The Hyperion Cantos 4-Book Bundle

by Dan Simmons

  Father Captain de Soya is part of a millennia-long line of sailors, sea and space, who become fanatic about a place for everything and everything in its place. He is a spacer. Almost two decades of serving in frigates, destroyers, and torchships have shown him that anything he leaves out of place will literally be in his face as soon as the ship goes to zero-g. More important, he has the age-old sailor’s need to be able to reach out and find anything without looking, in darkness or storm. Granted, he thinks, the alignment of the handle of his coffee bulb is not a major issue … except it is. Each man has learned to use one of the chair niches at the five-person plotting table that doubles for the mess table in the crowded command pod. When they are using the table to plot courses or view planetary maps, each of the men—Rettig included when he was alive—had sat or stood or floated at their usual places at the table. It was human nature. It was second nature to spacers to keep their habits neat and predictable.

  Someone had tapped his coffee bulb handle out of alignment—perhaps with a knee nestled there in zero-g to hold him … her … in place. Paranoid. Definitely.

  In addition, there had been the troubling news whispered to him by Sergeant Gregorius in the minutes between that man’s emergence from the resurrection creche and Corporal Nemes’s awakening.

  “A friend of mine in the Swiss Guard in the Vatican, Captain. Had a drink with him the night before we left. He knew us all—Kee and Rettig—and he swore he saw Lancer Rettig bein’ carried unconscious on a litter to an ambulance outside the Vatican infirmary.”

  “Impossible,” de Soya had said. “Lancer Rettig died of resurrection complications and was buried in space while in Mare Infinitus space.”

  “Aye,” Gregorius had growled, “but my friend was sure … almost sure … that it was Rettig in the ambulance. Unconscious, life-support paks attached, oxygen mask an’ all, but Rettig.”

  “That makes no sense,” de Soya had said. He had always been suspicious of conspiracy theories, knowing from personal experience that secrets shared by more than two people rarely stayed secrets for long. “Why would Pax Fleet and the Church lie to us about Rettig? And where is he if he was alive on Pacem?”

  Gregorius had shrugged. “Maybe it wasn’t him, Captain. That’s what I’ve been telling myself. But the ambulance—”

  “What about it?” de Soya had snapped, more sharply than he had intended.

  “It was headed for Castel San’Angelo, sir,” said Gregorius. “Headquarters for the Holy Office.”

  Paranoia.

  The records of the eleven hours of deceleration are normal—high-g braking, the usual three-day resurrection cycle ensuring the maximum chance for their safe recovery. De Soya glances at the orbital-insertion figures and runs the video of Sol Draconi Septem’s slow rotation. He always wonders at those lost days—Raphael carrying out her simple tasks while the creches revive him and the others—he wonders at the eery silence that must fill the ship.

  “Three minutes until translation,” comes Raphael’s crude synthesized voice. “All personnel should be in creche couches.”

  De Soya ignores the warning and calls up data files on the two and a half days the ship spent in orbit around Sol Draconi Septem before he and the others regained life. He is not sure what he was looking for … no record of dropship deployment … no sign of early life-support activation … all creche monitors reporting the regular cycle, the first quickenings of life in the last hours of the third day … all orbital ship records normal … wait!

  “Two minutes until translation,” says the flat ship’s voice.

  There on the first day, shortly after attaining standard geosynchronous orbit … and there again about four hours later. Everything normal except the dry details of four small reactor-thruster firings. To attain and hold a perfect geosynchronous orbit, a ship like Raphael will fire dozens of little thruster tweaks such as these. But most such fine-tunings, de Soya knows, involve the large reaction-thruster pods on the stern near the fusion drive, and on the command-pod boom at the bow of the awkwardly configured courier ship. These thruster burps were similar—first a double firing to stabilize the ship during a roll so the command pod was facing away from the planet—normal during rotisserie mode to spread the solar heating uniformly along the ship’s surface without using field coolant—but only eight minutes here—and here! And after the roll, those paired reaction tweaks. Two and two. Then the final paired burps, which might accompany the larger thruster firings that would roll the ship back with the command-pod cameras aimed down at the planet. Then, four hours and eight minutes later, the entire sequence again. There are thirty-eight other station-keeping thruster sequences on the record, and none of the major thruster firings that would signify a roll of the entire ship stack, but these twin four-burp interludes stand out to de Soya’s trained eye.

