The Hyperion Cantos 4-Book Bundle

by Dan Simmons

  I began moving that way, shifting my left foot forward as I changed handholds from branch to branch, sometimes ducking beneath hanging fronds, sometimes shifting aside like a slow-motion toreador to allow floating branches or other debris to swirl past. The move toward brightness took hours more. But I had nothing better to do.

  The flooded jungle ended in a river. I clung to the last branch, felt the current trying to pull my good leg out from under me, and stared out at the endless expanse of gray water. I could not see the other side—not because the water was endless, I could see from the current and eddies moving from right to left that it was a river and not some lake or ocean, but because the fog or low clouds roiled almost to the surface, blotting out everything more than a hundred meters away. Gray water, gray-green dripping trees, dark gray clouds. It seemed to be getting dimmer. Night was coming on.

  I had gone as far as I could on this leg. Fever raged. Despite the jungle heat of the place, my teeth were chattering and my hands were shaking almost uncontrollably. Somewhere in my awkward progress through the flooded jungle, I had aggravated the fracture to the point where I wanted to scream. No, I admit, I had been screaming. Softly at first, but as the hours went by and the pain deepened and the situation worsened, I screamed out lyrics to old Home Guard marching songs, then bawdy limericks I had learned as a bargeman on the Kans River, then merely screams.

  So much for the building the raft scenario.

  I was getting used to the caustic voice in my head. It and I had made a peace when I realized that it wasn’t urging me to lie down and die, just critiquing my inadequate efforts to stay alive.

  There goes your best chance for a raft, Raul, old boy.

  The river was carrying by an entire tree, its braided trunk rolling over and over again in the deep water. I was standing shoulder-deep here, and I was ten meters from the edge of the real current.

  “Yeah,” I said aloud. My fingers slipped on the smooth bark of the branch to which I was clinging. I shifted position and pulled myself up a bit. Something grated in my leg and this time I was sure that black spots dulled my vision. “Yeah,” I said again. What are the odds that I’ll stay conscious, or that it will stay light, or that I’ll stay alive, long enough to catch one of those commuter trees? Swimming for one was out of the question. My right leg was useless and my other three limbs were shaking as if palsied. I had just enough strength to cling to this branch for another few minutes. “Yeah,” I said again. “Shit.”

  “Excuse me, M. Endymion. Were you speaking to me?”

  The voice almost made me lose my grip on the branch. Still clinging with my right hand, I lowered my left wrist and studied it in the dimming light. The comlog had a slight glow that had not been there the last time I had looked.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. I thought that you were broken, Ship.”

  “This instrument is damaged, sir. The memory has been wiped. The neural circuits are quite dead. Only the com chips function under emergency power.”

  I frowned at my wrist. “I don’t understand. If your memory has been wiped and your neural circuits are …”

  The river pulled at my torn leg, seducing me into releasing my grip. For a moment I could not speak.

  “Ship?” I said at last.

  “Yes, M. Endymion?”

  “You’re here.”

  “Of course, M. Endymion. Just as you and M. Aenea instructed me to stay. I am pleased to say that all necessary repairs have been …”

  “Show yourself,” I commanded. It was almost dark. Tendrils of fog curled toward me across the black river.

  The starship rose dripping, horizontal, its bow only twenty meters from me in the central current, blocking the current like a sudden boulder, hovering still half in the water, a black leviathan shedding river water in noisy rivulets. Navigation lights blinked on its bow and on the dripping black shark’s fin far behind it in the fog.

  I laughed. Or wept. Or perhaps just moaned.

  “Do you wish to swim to me, sir? Or should I come in to you?”

  My fingers were slipping. “Come in to me,” I said, and gripped the branch with both hands.

  There was a doc-in-the-box on the cryogenic fugue cubby-deck where Aenea used to sleep on the voyage out from Hyperion. The doc-in-the-box was ancient—hell, the whole ship was ancient—but its autorepair worked, it was well stocked, and—according to the garrulous ship on the way out four years earlier—the Ousters had tinkered with it back in the Consul’s day. It worked.

