Дэн Симмонс: The Rise of Endymion

My dear girl thought, frowned, and said, “I think I have, but I don’t remember it.”

“Perhaps part of it is relevant to M. Endymion’s query about the future of Father de Soya’s Church,” said the blue man. “And to other things as well. May I?”

“Please,” said Aenea. I could feel through the strong muscles in her back against me, and through the squeezing of her hand on my right thigh, that she was as eager as I to get away and find a camping spot. I hoped that A. Bettik’s recital would be short. The android quoted:

“Thank you,” said Aenea. “Thank you, dear friend.” She freed herself enough to kiss the android a final time.

“Hey,” I said, attempting the whine of an excluded child.

She kissed me a longer time. A much longer time. A very deep time.

We waved a final good-bye, I tapped the flight threads, and the centuries-old mat rose fifty meters, flew over the errant city slab and stone tower a final time, circled the Consul’s ebony spaceship, and carried us away westward. Already trusting the North Star as our guide, softly discussing a likely looking campsite on high ground some kilometers west, we passed over the old poet’s grave where the Shrike still stood silent guard, flew out over the river where the ripples and whirlpools caught the last glows of sunset, and gained altitude as we gazed down on the lush meadows and enticing forests of our new playground, our ancient world… our new world… our first and future and finest world.

THE END