The Fall of Hyperion hc-2

by Дэн Рўрёрјрјрѕрѕсѓ

  “Get him. Quickly!” demanded my erstwhile lover.

  I made it to the bathroom and was reaching for the manual switch to dilate the door closed when the closer of the two men reached me, grabbed me, thrust me back into the bedroom, and threw me to his partner. Both men were from Lusus or an equally high-g world, or else they subsisted exclusively on a diet of steroids and Samson cells, for they tossed me back and forth with no effort. It didn’t matter how large they were. Except for my brief career as a school-yard fighter, my life… the memories of my life… offered few instances of violence and even fewer instances where I emerged from a scuffle the victor. One glance at the two men amusing themselves at my expense and I knew that these were the type one read about and did not quite believe in—individuals who could break bones, flatten noses, or crack kneecaps with no more compunction than I would feel about tossing away a defective stylus.

  “Quickly!” Diana hissed again.

  I canvased the datasphere, the house’s memory, Diana’s comlog umbilical, the two goons’ tenuous connection to the information universe… and although I now knew where I was: the Philomel country estate, six hundred kilometers from the capital of Pirre in the agricultural belt of terraformed Renaissance Minor… and precisely who the goons were: Debin Farrus and Hemmit Gorma, plant security personnel for the Heaven’s Gate Scrubbers Union… I had no idea why one was sitting on me, his knee in the small of my back, while the other crushed my comlog under his heel and slipped an osmosis cuff over my wrist, up my arm…

  I heard the hiss and relaxed.

  “Who are you?”

  “Joseph Severn.”

  “Is that your real name?”

  “No.” I felt the effects of the truthtalk and knew that I could confound it merely by going away, stepping back into the datasphere or retreating fully to the Core. But that would mean leaving my body to the mercy of whoever was asking the questions. I stayed there. My eyes were closed but I recognized the next voice.

  “Who are you?” asked Diana Philomel.

  I sighed. It was a difficult question to answer honestly. “John Keats,” I said at last. Their silence told me that the name meant nothing to them. Why should it? I asked myself. I once predicted that it would be a name “writ in water.” Although I couldn’t move or open my eyes, I found no trouble in canvasing the datasphere, following their access vectors. The poet’s name was among eight hundred John Keatses on the list offered to them by the public file, but they didn’t seem too interested in someone nine hundred years dead.

  “Who do you work for?” It was Hermund Philomel’s voice. For some reason I was mildly surprised.

  “No one.”

  The faint Doppler of voices changed as they talked amongst themselves.

  “Can he be resisting the drug?”

  “No one can resist it,” said Diana. “They can die when it’s administered, but they can’t resist it.”

  “Then what’s going on?” asked Hermund. “Why would Gladstone bring a nobody into the Council on the eve of war?”

  “He can hear you, you know,” said another man’s voice—one of the goons.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Diana. “He’s not going to live after the interrogation anyway.” Her voice came again, directed toward me.

  “Why did the CEO invite you to the Council… John?”

  “Not sure. To hear about the pilgrims, probably.”

  “What pilgrims, John?”

  “The Shrike Pilgrims.”

  Someone else made a noise. “Hush,” said Diana Philomel. To me she said, “Are those the Shrike Pilgrims on Hyperion, John?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there a pilgrimage underway now?”

  “Yes.”

  “And why is Gladstone asking you, John?”

  “I dream them.”

  There was a disgusted sound. Hermund said, “He’s crazy. Even under truthtalk he doesn’t know who he is, now he’s giving us this. Let’s get it over with and—”

  “Shut up,” said Lady Diana. “Gladstone’s not crazy. She invited him, remember? John, what do you mean you dream them?”

  “I dream the first Keats retrieval persona’s impressions,” I said. My voice was thick, as if I were talking in my sleep. “He hardwired himself into one of the pilgrims when they murdered his body, and now he roams their microsphere. Somehow his perceptions are my dreams. Perhaps my actions are his dreams, I don’t know.”

  “Insane,” said Hermund.