  “One minute until translation,” warns Raphael.

  De Soya can hear the huge field generators beginning to whine in preparation for the shift to the modified Hawking system that will kill him in fifty-six seconds. He ignores it. His command chair will carry his dead body to the creche after translation if he does not move now. The ship is designed that way—messy, but necessary.

  Father Captain Federico de Soya has been a torchship captain for many years. He has made more than a dozen archangel-courier jumps. He knows that double-burp, roll, double-burp signature on a reaction-thruster record. Even with the actual roll event deleted from the ship’s records, the fingerprints for the maneuver is there in outline. The roll is to orient the dropship, which is tied down on the opposite side of the command-pod cluster, to the planet’s atmosphere. The second double burp—the one still on record here—is to counteract the propellant squids separating the dropship from the center of Raphael’s mass. The final double firing is to stabilize the stack once the ship has returned to normal attitude, command-pod cameras trained on the planet below once again.

  None of this is as obvious as it sounds, since the entire stack is slowly rotating in rotisserie mode during the entire time, occasional tweaks aligning the stack for better heating or cooling purposes. But to de Soya the signature is unmistakable. He taps directions to bring up the other records again. Negative sign of dropship deployment. Negative record of dropship deployment roll maneuver. Positive indicators of constant dropship attachment. Negative sign of life-support activation prior to everyone’s resurrection a few hours before. Negative images of the dropship moving toward atmosphere on video records. Constant image-record of dropship attached and empty.

  The only anomaly is two eight-minute thruster-tweak sequences four hours apart. Eight minutes of roll away from the planet would allow a dropship to disappear into atmosphere without main-camera visual record. Or to reappear and rendezvous. Boom cameras and radar would have recorded the event unless commanded to ignore it prior to dropship separation. That would have required less tampering with the record after the fact.

  If someone had ordered the ship’s computer to delete all records of dropship deployment, Raphael’s limited AI might have altered the record in just such a way, not realizing that the small-thruster firings during rotisserie mode would leave any footprint. And for anyone less experienced than a twelve-year torchship captain, it would not have. If de Soya had an hour or so to call up all the hydrogen fuel data, cross-check against dropship refueling needs and system-entry requirements, then double-check with the Bussard hydrogen collector input during deceleration, he would have a better idea if the main stack-roll maneuvers and dropship deployment had occurred. If he had an hour or so to himself.

  “Thirty seconds until translation.”

  De Soya does not have time to reach his creche couch. He does have time to call up a special command sequence for ship operations, tap in his override code, confirm it, change monitor parameters, and do it twice more. He has just heard the confirmation acknowledgment on the third override when the quantum leap to archangel C-plus occurs.

  The translation literally tears de Soy
a apart within the confines of his couch. He dies grinning fiercely.

  50

  “Raul!”

  It was at least an hour before Qom-Riyadh’s sunrise. Both A. Bettik and I were sitting in chairs in the room where Aenea slept. I had been dozing. A. Bettik was awake—as he always seemed to be—but I reached the girl’s bedside first. The light from the biomonitor readouts over the bed was the only illumination. Outside, the dust storm had been howling for hours.

  “Raul …” The readouts said that her fever was down, pain was gone, that only the erratic EEGs remained.

  “Right here, kiddo.” I took her right hand in mine. Her fingers no longer felt feverish.

  “You saw the Shrike?”

