By John Barnes
In the midst of the Pacific, a big typhoon by chance caused via nuclear explosions spawns dozens extra in its wake.
A international associated through a virtual-reality community studies the devastation first hand, witnessing the demise of civilization as we all know it and the violent start of an rising international consciousness.
Vast in scope, but intimate in own element, mom of Storms is a visionary fusion of state of the art our on-line world fiction and heart-stopping storytelling within the grand culture, choked with ardour, tragedy, and the triumph of the human spirit.
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Rudy began. “Shut up about Leibniz for a moment, Rudy, because look here:You—Rudy—and I are on a train, as it were, sitting in the dining car, having a nice conversation, and that train is being pulled along at a terrific clip by certain locomotives named The Bertrand Russell and Riemann and Euler and others. And our friend Lawrence is running alongside the train, trying to keep up with us—it’s not that we’re smarter than he is, necessarily, but that he’s a farmer who didn’t get a ticket. ” “Is it that you don’t think I give enough credit to Germans?
This shapes the kinds of businesses we can get into. Forget anything that requires a big initial investment. Luzon is green-black jungle mountains gouged with rivers that would appear to be avalanches of silt. As the navy-blue ocean verges on its khaki beaches, the water takes on the shocking iridescent hue of a suburban swimming pool. Farther south, the mountains are swidden-scarred— the soil beneath is bright red and so these parts look like fresh lacerations. But most is covered with foliage that looks like the nubby green stuff that model railroaders put over their papiér-mâche hills, and in vast stretches of the mountains there are no signs whatsoever that human beings have ever existed.
The view gets blurry as they belly down into the pall of sweaty smog above the city. The water streams off in sheets, collects in crevices, whips off the flaps’ trailing edges. Suddenly they are banking over Manila Bay, which is marked with endless streaks of brilliant red—some kind of algal bloom. Oil tankers trail long time-delayed rainbows that flourish in their wakes. Every cove is jammed with long skinny boats with dual outriggers, looking like brightly painted water skaters. And then they are down on the runway at NAIA, Ninoy Aquino International Airport.
Mother of Storms by John Barnes