Science Fiction

Axis (Spin, Book 2) by Robert Charles Wilson

By Robert Charles Wilson

Wildly praised by means of readers and critics alike, Robert Charles Wilson's Spin received technology fiction's optimum honor, the Hugo Award for top Novel.

Now, in Axis, Spin's direct sequel, Wilson takes us to the "world subsequent door"—the planet engineered by means of the mysterious Hypotheticals to help human lifestyles, and hooked up to Earth when it comes to the Arch that towers countless numbers of miles over the Indian Ocean. people are colonizing this new world—and, predictably, fiercely exploiting its assets, mainly huge deposits of oil within the western deserts of the continent of Equatoria.

Lise Adams is a tender lady trying to discover the secret of her father's disappearance ten years past. Turk Findley is an ex-sailor and sometimes-drifter. they arrive jointly while an infall of cometary dirt seeds the planet with tiny remnant Hypothetical machines. quickly, this likely hospitable global turns into very alien indeed—as the character of time is once more twisted, through entities unknown.

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Extra info for Axis (Spin, Book 2)

Sample text

Wrong,’ Kevin said. ’ Fat said. ’ ‘Kevin’s got the corpse now,’ David said. ‘To hold up. That was the whole point of the cat’s existence. ’ ‘God did,’ Kevin said. ‘So God created a refutation of his own goodness,’ Sherri said. ’ ‘God is stupid,’ Kevin said. ‘We have a stupid deity. ’ ‘You just need two cats,’ Kevin said. ’ But he could obviously see where she was leading him. ‘It takes –’ He paused, grinning. ’ Sherri said. ’ Sherri said. ‘They –’ Again Kevin hesitated. ‘They are their purpose.

He did not know his own life was on the line. This was 1971. In 1972 he would be up north in Vancouver, British Columbia, involved in trying to kill himself, alone, poor and scared, in a foreign city. Right now he was spared that knowledge. All he wanted to do was coax Gloria up to Marin County so he could help her. One of God’s greatest mercies is that he keeps us perpetually occluded. In 1976, totally crazy with grief, Horselover Fat would slit his wrist (the Vancouver suicide attempt having failed), take forty-nine tablets of high-grade digitalis, and sit in a closed garage with his car motor running-and fail there, too.

This issue had now passed over into Horselover Fat’s theological world as a problem for us – his friends – to field. It would have been simple to tie the two together in Fat’s case: the dope he did during the Sixties had pickled his head on into the Seventies. If I could have arranged it so that I could think so, I would have; I like solutions that answer a variety of problems simultaneously. But I really couldn’t think so. Fat hadn’t done psychedelics, at least not to any real extent. Once, in 1964, when Sandoz LSD-25 could still be acquired – especially in Berkeley – Fat had dropped one huge hit of it and had abreacted back in time or had shot forward in time or up outside of time; anyhow he had spoken in Latin and believed that the Dies Irae, the Day of Wrath, had come.

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