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Informationen zum Autor Hugh Howey is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Silo Series: Wool , Shift , and Dust ; Beacon 23 ; Sand ; Half Way Home ; and Machine Learning . His works have been translated into more than forty languages and have sold millions of copies worldwide. Adapted from his bestselling sci-fi trilogy, Silo is now streaming on Apple TV+ and Beacon 23 is streaming on MGM+. Howey lives in New York with his wife, Shay. Klappentext From the New York Times and USA Today best-selling author of Wool and the Molly Fyde saga comes a story of teenage colonists marooned on a distant planet WE WOKE IN FIRE Five hundred colonists have been sent across the stars to settle an alien planet. Vat-grown in a dream-like state, they are educated through simulations by an artificial intelligence and should awaken at thirty years old, fully-trained, and ready to tame the new world. But fifteen years in, an explosion on their vessel kills most of the homesteaders and destroys the majority of their supplies. Worse yet, the sixty that awaken and escape the flames are only half-taught and possess the skills least useful for survival. Naked and terrified, the teens stumble from their fiery baptism ill-prepared for the unfamiliar and harsh alien world around them. Though they attempt to work with the colony A.I. to build a home, tension and misery are rampant, escalating into battles for dominance. Soon they find that their worst enemy isn't the hostile environment, the A.I., or the blast that nearly killed them. Their greatest danger is each other. I was a blastocyst, once. A mere jumble of cells clinging to one another. A fertilized egg. Of course, we were all in such a state at some point in our lives, but I excelled at it in a way you didn’t. I spent more time in that condition than I have as a person. Hundreds of years more, in fact. I still like to imagine myself like that: a shapeless form, quivering and ripe and full of potential. Holding that image in my head makes it seem as if I haven’t been born yet, as if we could let things play out one more time and arrive at some different destination. Perhaps it would lead to a new, fuller me. But repeating the past is as impossible as faster-than-light travel and suspended animation—it’s the stuff of the imagination. They’re wonderful ideas, but they all lie on the other side of what-can-be. So far as we know, anyway. Hence the quivering eggs of potential, my fellow colonists and me. What better way to seed the stars with the gift of humanity? Imagine the colony ships, otherwise: They’d be the size of small moons and packed to capacity with living, eating, breathing, defecating humans. Such arks would be impractical, even if those colonists could survive the ensuing insanity of interstellar travel, the hundreds of years of boredom and breeding and infighting that would occur on a slow passage to some distant rock. And what would happen when that rock proved uninhabitable? Far more sensible, of course, is a system whereby blastocysts such as myself are launched into space with a handful of machines to raise us. Especially considering a colonial failure rate of roughly fifty percent. Every colony lander is nothing more than a flipped coin glimmering in space, the word “viable” printed on one side and “unviable” stamped on the other. The game—your game—is seeing where that coin lands. At a cost of nine hundred billion each, one might wonder why a nation would take such odds. Then I imagine what it would mean for a mere country to own an entire planet: all those resources, all that precious livable land, a launch pad for further expansion. It would be like an island acquiring a continent. Besides...
