By Neal Stephenson
Der Mond explodierte ohne Vorwarnung und ohne erkennbaren Grund. Die Uhrzeit würde guy später als A+0.0.0 oder schlicht Null bezeichnen …
05:03:12 Weltzeit. Die Stunde Null. Nach der Explosion des Mondes wütet über Jahrtausende ein Meteoritensturm, der die Erdoberfläche in eine unbewohnbare Wüstenei verwandelt. Um die Menschheit vor der Auslöschung zu bewahren, schickten die Nationen der Erde eine Flotte von Archen ins All. Der Asteroid Amalthea, der ursprünglich zu Forschungszwecken an eine internationale Raumstation angedockt worden battle, soll der Kolonie als Schutzschild dienen. Doch das Leben im Weltraum fordert einen hohen Tribut, und die meisten Menschen sterben, bis schließlich nur noch sieben Frauen übrig sind, um eine neue Zivilisation zu begründen. 5000 Jahre später existieren zwei Völker: die Nachfahren derer, die die Katastrophe auf der Erde überlebt haben, sind primitive Siedler; die sieben Stämme der Nachkommen der Sieben Urmütter von der Raumstation hingegen hochkultiviert ― und sie machen sich auf, die Erde zu kolonialisieren …
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Kara had liked them both. Kara was a god. Now he had two novels in his hands. Enough dead weight to pull him to the bottom of any lake. He stared at the top title, Superheroes in Super Fog, and considered the matter yet again. He’d given three years of his life to these stacks of paper before entombing them in this grave with a thousand rejection slips to keep them company. The whole business made his stomach crawl. As it turned out, dishing out coffees at Java Hut actually paid more than writing brilliant novels.
Makatsu again. Thomas had once been beaten to a pulp by a gang of Filipinos who’d taken a pledge to kill any Americano brat who entered their turf. They made the streets around the army base their turf. His instructor had scolded him, insisting that he was good enough to have escaped their attack that afternoon. His panic had cost him dearly. His brain had been turned to rice pudding, and he deserved the bruises that swelled his eyes shut. This time it was bullets, not feet and clubs, and bullets would leave more than bruises.
The title was admittedly confusing, but that was no reason for the self-appointed literary wizards scouring the earth for the next Stephen King to turn it down. Both novels were either brilliant or complete trash, and he wasn’t yet sure which. Kara had liked them both. Kara was a god. Now he had two novels in his hands. Enough dead weight to pull him to the bottom of any lake. He stared at the top title, Superheroes in Super Fog, and considered the matter yet again. He’d given three years of his life to these stacks of paper before entombing them in this grave with a thousand rejection slips to keep them company.