by Dan Simmons
I did not applaud. Ignored by those around me, I finished my toast—not to Lady Philomel now, but to the enduring stupidity of my race—and downed the last of the champagne. It was flat.
Above, the more important ships of the flotilla had translated insystem. I knew from the briefest touch of the datasphere—its surface now agitated with surges of information until it resembled a storm-tossed sea—that the main line of the FORCE:space armada consisted of more than a hundred capital spinships: matte-black attack carriers, looking like thrown spears, with their launch-arms lashed down; Three-C command ships, as beautiful and awkward as meteors made of black crystal; bulbous destroyers resembling the overgrown torchships they were; perimeter defense pickets, more energy than matter, their massive containment shields now set to total reflection—brilliant mirrors reflecting Tau Ceti and the hundreds of flame trails around them; fast cruisers, moving like sharks among the slower schools of ships; lumbering troop transports carrying thousands of FORCE:Marines in their zero-g holds; and scores of support ships—frigates; fast attack fighters; torpedo ALRs; fatline relay pickets; and the farcaster JumpShips themselves, massive dodecahedrons with their fairyland arrays of antennae and probes.
All around the fleet, kept at a safe distance by traffic control, flitted the yachts and sunjammers and private in-system ships, their sails catching sunlight and reflecting the glory of the armada.
The guests on the Government House grounds cheered and applauded. The gentleman in FORCE black was weeping silently. Nearby, concealed cameras and wideband imagers carried the moment to every world in the Web and—via fatline—to scores of worlds which were not.
I shook my head and remained seated.
“M. Severn?” A security guard stood over me.
“Yes?”
She nodded toward the executive mansion. “CEO Gladstone will see you now.”
TWO
Every age fraught with discord and danger seems to spawn a leader meant only for that age, a political giant whose absence, in retrospect, seems inconceivable when the history of that age is written. Meina Gladstone was just such a leader for our Final Age, although none then could have dreamed that there would be no one but me to write the true history of her and her time.
Gladstone had been compared to the classical figure of Abraham Lincoln so many times that when I was finally ushered into her presence that night of the armada party, I was half surprised not to find her in a black frock coat and stovepipe hat. The CEO of the Senate and leader of a government serving a hundred and thirty billion people was wearing a gray suit of soft wool, trousers and tunic top ornamented only by the slightest hint of red cord piping at seems and cuffs. I did not think she looked like Abraham Lincoln … nor like Alvarez-Temp, the second most common hero of antiquity cited as her Doppelganger by the press. I thought that she looked like an old lady.
Meina Gladstone was tall and thin, but her countenance was more aquiline than Lincolnesque, with her blunt beak of a nose; sharp cheekbones; the wide, expressive mouth with thin lips; and gray hair rising in a roughly cropped wave, which did indeed resemble feathers. But to my mind, the most memorable aspect of Meina Gladstone’s appearance was her eyes: large, brown, and infinitely sad.
We were not alone. I had been led into a long, softly lighted room lined with wooden shelves holding many hundreds of printed books. A long holoframe simulating a window gave a view of the gardens. A meeting was in the process of breaking up, and a dozen men and women stood or sat in a rough half-circle that held Gladstone’s desk at its cusp. The CEO leaned back casually on her desk, resting her weight on the front of it, her arms folded. She looked up as I entered.
“M. Severn?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for coming.” Her voice was familiar from a thousand All Thing debates, its timbre rough with age and its tone as smooth as an expensive liqueur. Her accent was famous—blending precise syntax with an almost forgotten lilt of pre-Hegira English, evidently now found only in the river-delta regions of her home world of Patawpha. “Gentlemen and ladies, let me introduce M. Joseph Severn,” she said.
Several of the group nodded, obviously at a loss as to why I was there. Gladstone made no further introductions, but I touched the datasphere to identify everyone: three cabinet members, including the Minister of Defense; two FORCE chiefs of staff; two aides to Gladstone; four senators, including the influential Senator Kolchev; and a projection of a TechnoCore Councilor known as Albedo.
