There were no forcefields. No visible means of support. Invisible forcefields enfolded Hockenberry and the small moravec as they seemed to sit on thin air. Holograms – or some sort of three-dimensional projections so real that there was no sense of projection – surrounded them on three sides and beneath them. Not only were they sitting on invisible chairs, the invisible chairs and their bodies were suspended over a two-mile drop as the hornet flashed through the Hole and climbed for altitude to the south of Olympus Mons.
Hockenberry screamed.
„Does the display bother you?“ asked Mahnmut.
Hockenberry screamed again.

Ein herrliches Buch und die Fortsetzung der „Neuerzählung“ der Ilias mit Dan Simmons als Federführendem; von daher: lesen!

  • 0-575-07560-0: Ilium
  • 0-575-07882-0: Olympos

Zur Einstimmung noch etwas aus dem Vorgänger Ilium:

Sing, O Muse, of the rage of Achilles, of Peleus‘ son, murderous, man-killer, fated to die, sing of the rage that cost the Achaeans so many good men and sent so many vital, hearty souls down to the dreary House of Death. And while you’re at it, O Muse, sing of the rage of the gods themselves, so petulant and so powerful here on their new Olympos, and of the rage of the post-humans, dead and gone though they might be, and of the rage of those few true humans left, self-absorbed and useless though they may have become.
While you are singing, O Muse, sing also of the rage of those thoughtful, sentient, serious but not-so-close-to-human beings out there dreaming under the ice of Europa, dying in the sulfur-ash of Io, and being born in the cold folds of Ganymede.
Oh, and sing of me, O Muse, poor born-again-against-his-will Hockenberry – poor dead Thomas Hockenberry, Ph.D., Hockenbush to his friends, to friends long since turned to dust on a world long since left behind. Sing of my rage, yes, of my rage, O Muse, small and insignificant though that rage may be when measured against the anger of the immortal gods, or when compared to the wrath of the god-killer, Achilles.
On second thought, O Muse, sing of nothing to me. I know you, I have been bound and servant to you, O Muse, you incomparable bitch. And I do not trust you, O Muse. Not one little bit.


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