  I lay in the ultraviolet warmth as soft appendages probed my skin, salved my bruises, sutured my deeper cuts, administered painkiller via IV drip, and finished diagnosing me.

  “It is a compound fracture, M. Endymion,” said the ship. “Would you care to see the X rays and ultrasound?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “How do we fix it?”

  “We’ve already begun,” said the ship. “The bone is being set as we speak. The bondplast and ultrasonic grafting will commence while you sleep. Because of the repair to damaged nerves and muscle tissue, the surgeon recommends at least ten hours’ sleep while it begins the procedure.”

  “Soon enough,” I said.

  “The diagnostic’s greatest concern is your fever, M. Endymion.”

  “It’s a result of the break, isn’t it?”

  “Negative,” said the ship. “It seems that you have a rather virulent kidney infection. Left untreated, it would have killed you before the ancillary effects of the broken femur.”

  “Cheery thought,” I said.

  “How so, sir?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “You say that you’re totally repaired?”

  “Totally, M. Endymion. Better than before the accident, if you don’t mind me bragging a bit. You see, because of the loss of some material, I was afraid that I would have to synthesize carbon-carbon templates from the rather dross rock substrata of this river, but I soon found that by recycling some of the unused components of the compression dampers made superfluous by the Ouster modifications that I could evince a thirty-two percent increase in autorepair efficiency if I …”

  “Never mind, Ship,” I said. The absence of pain made me almost giddy. “How long did it take you to finish the repairs?”

  “Five standard months,” said the ship. “Eight and one-half local months. This world has an odd lunar cycle with two highly irregular moons which I have postulated must be captured asteroids because of the …”

  “Five months,” I said. “And you’ve just been waiting the other three and a half years?”

  “Yes,” said the ship. “As instructed. I trust that all is well with A. Bettik and M. Aenea.”

  “I trust that too, Ship. But we’ll find out soon enough. Are you ready to leave this place?”

  “All ship’s systems are functional, M. Endymion. Awaiting your command.”

  “Command is given,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  The ship piped in the holo showing us rising above the river. It was dark out, but the night-vision lenses showed the swollen river and the farcaster arch only a few hundred meters upstream. I had not seen it in the fog. We rose above the river, above the swirling clouds.

  “River’s up from the last time I was here,” I said.

  “Yes,” said the ship. The curve of the planet became visible, the sun rising again above fleecy clouds. “It floods for a period of some three standard months every local orbital cycle, which equals approximately eleven standard months.”

  “So you know what world this is now?” I said. “You weren’t sure when we left you.”

  “I am quite confident that this planet was not among the two thousand eight hundred sixty-seven worlds in the General Catalogue Index,” said the ship. “My astronomical observations have shown that it is neither in Pax space nor in the realm of the former World Web or Outback.”

  “Not in the old WorldWeb or Outback,” I repeated. “Where is it then?”

  “Approximately two hundred and eighty light-years galactic no
rthwest of the Outback system known as NNGC 4645 Delta,” said the ship.

  Feeling slightly groggy from the painkiller, I said, “A new world. Beyond the Outback. Why did it have farcasters then? Why was the river part of the Tethys?”

  “I do not know, M. Endymion. But I should mention that there is a multitude of interesting life-forms which I observed by remotes while resting on the river bottom. Besides the river manta-ish creature which you and M. Aenea and A. Bettik observed downriver, there are more than three hundred observed species of avian variety and at least two species of humanoids.”

  “Two species of humanoids? You mean humans.”

  “Negative,” said the ship. “Humanoids. Definitely not Old Earth human. One variety is quite small—little more than a meter in height—with bilateral symmetry but quite variant skeletal structure and a definite reddish hue.”

  A memory flitted by of a red-rock monolith Aenea and I had scouted on the lost hawking mat during our short stay here. Tiny steps carved in the smooth stone. I shook my head to clear it. “That’s interesting, Ship. But let’s set our destination.” The curve of the world had become pronounced and stars were gleaming unblinkingly. The ship continued to rise. We passed a potato-shaped moon and moved farther from orbit. The unnamed world became a blinding sphere of sunlit clouds. “Do you know the world known as T’ien Shan, or the ‘Mountains of Heaven’?”