  “No, no,” said Lady Diana. Her voice was strained, almost shocked.

  “John, are you a cybrid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Christ and Allah,” said Lady Diana.

  “What’s a cybrid?” said one of the goons. He had a high, almost feminine voice.

  There was silence for a moment, and then Diana spoke. “Idiot. Cybrids were human remotes created by the Core. There were a few on the Advisory Council until last century, when they were outlawed.”

  “Like an android or something?” said the other goon.

  “Shut up,” said Hermund.

  “No,” answered Diana. “Cybrids were genetically perfect, recombed from DNA going back to Old Earth. All you needed was a bone… a fragment of hair… John, can you hear me? John?”

  “Yes.”

  “John, you’re a cybrid… do you know who your persona template was?”

  “John Keats.”

  I could hear her take a deep breath. “Who is… was… John Keats?”

  “A poet.”

  “When did he live, John?”

  “From 1795 to 1821,” I said.

  “Which reckoning, John?”

  “Old Earth A.D…” I said. “Pre-Hegira. Modern era—”

  Hermund’s voice broke in, agitated. “John, are you… are you in contact with the TechnoCore right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you… are you free to communicate despite the truthtalk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh fuck,” said the goon with the high voice.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” snapped Hermund.

  “Just a minute more,” said Diana. “We’ve got to know…”

  “Can we take him with us?” asked the deep-voiced goon.

  “Idiot,” said Hermund. “If he’s alive and in touch with the datasphere and Core… hell, he lives in the Core, his mind’s there… then he can tip Gladstone, ExecSec, FORCE, anybody.”

  “Shut up,” said Lady Diana. “We’ll kill him as soon as I’m finished. A few more questions. John?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why does Gladstone need to know what’s happening to the Shrike Pilgrims? Does it have something to do with the war with the Ousters?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Shit,” whispered Hermund. “Let’s go.”

  “Quiet. John, where are you from?”

  “I’ve lived on Esperance the last ten months.”

  “And before that?”

  “On Earth before that.”

  “Which Earth?” demanded Hermund. “New Earth? Earth Two? Earth City? Which one?”

  “Earth,” I said. Then I remembered. “Old Earth.”

  “Old Earth?” said one of the goons. “This is fucked. I’m getting out of here.”

  There came the frying-bacon sizzle of a weapons laser. I smelled something sweeter than frying bacon, and there was a heavy thump.

  Diana Philomel said, “John, are you talking about your persona template’s life on Old Earth?”

  “No.”

  “You—the cybrid you—were on Old Earth?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I woke from death there. In the same room on the Piazza di Spagna in which I died. Severn was not there, but Dr. Clark and some of the others were…”

  “He is crazy,” said Hermund. “Old Earth’s been destroyed for more than four centuries… unless cybrids can live for more than four hundred years… ?”

  “No,” snapped Lady Diana. “Shut up and let me finish
this. John, why did the Core… bring you back?”

  “I don’t know for sure.”

  “Does it have something to do with the civil war going on between the AIs?”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “Probably.” She asked interesting questions.

  “Which group created you? The Ultimates, Stables, or Volatiles?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I could hear a sigh of exasperation. “John, have you notified anyone of where you are, of what’s happening to you?”

  “No,” I said. It was a sign of the lady’s less than impressive intelligence that she waited so long to pose that question.

  Hermund also let out a breath. “Great,” he said. “Let’s get the hell out of here before…”

  “John,” said Diana, “do you know why Gladstone manufactured this war with the Ousters?”

  “No,” I said. “Or rather, there might be many reasons. The most probable is that it is a bargaining ploy in her dealings with the Core.”

  “Why?”

  “Elements in the leadership FROM of the Core are afraid of Hyperion,” I said. “Hyperion is an unknown variable in a galaxy where every variable has been quantified.”

  “Who is afraid, John? The Ultimates, Stables, or Volatiles? Which group of AIs is afraid of Hyperion?”

  “All three,” I said.