  This caught me by surprise, but I realized in a moment that it did not have to be prescience or telepathy at work here. I had radioed A. Bettik about the sighting. He must have had the com unit’s speakers on and Aenea had been awake enough to register it.

  “Yeah,” I said, “but it’s okay. It’s not here.”

  “But you saw it.”

  “Yes.”

  She gripped my hand with both of hers and sat up in bed. I could see her dark eyes gleaming in the faint light. “Where, Raul? Where did you see it?”

  “On the raft.” I used my free hand to push her back onto the pillows. The pillowcase and her undershirt were soaked with sweat. “It’s all right, kiddo. It didn’t do anything. It was there when I left.”

  “Did it turn its head, Raul? Did it look at you?”

  “Well, yes, but …” I stopped. She was moaning softly, her head thrashing back and forth on the pillow. “Kiddo … Aenea … it’s all right.…”

  “No, it’s not,” said the girl. “Ah, God, Raul. I asked him to come with me. That last night. Did you know that I asked him to come along? He said no—”

  “Who said no?” I asked. “The Shrike?” A. Bettik came up behind me. Outside, the red sand chafed at the windows and sliding door.

  “No, no, no,” said Aenea. Her cheeks were moist, although whether it was from tears or her fever breaking, I did not know. “Father Glaucus,” she said, her voice almost lost under the wind noise. “That last night … I asked Father Glaucus to come with us. I shouldn’t have asked him, Raul … it was not part of my … my dreams … but I did ask, and if I asked, I should have insisted.…”

  “It’s all right,” I said, pushing a damp tendril of hair off her brow. “Father Glaucus is all right.”

  “No, he’s not,” said the girl, and moaned softly. “He’s dead. The thing that’s chasing us killed him. Him and all the Chitchatuk.”

  I looked at the monitor board again. It still showed improvement from the fever, despite her ravings. I looked at A. Bettik, but the android was staring intently at the child.

  “You mean the Shrike killed them?” I said.

  “No, not the Shrike,” she said softly, and laid her wrist against her lips. “At least I don’t think so. No, it wasn’t the Shrike.” Suddenly she gripped my hand in both of hers. “Raul, do you love me?”

  I could only stare a moment. Then, not withdrawing my hand, I said, “Sure, kiddo. I mean …”

  Aenea seemed to really look at me then for the first time since she had come awake and called my name. “No, stop,” she said. She laughed softly. “I’m sorry. I came unglued in time for a minute. Of course you don’t love me. I forgot when we were … who we were to each other now.”

  “No, it’s all right,” I said, not understanding. I patted her hand. “I do care for you, kiddo. So does A. Bettik, and we’re going to—”

  “Hush,” said Aenea. She freed her hand and set one finger against my lips. “Hush. I was lost for a moment. I thought we were … us. The way we’re going to …” She lay back deeper in the pillows and sighed. “My God, it’s the night before God’s Grove. Our last night traveling …”

  I was not sure if she was making sense yet. I waited.

  A. Bettik said, “M. Aenea, is God’s Grove our next destination on the river?”

  “I guess so,” said the girl, sounding more like the child I knew. “Yes. I don’t know. It all fades.…” She sat up again. “It’s not the Shrike chasing us, you know. Nor the Pax.”

  “Of course it’s the Pax,” I said, trying to get her to make contact with reality. “They’ve been after us since …”

  Aenea was shaking her head adamantly. Her hair hung in damp tendrils. “No,” she said softly but very firmly. “The Pax is after us because the Core tells it we’re dangerous to them.”

  “The Core?” I said. “But it’s … ever since the Fall it’s been …”

  “Alive and dangerous,” said Aenea. “After Gladstone and the others destroyed the farcaster system that provided the Core with its neural net, it retreated … but it never went far, Raul. Can’t you see that?”

  “No,” I said. “I can’t. Where has it been if it didn’t go far?”

