Звезда Пандоры

Howell Avenue turned to run parallel with a heavy-duty eight-line rail track. These were the lines that connected the big industry districts to the CST planetary station, New Costa Junction, a hundred sixty kilometers north and three hundred kilometers inland. Kilometer-long cargo trains ran along it all day and night, hauled by DVA5s, massive nuclear-powered tractor units. The leviathans roamed all over the planet, some of them on three-week journeys from the other continents, winding their way through a huge number of different terrains before crossing the final isthmus bridge on Sineba’s northeastern corner, which connected it to the rest of the world’s landmasses. Their trucks carried every kind of raw material available in the planet’s crust, collecting them from the hundreds of crater-sized open mines that AEC had opened up across the world. In terms of bulk shifted, only the oil pipelines could rival them, bringing in crude from the dozens of major oil fields AEC operated.

The Ford Summer accelerated through a wide concrete underpass as a freight train thundered overhead, heading out from the coast. It was taking refined metal away from the mills, one of a hundred that day alone. In a few hours it would reach the planetary station and transfer the metal to a world whose clear-air laws wouldn’t permit the kind of cheap smelting methods Augusta employed.

With that depressing thought at the forefront of his mind, Mark finally turned into his own street. Putney Road was two kilometers long, with innumerable cul-de-sacs leading off it. The sidewalks were cracked, and the road surface uneven, long trickles of dark water leaking across it in several places where the irrigation pipes had fractured. Eucalyptus trees had been planted along both sides of the asphalt when the district was laid down, two hundred years ago. They were now so big their branches tangled together high above the center of the road, creating a welcoming shaded greenway and providing a great deal of privacy for the houses. A lot of bunting was hanging from the branches, the little flags all with the silver and blue Augusta football team emblem sparkling in the center. As Mark turned the Summer into his own drive, the tires scattered the usual layer of red-brown bark scabs that had peeled from the trunks to gather in the gutters. His father’s car was parked up ahead of him, an opentop 2330 vintage Caddy that Marty Vernon maintained in perfect condition. Beside it, the twelve-year-old Ford Summer looked rundown and cheap.

Mark stayed in the front seat for a moment, taking stock. He wanted all his agitation to fade away so he could enjoy the evening. I deserve a decent break. Around twenty years. There were noises coming from around the back of the house as the kids played in their little scrap of yard. The eucalyptus trees rustled in the gentle El Iopi wind, sending shadows wavering across the roof. Mark studied his home critically: pale lavender walls of drycoral, with a curving lime-green roof, arched windows of silvered glass, and matte-black air-conditioning fins under the guttering with their front edges glowing a dull orange. Gold and scarlet climbing roses, heavily dusted with mildew, had covered the whole south wall up to the eves, and needed a good pruning; while a blue and white kathariz vine had attached its suckers to the gable end above the two-door garage—it also demanded attention. And for this the monthly rental took up fifteen percent of his salary. With the utility bill, car payments, his R&R pension, the kids’ education trust, the germline modification mortgage, health insurance, the vacation fund, clothing, food, and other regular debit payments, there was precious little left over for enjoying himself. Not that there were many places on Augusta where you could genuinely do that. Suddenly he didn’t want to get out of the car, he would throw a damper over the whole evening.

“Bad day at the office?”

Mark looked up to see Liz smiling at him through the open window. He grinned ruefully back at his beautiful wife—another of his daily worries was that she wouldn’t be there for him when he got home.

“Is that what it looks like?”

She reached in and touched his hand. “I’ve seen happier-looking suicide cases.”

“Sorry I’m late, work screwed up.” He realized she was almost never home late from work. Was that due to experience? He hated reminding himself of her sophistication, the kind that could only be acquired over decades, the years he hadn’t lived yet.

“Come on,” she said, and opened the Summer’s door. “You need a drink. And Marty’s here.”

“Yeah, I see that.” He gestured at the Caddy.

She frowned in concern as he climbed out of the car. “You all right, baby?”

“I think the interface at the office is giving me a headache again. That or the whole goddamn OCtattoo is crashing.”

“Mark, you have to complain. You can’t come home every day with a headache that gives you cold sweats. If the system’s wrong, they have to repair it.”