  “Shit,” whispered Hermund. “Listen… John… do the Time Tombs and the Shrike have something to do with all this?”

  “Yes, they have a lot to do with it.”

  “How?” asked Diana.

  “I don’t know. No one does.”

  Hermund, or someone, hit me sharply, viciously, in the chest. “You mean the rucking Core Advisory Council hasn’t predicted the outcome of this war, these events?” Hermund growled. “Are you expecting me to believe that Gladstone and the Senate went to war without a probability prediction?”

  “No,” I said. “It has been predicted for centuries.”

  Diana Philomel made a noise like a child being confronted with a large mound of candy. “What has been predicted, John? Tell us everything.”

  My mouth was dry. The truthtalk serum had dried up my saliva. “It predicted the war,” I said. “The identities of the pilgrims on the Shrike Pilgrimage. The betrayal of the Hegemony Consul in activating a device that will open—has opened—the Time Tombs. The emergence of the Shrike Scourge. The outcome of the war and the Scourge…”

  “What is the outcome, John?” whispered the woman I had made love to a few hours earlier.

  “The end of the Hegemony,” I said. “The destruction of the World-web.” I tried to lick my lips but my tongue was dry. “The end of the human race.”

  “Oh, Jesus and Allah,” whispered Diana. “Is there any chance that the prediction could be in error?”

  “No,” I said. “Or rather, only in the effect of Hyperion on the result. The other variables are accounted for.”

  “Kill him,” shouted Hermund Philomel. “Kill it… so we can get out of here and inform Harbrit and the others.”

  “All right,” said Lady Diana. Then, a second later. “No, not the laser, you idiot. We’ll inject the lethal dose of alcohol as planned. Here, hold the osmosis cuff so I can attach this drip.”

  I felt a pressure on my right arm. A second later there were explosions, concussions, a shout. I smelled smoke and ionized air. A woman screamed.

  “Get that cuff off him,” said Leigh Hunt. I could see him standing there, still wearing a conservative gray suit, surrounded by Executive Security commandos in full impact armor and chameleon polymers.

  A commando twice Hunt’s height nodded, shouldered his hellwhip weapon, and rushed to do Hunt’s bidding.

  On one of the tactical channels, the one I had been monitoring for some time, I could see a relayed image of myself… naked, spread-eagled on the bed, the osmosis cuff on my arm and a rising bruise on my rib cage. Diana Philomel, her husband, and one of the goons lay unconscious but alive in the splinter and broken-glass rubble of the room. The other enforcer lay half in the doorway, the top part of his body looking the color and texture of a heavily grilled steak.

  “Are you all right, M. Severn?” asked Leigh Hunt, lifting my head and setting a membrane-thin oxygen mask over my mouth and nose.

  “Hrrmmmggh,” I said. “Argh.” I swam to the surface of my own senses like a diver coming up too quickly from the deeps. My head hurt. My ribs ached like hell. My eyes were not working perfectly yet, but through the tactical channel, I could see Leigh Hunt give the small twitch of thin lips that I knew passed for a smile from him.

  “We’ll help you get dressed,” said Hunt. “Get you some coffee on the flight back. Then it’s back to Government House, M. Severn. You’re late for a meeting with the CEO.”

  Seven

  Space battles in movies and holies had always bored me, but watching the real thing held a certain fascination: rather like seeing live coverage of a series of traffic accidents. Actually, the production values for reality—as had doubtless been the case for centuries—were much lower than for even a moderate-budget holo-drama. Even with the tremendous energies involved, the overwhelming reaction one had to an actual battle in space was that space was so large and humanity’s fleets and ships and dreadnoughts and whatnots were so small.

  Or so I thought as I sat in the Tactical Information Center, the so-called War Room, with Gladstone and her military ganders, and watched the walls become twenty-meter holes into infinity as four massive holoframes surrounded us with in-depth imagery and the speakers filled the room with fatline transmissions: radio chatter between fighters, tactical command channels rattling away, ship-to-ship messages on wideband, lasered channels, and secure fatline, and all the shouts, screams, cries, and obscenities of battle which predate any media besides air and the human voice.