  “The Pax,” the girl said simply. “My father—his persona in Mother’s Schrön Loop—explained it to me before I was born. The Core waited until the Church began being revitalized under Paul Duré … Pope Teilhard I. Duré was a good man, Raul. My mother and Uncle Martin knew him. He carried two cruciforms … his own and Father Lenar Hoyt’s. But Hoyt was … weak.”

  I patted her wrist. “But what does this have to do with—”

  “Listen!” said the girl, pulling her arm back. “Anything can happen tomorrow on God’s Grove. I can die. We can all die. The future is never written … only penciled in. If I die but you survive, I want you to explain to Uncle Martin … to whoever will listen …”

  “You’re not going to die, Aenea—”

  “Just listen!” pleaded the girl. There were tears in her eyes again.

  I nodded and listened. Even the wind howl seemed to abate.

  “Teilhard was murdered in his ninth year. My father predicted it. I don’t know if it was by TechnoCore agents … they use cybrids … or just Vatican politics, but when Lenar Hoyt was resurrected from their shared cruciforms, the Core acted. It was the Core that provided the technology of allowing the cruciform to revive humans without the sexlessness or idiocy visited on the Bikura tribe on Hyperion.…”

  “But how?” I said. “How could the TechnoCore AIs know how to tame the cruciform symbiote?” I saw the answer even before she spoke.

  “They created the cruciforms,” said Aenea. “Not the current Core, but the UI they create in the future. It sent the things back in time on Hyperion just as it did the Time Tombs. Tested the parasites on the lost tribe … the Bikura … saw the problems …”

  “Little problems,” I said, “like resurrection destroying reproductive organs and intelligence.”

  “Yes,” said Aenea. She took my hand again. “The Core was able to correct those problems with their technology. Technology they gave the Church under its new Pope … Lenar Hoyt. Julius VI.”

  I began to understand. “A Faustian bargain …,” I said.

  “The Faustian bargain,” said the girl. “All the Church had to do to gain the universe was sell its soul.”

  “And thus the Pax Protectorate was born,” A. Bettik said softly. “Political power through the barrel of a parasite …”

  “It’s the Core that’s after us … after me,” continued the child. “I’m a threat to them, not just to the Church.”

  I shook my head slowly. “How are you a threat to the Core? You’re one child.…”

  “One child who was in touch with a renegade cybrid persona before I was born,” she whispered. “My father was loose, Raul. Not just in the datasphere or the megasphere … but in the metasphere. Loose in the wider psychocerbernet that even the Core was terrified of.…”

  “Lions and tigers and bears,” muttered A. Bettik.

  “Exactly,” said Aenea. “When my father’s persona penetrated the Core megasphere, he asked the AI, Ummon, what the Core was afraid of. They said that they didn’t range farther in the metasphere because it was full of lions and t
igers and bears.”

  “I don’t get it, kiddo,” I said. “I’m lost.”

  She leaned forward and squeezed my hand. Her breath on my cheek was warm and sweet. “Raul, you know Uncle Martin’s Cantos. What happened to the Earth?”

  “Old Earth?” I said stupidly. “In the Cantos the AI Ummon said that the three elements of the TechnoCore were at war.… We talked about this.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “Ummon told the Keats persona … your father … that the Volatiles wanted to destroy humanity. The Stables … his group … wanted to save it. They faked the black-hole destruction of Old Earth and spirited it away to either the Magellanic Clouds or the Hercules Cluster. The Ultimates, the third group, didn’t give a damn what happened to Old Earth or humanity as long as their Ultimate Intelligent project came to fruition.”

  Aenea waited.

  “And the Church agrees with what everyone else believes,” I continued somewhat lamely. “That Old Earth was swallowed by the black hole and died when it was supposed to have died.”

  “Which version do you believe, Raul?”

  I took a breath. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’d like Old Earth to still exist, I guess, but somehow it doesn’t seem that important.”

  “What if there was a third possibility?” said Aenea.