dull if you put it like that.”

Mark started slipping the sausages onto the serving platter. “Food’s up!”

Liz took a while in their bathroom getting ready for bed. She had a shower, and used some of the smaller, more expensive bottles of scent, dabbing the chilly drops on her skin and massaging them in until the flesh seemed to glow. Then she took out the special cream silk lingerie that she knew Mark really liked. Her jet-black hair was combed out until it hung loosely down below her shoulders. Then she put on her gold gown, carefully arranging it so it was almost falling open at the front. She took a contented look in the mirror, reassured once again she’d made the right choice not undergoing pregnancy for him; her belly was still as firm and flat as the day she came out of rejuve ten years ago, and there wasn’t any hint of cellulite on her thighs yet.

Back then her friends had laughed at her dating a first-lifer, claiming it was a way of saving on Silent World bills. She had to admit, when they’d first met at a party thrown by a production company Carys had been writing for, there was something of the puppy dog about him. He looked so uncomfortable and lost amid all the z-list celebrities and wannabe production people that rescuing him was the only decent thing to do. They’d dated a few more times, and she’d enjoyed herself because he was enthusiastic about life and the Commonwealth, and didn’t have the kind of guarded falseness of people her own age. There was no game playing with him, he was too honest for that. She found that inordinately reassuring. So maybe it really was a case of subconsciously hoping his genuine youth would rub off on her; even though the age difference had never been an issue for him. Then completely out of the blue he’d asked her to marry him, carried away by some mad romantic notion of them being soul mates.

She’d been so close to saying no, a hard fast put-down that would hurt him for a month until he met some equally wild, inexperienced girl his own age and they went off into the sunset together. Except, why should she actually do that? So what if he was sweet in a puppy-dog way? Men who were thoughtful and considerate were rare no matter what their age. She was going to live forever anyway, or a damn good portion of it at least, so why not be happy with a good man for twenty years or so—and to hell with her jealous friends and their catty remarks.

Since then there hadn’t been a single day when she’d regretted the decision. They fought—what married couple didn’t—but never over anything serious. He was a wonderful father, too. She’d never planned on having more than one kid with him, but just being together with him over the years made her give in and agree to Sandy.

And her friends had been right, healthy first-lifers his age took a lot of satisfying in bed. Which made her the lucky one.

There was only one bedside light on when she stepped out of the bathroom, casting a warm yellow glow on Mark’s half of the bed. He was sitting up studying data on a paperscreen. The window was open and the air-conditioning off; dying gusts of El Iopi warmed the room. “Hi, baby. Is there room there for mommy?”

Mark looked up. A nervous smile flickered across his face as he saw what she was wearing. He dropped the paperscreen as she clambered onto the bed, and slowly crawled toward him.

“That Amanda looked quite something,” she murmured as she nuzzled his ear.

“Pha. She does nothing for me, not like you.” He slid one hand inside the gold gown, fingers stroking the hot ebony skin beneath the fabric.

Liz slowly moved around until she was straddling him. She planted light, tickling kisses on his cheek and down his throat. Her head waved from side to side, allowing her hair to brush across his chest. His hand slipped under the camisole. She smiled at the pleasurable sensation his fingers conjured and brought her head up to kiss him properly. Then she saw his face, and sighed heavily.

“What’s the matter, baby?” She rolled off him, dismayed and concerned. “This isn’t like you.”

Mark stared up at the ceiling, unable to meet her gaze. “It’s nothing.”

“Wrong. Believe me, I know. I am your wife, and a lot more besides.” She deliberately paused as she retied the robe tighter.

His smile was regretful. “I know. It’s just that tonight wasn’t what I was hoping for. I’m sorry.”

“I think this is a little deeper than your father turning up with his latest lady friend, however tactless it was.”

“Damnit.” He turned on his side to face her. “That’s exactly it, don’t you see?”