  “T’ien Shan,” repeated the ship. “Yes. As far as my memory serves, I have never been there, but I have the coordinates. A small world in the Outback, settled by refugees of the Third Chinese Civil War late in the Hegira.”

  “You won’t have any trouble getting there?”

  “None would be anticipated,” said the ship. “A simple Hawking-drive jump. Although I recommend that you use the autosurgeon as your cryogenic fugue cubby during the jump.”

  I shook my head again. “I’ll stay awake, Ship. At least after the doc heals my leg.”

  “I would recommend against that, M. Endymion.”

  I frowned. “Why? Aenea and I stayed awake during the other jumps.”

  “Yes, but those were relatively short voyages within the old WorldWeb,” said the ship. “What you now call Pax space. This will be a bit more extensive.”

  “How extensive?” I said. My naked body felt a sudden chill. Our longest jump—to Renaissance Vector System—had taken ten days of ship travel time and five months of time-debt for the Pax Fleet waiting for us. “How extensive a trip?” I said again.

  “Three standard months, eighteen days, six hours, and some minutes,” said the ship.

  “That’s not too bad a time-debt,” I said. I last saw Aenea just after her sixteenth birthday. She would gain a few months on me. Her hair might be longer. “We had a greater time-debt jumping to Renaissance System.”

  “That is not time-debt, M. Endymion,” said the ship. “That is shiptime.”

  This time the chill along the length of my body was real. My tongue seemed thick. “Three months’ shiptime … how much time-debt?”

  “For someone waiting on T’ien Shan?” said the ship. The jungle world was a speck behind us now as we accelerated toward a translation point. “Five years, two months, and one day,” said the ship. “As you are aware, the time-debt algorithm is not a linear function of C-plus duration, but includes such factors as …”

  “Ah, Jesus,” I said, raising my wrist to my clammy forehead in the autosurgeon coffin. “Ah, damn.”

  “Are you in pain, M. Endymion? The dolorometer suggests you are not, but your pulse has become erratic. We can increase the level of painkiller …”

  “No!” I snapped. “No, it’s all right. I just … five years … damn.”

  Did Aenea know this? Had she known that our separation would cover years of her life? Perhaps I should have brought the ship through the downriver farcaster. No, Aenea had said to fetch the ship and fly it to T’ien Shan. The farcaster had brought us to Mare Infinitus last time. Who knows where it would have taken me this time.

  “Five years,” I muttered. “Ah, damn. She’ll be … damn, Ship … she’ll be twenty-one years old. A grown woman. I’ll have missed … I won’t see … she won’t remember …”

  “Are you sure you are not in pain, M. Endymion? Your vital signs are turbulent.”

  “Ignore that, Ship.”

  “Shall I prepare the autosurgeon for cryogenic fugue?”

  “Soon enough, Ship. Tell it to put me under while it heals my leg tonight and deals with the fever. I want at least ten hours’ sleep. How long until translation point?”

  “Only seventeen hours. It is well inside this system.”

  “Good,” I said. “Wake me in ten hours. Have a full breakfast ready. What I used to have when we celebrated ‘Sunday’ on our voyage out.”

  “Very good. Anything else?”

  “Yeah, do you have any record holos of … of Aenea … on our last trip?”

  “I have stored several hours of such records, M. Endymion. The time you were swimming in the zero-g bubble on the outer balcony. The discussion you had about religion versus rationality. The flying lessons down the central dropshaft when …”

  “Good,” I said. “Cue those up. I’ll look through them over breakfast.”

  “I will prepare the autosurgeon for three months of cryogenic sleep after your seven-hour interlude tomorrow,” said the ship.

  I took a breath. “All right.”

  “The surgeon wishes to commence repairing nerve damage and injecting antibiotics now, M. Endymion. Do you wish to sleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “With dreams or without? The medication may be tailored for either neurological state.”