  It was a dramatization of total chaos, a functional definition of confusion, an unchoreographed dance of sad violence. It was war.

  Gladstone and a handful of her people sat in the middle of all this noise and light, the War Room floating like a gray-carpeted rectangle amidst the stars and explosions, the limb of Hyperion a lapis lazuli brilliance filling half of the north holowall, the screams of dying men and women on every channel and in every ear. I was one of the handful of Gladstone’s people privileged and cursed to be there.

  The CEO rotated in her high-backed chair, tapped her lower lip with steepled fingers, and turned toward her military group. “What do you think?”

  The seven bemedaled men there looked at one another, and then six of them looked at General Morpurgo. He chewed on an unlighted cigar. “It’s not good,” he said. “We’re keeping them away from the farcaster site… our defenses are holding well there… but they’ve pushed far too far in-system.”

  “Admiral?” asked Gladstone, inclining her head a fraction toward the tall, thin man in FORCE:space black.

  Admiral Singh touched his closely trimmed beard. “General Morpurgo is correct. The campaign is not going as planned.” He nodded toward the fourth wall, where diagrams—mostly ellipsoids, ovals, and arcs—were superimposed upon a static shot of the Hyperion system.

  Some of the arcs grew as we watched. The bright blue lines stood for Hegemony trajectories. The red tracks were Ouster. There were far more red lines than blue.

  “Both of the attack carriers assigned to Task Force 42 have been put out of action,” said Admiral Singh. “The Olympus Shadow was destroyed with all hands and the Neptune Station was seriously damaged but is returning to the cislunar docking area with five torchships for escort.”

  CEO Gladstone nodded slowly, her lip coming down to touch the top of her steepled fingers. “How many were aboard the Olympus Shadow, Admiral?”

  Singh’s brown eyes were as large as the CEO’s, but did not suggest the same depths of sadness. He held her gaze for several seconds. “Forty-two hundred,” he said. “Not counting the Marine detachment of six hundred. Some of those were off-loaded at Farcaster Station Hyperio
n, so we do not have accurate information on how many were with the ship.”

  Gladstone nodded. She looked back at General Morpurgo. “Why the sudden difficulty, General?”

  Morpurgo’s face was calm, but he had all but bitten through the cigar clamped between his teeth. “More fighting units than we expected, CEO,” he said. “Plus their lancers… five-person craft, miniature torchships, really, faster and more heavily armed than our long-range fighters… they’re deadly little hornets. We’ve been destroying them by the hundred, but if one gets through, it can make a dash inside fleet defenses and wreak havoc.” Morpurgo shrugged. “More than one’s got through.”

  Senator Kolchev sat across the table with eight of his colleagues.

  Kolchev swivelled until he could see the tactical map. “It looks like they’re almost to Hyperion,” he said. The famous voice was hoarse.

  Singh spoke up. “Remember the scale, Senator. The truth is that we still hold most of the system. Everything within ten AU of Hyperion’s star is ours. The battle was out beyond the Oort cloud, and we’ve been regrouping.”

  “And those red… blobs… above the plane of the ecliptic?” asked Senator Richeau. The senator wore red herself; it had been one of her trademarks in the Senate.

  Singh nodded. “An interesting stratagem,” he said. “The Swarm launched an attack of approximately three thousand lancers to complete a pincers movement against Task Force 87.2’s electronic perimeter. It was contained, but one has to admire the cleverness of—”

  “Three thousand lancers?” Gladstone interrupted softly.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Gladstone smiled. I stopped sketching and thought to myself that I was glad that I had not been the beneficiary of that particular smile.

  “Weren’t we told yesterday, in the briefing, that the Ousters would field six… seven hundred fighting units, tops?” The words had been Morpurgo’s. CEO Gladstone swivelled to face the General. Her right eyebrow arched.

  General Morpurgo removed the cigar, frowned at it, and fished a smaller piece from behind his lower teeth. “That’s what our intelligence said. It was wrong.”