Ironically, the city of Horizon, once romantically labelled by the Confederacy Of Man's Expansion Corps as the "Furthest Frontier of the Terrans", did not make for a particularly inviting sight.
Like most of the Fringe Worlds, the city's design emphasised functionality over visual-aesthetic. Within the pesky foliage assaulting the perimeter walls sprawled a jumbled labyrinth of air-processing plants, steel gantries and skeletal refineries. mud and grass caked everything a ruddy orange-brown and mucky green. Bulky ventilators clustered on each and every rooftop, like spines on a concrete dinosaur, humming and thrumming as they laboured to keep the streets clean of grit.
With the current winds lashing over Horizon, most of the power lines and cables were toppled and in some cases, crashed on top of a house. Mantainace crews scurried to and fro, clad in vibrant yellow anti-static suits, burdened with the unenviable task of trying to prevent the city from being bereft of electricity. To their relief, the Northern winds were beginning to die down.
Around each of the buildings snaked a series of thick pipelines, carrying fuel, wiring and - most crucially - the city's water supply. Above, a complex rail network wove its way around the city, bathing the streets beneath it in almost perpetual shadow. Freight cars trundled about almost constantly. Though noisy, the shade cast by the track provided welcome respite from the ever-burning sun. With a population of just under four point two million colonists, most of them hardened terraformers, it served as a practical place for practical people.
And young Sandra Jennison hated it.
She hated the filtered water, she hated the winds, she hated the wet icky grass, and the noise of the cargo trains. She hated the way there was always rain and - most of all - she hated the way Mom had to work all the time. At eight years of age, Sarah was distressingly well versed at hating things. In fact, the only talent she had which eclipsed this was her voracious ability to write lists. Unfortunately, the evolution of this habit - naturally - was to make lists about the things she hated. These were extensive.
She was doing this right now. Nestled underneath the shelter of a wind-slapped water tower, shrouded in the thick folds of her Dad's old environmental suit, she hummed to herself peacefully. The sound muffled oddly within the confines of the rubbery hood. This was her favourite spot. Here, she could sit, just at the edge of the starport's landing strip, and watch the soldiers' ships sitting neatly in a row. She liked the open space, and the big tower building, and the sound the ships made when they took off. She already had several nice lists about it.
Most of all, however, Sandra liked looking at remains of the big ship - the one Mom had called a Minatour Class BattleCruiser, Ank-eye-sus - and dream about going on wild adventures across the galaxy. Maybe someday she would even find her Dad again through those adventures.
Sandra shook herself. She had work to do, lists to make. Squinting through her thick goggles, she took a deep, solemn breath and inscribed a big meaty "1" on the top of her notepad. The crayon was a deep red, satisfyingly thick. Sarah frowned, intently considering her next move.
Where to start? No, not the grass, that was too obvious. The mud? Hmm, no, that's too easy too. Although the mud did make her eyes water… but the winds seemed to be easing off.. and...
Abruptly, she stopped scrawling. Something was going on. She wasn't sure what it was. Certainly, she couldn't put her finger on it. Not at first. She looked around, straining her ears. Ah, that was it, she smiled, tremendously pleased with herself for having identified what it was.
It was a sound. Not like the constant vum-vum-vum sound of the filters, or the rickety chug-chug-chug of the train. No, it was something deeper than just a sound. You didn't just hear it; you felt it too, like a rumbling in your tummy. That was it: a really deep rumbling. Curious, Sarah pulled herself up to her feet, and ambled over to the edge of the water tower's shadow. Ducking under the support struts, she risked stepping out into the open air. Sarah looked up, and gasped.
The sky was on fire.
To her, it was beautiful. A graceful, glistening comet of blue fire and oily purple, of sooty smoke and sound and thunder. Transfixed, Sndra tottered backward, tripped, and unceremoniously fell on her rump. She could not tear her eyes away. Despite the wicked winds which still vented down the streets, people began to poke their heads out from triple-glazed windows. Being older than Sandra, and more versed in the universe in which grown-ups lived, they began whispering amongst themselves. Being grown-ups, they did not share Sarah's sense of wonderment.
Like a ripple in a pool of water, the whispering spread. It was a hushed sound, full of tension and excitement. And fear. Many began murmuring long-forgotten prayers from long-forgotten faiths, quietly hoping, no, praying it was all just an illusion. In the distance, klaxons began to wail. Sandra, oblivious to the terror that gripped the city around her, smiled. She sat down, opened a new page on her notebook, titled it "Things I like", and began to sketch the comet in the sky with earnest.
To her, New Geneva had finally become interesting.