“M. Severn has been invited here to bring an artist’s perspective to the proceedings,” said CEO Gladstone.
FORCE:ground General Morpurgo snorted a laugh. “An artist’s perspective? With all due respect, CEO, what the hell does that mean?”
Gladstone smiled. Instead of answering the General, she turned back to me. “What do you think of the passing of the armada, M. Severn?”
“It’s pretty,” I said.
General Morpurgo made a noise again. “Pretty? He looks at the greatest concentration of space-force firepower in the history of the galaxy and calls it pretty?” He turned toward another military man and shook his head.
Gladstone’s smile had not wavered. “And what of the war?” she asked me. “Do you have an opinion on our attempt to rescue Hyperion from the Ouster barbarians?”
“It’s stupid,” I said.
The room became very silent. Current real-time polling in the All Thing showed 98 percent approval of CEO Gladstone’s decision to fight rather than cede the colonial world of Hyperion to the Ousters. Gladstone’s political future rested on a positive outcome of the conflict. The men and women in that room had been instrumental in formulating the policy, making the decision to invade, and carrying out the logistics. The silence stretched.
“Why is it stupid?” Gladstone asked softly.
I made a gesture with my right hand. “The Hegemony’s not been at war since its founding seven centuries ago,” I said. “It is foolish to test its basic stability this way.”
“Not at war!” shouted General Morpurgo. He gripped his knees with massive hands. “What the hell do you call the Glennon-Height Rebellion?”
“A rebellion,” I said. “A mutiny. A police action.”
Senator Kolchev showed his teeth in a smile that held no amusement. He was from Lusus and seemed more muscle than man. “Fleet actions,” he said, “half a million dead, two FORCE divisions locked in combat for more than a year. Some police action, son.”
I said nothing.
Leigh Hunt, an older, consumptive-looking man reported to be Gladstone’s closest aide, cleared his throat. “But what M. Severn says is interesting. Where do you see the difference between this … ah … conflict and the Glennon-Height wars, sir?”
“Glennon-Height was a former FORCE officer,” I said, aware that I was stating the obvious. “The Ousters have been an unknown quantity for centuries. The rebels’ forces were known, their potential easily gauged; the Ouster Swarms have been outside the Web since the Hegira. Glennon-Height stayed within the Protectorate, raiding worlds no farther than two months’ time-debt from the Web; Hyperion is three years from Parvati, the closest Web staging area.”
“You think we haven’t thought of all this?” asked General Morpurgo. “What about the Battle of Bressia? We’ve already fought the Ousters there. That was no … rebellion.”
“Quiet, please,” said Leigh Hunt. “Go on, M. Severn.”
I shrugged again. “The primary difference is that in this case we are dealing with Hyperion,” I said.
Senator Richeau, one of the women present, nodded as if I had explained myself in full. “You’re afraid of the Shrike,” she said. “Do you belong to the Church of the Final Atonement?”
“No,” I said, “I’m not a member of the Shrike Cult.”
“What are you?” demanded Morpurgo.
“An artist,” I lied.
Leigh Hunt smiled and turned to Gladstone. “I agree that we needed this perspective to sober us, CEO,” he said, gest
uring toward the window and the holo images showing the still-applauding crowds, “but while our artist friend has brought up necessary points, they have all been reviewed and weighed in full.”
Senator Kolchev cleared his throat. “I hate to mention the obvious when it seems we are all intent on ignoring it, but does this … gentleman … have the proper security clearance to be present at such a discussion?”
Gladstone nodded and showed the slight smile so many caricaturists had tried to capture “M. Severn has been commissioned by the Arts Ministry to do a series of drawings of me during the next few days or weeks. The theory is, I believe, that these will have some historical significance and may lead to a formal portrait. At any rate, M. Severn has been granted a T-level gold security clearance, and we may speak freely in front of him. Also, I appreciate his candor. Perhaps his arrival serves to suggest that our meeting has reached its conclusion. I will join you all in the War Room at 0800 hours tomorrow morning, just before the fleet translates to Hyperion space.”
