Peter Hamilton - Pandora's Star

“See what?”

“You, Dad, the others, you’ve all got this wealth of experience. And I don’t. And… it gets a little overpowering at times.”

“And you didn’t get the promotion.”

“Jesus H. Christ, you just did it again. Do you have any idea how small that makes me feel?”

Liz was quiet for quite a while as she gathered her troubled thoughts together. “I didn’t realize the effect was this upsetting. It’s never been an issue before.”

“I know.” He grinned lamely. “Maybe it’s a cumulative thing.”

“Okay, baby, then I’ll say one more thing that I think about you.”

“What?”

“You really hate it here, don’t you?”

Mark let out a relieved breath. “Yeah.” Then he was suddenly animated, jumping up to give her an intent stare. “This whole world is strictly for adults only. And I don’t mean me, I’m only twenty-eight for Christ’s sake, that’s not adult. They shouldn’t let anyone through the gateways at New Costa Junction until they’re at least a hundred years old. You’re the only kind of people who can take this kind of life.”

“All right,” she said. “I admit it doesn’t bother me as much as it obviously does you. That’s because it’s temporary, baby. One day we’ll leave.”

“But not together! That’s part of you as well, that fatalism, or wisdom, whatever you want to call it. Nothing ever seems to bother you. You’ve had other marriages; they’re just sections of your life. You’re my whole life, Liz, you and the kids. I know I’ll get out of here one day, but it won’t be with you. And this world isn’t for children, there’s no society here. That’s what I hate most about all this; Barry and Sandy are going to grow up just like me. That’s… that’s so much the worst thing I could ever do to them.”

“Okay.” She put a finger on his cheek, turning his head so she could look straight at him. “Tomorrow you hand in your resignation, and we start looking through the unisphere for somewhere else to live, somewhere different. Maybe a phase three world.”

“You can’t… you’re not serious.”

“Perfectly serious. This is eating you up; you don’t have to be my age to see that. And, Mark, I meant everything I said at the altar. I do love you, and if we stay here we’re going to get torn apart. So, this is what we have to do.”

“But what about your work? The stuff you do at Bitor-UU is real cutting edge.”

“So? There are tens of thousands who can do the same thing, hundreds of thousands, actually. And I don’t really need to be in the labs the whole time, I can work most of the systems over the unisphere. Then again, maybe it’s time for me to get a new job if we are going to live somewhere different.”

“Jesus.” Mark looked shocked, then he began to smile. “My God, do you know what they’ll say if I tell them I’m quitting? Burcombe will go crazy.”

“Let him. Who cares?”

“But what about money? We’ll never earn as much anywhere else, not doing what we do now.”

“Pay is relative. Augusta costs a lot more than most places. We’ll find a world where our jobs support this kind of lifestyle, if not a better one.”

He held her close. The expression on his face was the same kind of wonder as the first time they’d gone to bed together. “You’ll really emigrate with me?”

“Yes, Mark. You’re not just some section of my life, baby, you are my life. Who knows, maybe we’ll be the one in a hundred billion couples who actually stays married for all eternity.”

He grinned. “I like that idea.”

“You got any thoughts where you’d like to go? You’ve obviously been thinking about this for a long time.”

“Since I was about five.” His hands moved down to the gown’s belt, and gently pulled the bow open. “But we can talk about that in the morning.”

…

An hour after the case broke, Tarlo and Renne accompanied the Directorate duty forensics team to the Paris CST station, where all of them climbed onboard the express for Nzega. They routed via Orleans, the Big15 world for that sector of phase two space, and arrived at Fatu, Nzega’s capital, forty-one minutes later. The forensics team hired a van to carry their equipment, while Renne and Tarlo checked out a big BMW four-by-four Range Cruiser.

Nzega wasn’t a backwater world, but it had managed to sidestep the excesses of full technoindustrial development. The majority society was stable, civilized, and took a decently relaxed attitude to life and human foibles. Its main body of initial settlers were Polynesian and Latin Americans. They came because of the seas; half the planet’s surface was water. Nzega didn’t have any major continents, just hundreds of large islands and thousands of smaller ones. That gave them an awful lot of coastline.

The economic spin-off was the colossal number of resorts, hotels, and rental properties along the shores of the islands. Combined with the planet’s liberalism, it attracted a lot of middle-class kids looking for a break from the worlds with a faster pace of life.

Renne loaded their destination, Port Launay, into the BMW’s drive array, and settled back to enjoy the view. It was a seventeen-hour drive from Fatu along the Great Mantu Road, taking them over innumerable causeway bridges, and five ferry rides between the islands into the subtropical zone. Sometimes the road was enzyme-bonded concrete, sometimes not. There were times when it ran along the top of sheer cliffs, and others when it meandered through what seemed like endless salt marshes, while the rest was just a standard route through the string of coastal towns. After a while, both Investigators opaqued the windows and settled down to sleep while the vehicle rolled along.

Port Launay was simply a four-kilometer section of the urban strip that ran along the whole shore of Kailindri island, though “urban” was pushing the definition a bit. The single compacted stone road ran along two hundred meters inland from the sea through an unbroken forest of shaggy native trees, with small cul-de-sacs branching off where clusters of chalets and bungalows sheltered under the branches. Towns were identifiable only by the way shops and commercial buildings clumped together to serve residential neighborhoods.

When the BMW’s drive array indicated they’d reached their cul-de-sac, Renne switched to manual to steer the car along the last few hundred meters. The road wasn’t even broken stone anymore, just tire tracks of dusty sand in the dense yellow-blue queengrass. Three local police cars were blocking the way. Several rented cars were parked on the verges in front of them, with reporters arguing with police officers.

“How did they get here so goddamn fast?” Tarlo asked.

“Who knows,” Renne said. “They smell misery the way vultures smell carrion. You want to deal with the local police?”

“Sure.” Tarlo grinned, slipped his sports sunglasses on, and opened the door.

She watched him saunter over to the sergeant in charge. Tarlo was from Los Angeles, eighty-two years old. Not that he gave that impression in the flesh; nine years after his first rejuvenation he still looked as if he was barely out of his teens. His wealthy California family had contributed extensive germline sequencing, one facet of which restricted his natural aging process. They’d also gone for a traditional (or stereotyped—depending on your viewpoint) surfer-kid appearance: slim body, but tall and naturally toned, with lush blond hair and perfect teeth set on a firm square jaw. Tarlo clearly relished his heritage. Why he’d gone into law enforcement was something Renne never understood. “I like puzzles,” was the only explanation he’d ever offered. Personally, she felt he got slightly too much of a buzz out of the Directorate’s covert operations. The little boy who wanted to be a super secret agent when he grew up.