  “No dreams,” I said. “No dreams now. There’ll be time enough for those later.”

  “Very good, M. Endymion. Sleep well.”

  Part Two

  15

  I am on the Phari marketplace shelf with A. Bettik, Jigme Norbu, and George Tsarong when I hear the news that Pax ships and troops have finally come to T’ien Shan, the “Mountains of Heaven,”

  “We should tell Aenea,” I say. Around us, above us, and under us, thousands of tons of scaffolding rock and creak with the weight of crowded humanity buying, selling, trading, arguing, and laughing. Very few have heard the news of the Pax’s arrival. Very few will understand the implications when they do hear it. The word comes from a monk named Chim Din who has just returned from the capital of Potala, where he works as a teacher in the Dalai Lama’s Winter Palace. Luckily, Chim Din also works alternate weeks as a bamboo rigger at Hsuan-k’ung Ssu, the “Temple Hanging in Air,” Aenea’s project, and he hails us in Phari Marketplace as he is on his way to the Temple. Thus we are among the first people outside the court at Potala to hear of the Pax arrival.

  “Five ships,” Chim Din had said. “Several score of Christian people. About half of them warriors in red and black. About half of the remaining half are missionaries, all in black. They have rented the old Red Hat Sect gompa near Rhan Tso, the Otter Lake, near the Phallus of Shiva. They have sanctified part of the gompa as a chapel to their triune God. The Dalai Lama will not allow them to use their flying machines or go beyond the south ridge of the Middle Kingdom, but he has allowed them free travel within this region.”

  “We should tell Aenea,” I say again to A. Bettik, leaning close so that I can be heard over the marketplace babble.

  “We should tell everyone at Jo-kung,” says the android. He turns and tells George and Jigme to complete the shopping—not to forget arranging porters to carry the orders of cable and extra bonsai bamboo for the construction—and then he hoists his massive rucksack, tightens his climbing hardware on his harness, and nods to me.

  I heft my own heavy pack and lead the way out of the marketplace and down the scaffolding ladders to the cable level. “I think the High Way will be faster than the Walk Way, don’t you?”

  The blue man nods. I had hesitated at suggesting the High Way for the return trip, since it has to be
difficult for A. Bettik to handle the cables and slideways with just one hand. Upon our reunion, I had been surprised that he had not fashioned a metal hook for himself—his left arm still ends in a smooth stump halfway between his wrist and elbow—but I soon saw how he used a leather band and various leather attachments to make up for his missing digits. “Yes, M. Endymion,” he says. “The High Way. It is much faster. I agree. Unless you want to use one of the flyers as courier.”

  I look at him, assuming that he is kidding. The flyers are a breed apart and insane. They launch their paragliders from the high structures, catching ridge lift from the great rock walls, crossing the wide spaces between the ridges and peaks where there are no cables or bridges, watching the birds, looking for thermals as if their lives depended on it … because their lives do depend on it. There are no flat areas on which a flyer can set down if the treacherous winds shift, or if their lift fails, or if their hang gliders develop a problem. A forced landing on a ridge wall almost always means death. Descent to the clouds below always means death. The slightest miscalculation in gauging the winds, the updrafts, the downdrafts, the jet stream … any mistake means death for a flyer. That is why they live alone, worship in a secret cult, and charge a fortune to do the Dalai Lama’s bidding by delivering messages from the capital at Potala, or to fly prayer streamers during a Buddhist celebration, or to carry urgent notes from a trader to his home office to beat competitors, or—so the legend goes—to visit the eastern peak of T’ai Shan, separated for months each local year from the rest of T’ien Shan by more than a hundred klicks of air and deadly cloud.

  “I don’t think we want to entrust this news to a flyer,” I say.

  A. Bettik nods. “Yes, M. Endymion, but the paragliders can be purchased here at the marketplace. At the Flyer’s Guild stall. We could buy two and take the shortest route back. They are very expensive, but we could sell some of the pack zygoats.”