The group broke up at once. General Morpurgo glowered at me as he left. Senator Kolchev stared with some curiosity as he passed. Councilor Albedo merely faded into nothingness. Leigh Hunt was the only one besides Gladstone and me to remain behind. He made himself more comfortable by draping one leg over the arm of the priceless pre-Hegira chair in which he sat. “Sit down,” said Hunt.
I glanced at the CEO. She had taken her seat behind the massive desk, and now she nodded. I sat in the straight-backed chair General Morpurgo had occupied. CEO Gladstone said, “Do you really think that defending Hyperion is stupid?”
“Yes.”
Gladstone steepled her fingers and tapped at her lower lip. Behind her, the window showed the armada party continuing in silent agitation. “If you have any hope of being reunited with your … ah … counterpart,” she said, “it would seem to be in your interest for us to carry out the Hyperion campaign.”
I said nothing. The window view shifted to show the night sky still ablaze with fusion trails.
“Did you bring drawing materials?” asked Gladstone.
I brought out the pencil and small sketchpad I had told Diana Philomel I did not have.
“Draw while we talk,” said Meina Gladstone.
I began sketching, roughing in the relaxed, almost slumped posture, and then working on the details of the face. The eyes intrigued me.
I was vaguely aware that Leigh Hunt was staring intently at me. “Joseph Severn,” he said. “An interesting choice of names.”
I used quick, bold lines to give the sense of Gladstone’s high brow and strong nose.
“Do you know why people are leery of cybrids?” Hunt asked.
“Yes,” I said. “The Frankenstein monster syndrome. Fear of anything in human form that is not completely human. It’s the real reason androids were outlawed, I suppose.”
“Uh-huh,” agreed Hunt. “But cybrids are completely human, aren’t they?”
“Genetically they are,” I said. I found myself thinking of my mother, remembering the times I had read to her during her illness. I thought of my brother Tom. “But they are also part of the Core,” I said, “and thus fit the description of ‘not completely human.’ ”
“Are you part of the Core?” asked Meina Gladstone, turning full face toward me. I started a new sketch.
“Not really,” I said. “I can travel freely through the regions they allow me in, but it is more like someone accessing the datasphere than a true Core personality’s ability.” Her face had been more interesting in three-quarters profile, but the eyes were more powerful when viewed straight on. I worked on the latticework of lines radiating from the corners of those eyes. Meina Gladstone obviously had never indulged in Poulsen treatments.
“If it were possible to keep secrets from the Core,” said Gladstone, “it would be folly to allow you free access to the councils of government. As it is …” She dropped her hands and sat up. I flipped to a new page.
“As it is,” said Gladstone, “you have information I need. Is it true that you can read the mind of your counterpart, the first retrieval persona?”
“No,” I said. It was difficult to capture the complicated interplay of line and muscle at the corners of her mouth. I sketched in my attempt to do so, moved on to the strong chin and shaded the area beneath the underlip.
Hunt frowned and glanced at the CEO. M. Gladstone brought her fingertips together again. “Explain,” she said.
I looked up from the drawing. “I dream,” I said. “The contents of the dream appear to correspond to the events occurring around the person carrying the implant of the previous Keats persona.”
“A woman named Brawne Lamia,” said Leigh Hunt.
“Yes.”
Gladstone nodded. “So the original Keats persona, the one thought killed on Lusus, is still alive?”
I paused. “It … he … is still aware,” I said. “You know that the primary personality substrate was extracted from the Core, probably by the cybrid himself, and implanted in a Schrön-loop bio-shunt carried by M. Lamia.”
“Yes, yes,” said Leigh Hunt. “But the fact is, you are in contact with the Keats persona, and through him, with the Shrike pilgrims.”
Quick, dark strokes provided a dark background to give the sketch of Gladstone more depth. “I am not actually in contact,” I said. “I dream dreams about Hyperion that your fatline broadcasts have confirmed as conforming to real-time events. I cannot communicate to the passive Keats persona, nor to its host or the other pilgrims.”
CEO Gladstone blinked. “How did you know about the fatline broadcasts?”
“The Consul told the other pilgrims about his comlog’s ability to relay through the fatline transmitter in his ship. He told them just before they descended into the valley.”
Gladstone’s tone hinted of her years as a lawyer before entering politics. “And how did the others respond to the Consul’s revelation?”
I put the pencil back in my pocket. “They knew that a spy was in their midst,” I said. “You told each of them.”
Gladstone glanced at her aide. Hunt’s expression was blank. “If you’re in touch with them,” she said, “you must know that we’ve received no message since before they left Keep Chronos to descend to the Time Tombs.”
I shook my head. “Last night’s dream ended just as they approached the valley.”
Meina Gladstone rose, paced to the window, raised a hand, and the image went black “So you don’t know if any of them are still alive?”
“No.”
“What was their status the last time you … dreamt?”
Hunt was watching me as intensely as ever. Meina Gladstone was staring at the dark screen, her back to both of us. “All of the pilgrims were alive,” I said, “with the possible exception of Het Masteen, the True Voice of the Tree.”
“He was dead?” asked Hunt.
“He disappeared from the windwagon on the Sea of Grass two nights before, only hours after the Ouster scouts had destroyed the treeship Yggdrasill. But shortly before the pilgrims descended from Keep Chronos, they saw a robed figure crossing the sands toward the Tombs.”
“Het Masteen?” asked Gladstone.
I lifted a hand. “They assumed so. They were not sure.”
“Tell me about the others,” said the CEO.
I took a breath. I knew from the dreams that Gladstone had known at least two of the people on the last Shrike Pilgrimage; Brawne Lamia’s father had been a fellow senator, and the Hegemony Consul had been Gladstone’s personal representative in secret negotiations with the Ousters. “Father Hoyt is in great pain,” I said. “He told the story of the cruciform. The Consul learned that Hoyt also wears one … two actually, Father Duré’s and his own.”
Gladstone nodded. “So he still carries the resurrection parasite?”
“Yes.”
“Does it bother him more as he approaches the Shrike’s lair?”
“I believe so,” I said. “Go on.”
“The poet, Silenus, has been drunk much of the time. He is convinced that his unfinished poem predicted and determines the course of events.”
“On Hyperion?” asked Gladstone, her back still turned.
“Everywhere,” I said.
Hunt glanced at the chief executive and then looked back at me. “Is Silenus insane?”
I returned his gaze but said nothing. In truth, I did not know.
“Go on,” Gladstone said again.
“Colonel Kassad continues with his twin obsessions of finding the woman named Moneta and of killing the Shrike. He is aware that they may be one and the same.”
“Is he armed?” Gladstone’s voice was very soft.
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
“Sol Weintraub, the scholar from Barnard’s World, hopes to enter the tomb called the Sphinx as soon as—”
“Excuse me,” said Gladstone, “but is his daughter still with him?”
“Yes.”
“And how old is Rachel now?”
“Five days, I believe.” I closed my eyes to remember the previous night’s dream in greater detail. “Yes,” I said, “five days.”
“And still aging backward in time?”
“Yes.”
“Go on, M. Severn. Please tell me about Brawne Lamia and the Consul.”
“M. Lamia is carrying out the wishes of her former client … and lover,” I said. “The Keats persona felt it was necessary for him to confront the Shrike. M. Lamia is doing it in his stead.”
“M. Severn,” began Leigh Hunt, “you speak of ‘the Keats persona’ as if it had no relevance or connection to your own … ”
“Later, please, Leigh,” said Meina Gladstone. She turned to look at me. “I’m curious about the Consul. Did he take his turn at telling his reason for joining the pilgrimage?”
“Yes,” I said.
Gladstone and Hunt waited.
“The Consul told them about his grandmother,” I said. “The woman called Siri who started the Maui-Covenant rebellion more than half a century ago. He told them about the death of his own family during the battle for Bressia, and he revealed his secret meetings with the Ousters.”
