The Hyperion Cantos 4-Book Bundle

by Dan Simmons

  “Just things,” she said. “They would raise the topic, I would suggest some things to think about, and people would talk.”

  “Did you teach them?” I asked, thinking of the prophecy that the child of the John Keats cybrid would be the One Who Teaches.

  “In the Socratic sense, I guess,” said Aenea.

  “What’s that … oh, yeah.” I remembered the Plato she had steered me toward in the Taliesin library. Plato’s teacher, Socrates, had taught by questioning, drawing out truths that people already held within themselves. I had thought that technique highly dubious, at best.

  She went on. Some of the members of her discussion group had become devoted listeners, returning every evening and following her when she moved from ruined city to ruined city on Ixion.

  “You mean disciples,” I said.

  Aenea frowned. “I don’t like that word much, Raul.”

  I folded my arms and looked out at the alpenglow illuminating the cloudtops many kilometers below and the brilliant evening light on the northern peak. “You may not like it, but it sounds like the correct word to me, kiddo. Disciples follow their teacher wherever she travels, trying lo glean one last bit of knowledge from her,”

  “Students follow their teacher,” said Aenea.

  “All right,” I said, not willing to derail the story by arguing. “Go on.”

  There was not much more to tell about Ixion, she said. She and A. Bettik were on the world about one local year, five months standard. Most of the building had been with stone blocks and her design had been ancient-classical, almost Greek.

  “What about the Pax?” I said. “Did they ever come sniffing around?”

  “Some of the missionaries took part in the discussions,” said Aenea. “One of them … a Father Clifford … became good friends with A. Bettik.”

  “Didn’t he—they—turn you in? They must still be hunting for us.”

  “I am sure that Father Clifford didn’t.” said Aenea. “But eventually some of the Pax troopers began looking for us in the western hemisphere where we were working. The tribes hid us for another month. Father Clifford was coming to evening discussions even when the skimmers were flying back and forth over the jungle looking for us.”

  “What happened?” I felt like a two-year-old who would ask questions just to keep the other person talking. It had only been a few months of separation—including the dream-ridden cold sleep—but I had forgotten exactly how much I loved the sound of my young friend’s voice.

  “Nothing, really,” she said. “I finished the last job—an old amphitheater for plays and town meetings, fittingly enough—and A. Bettik and I left. Some of the … students … left as well.”

  I blinked. “With you?” Rachel had said that she had met Aenea on a world called Amritsar and traveled here with her. Perhaps Theo had come from Ixion.

  “No, no one came with me from Ixion,” Aenea said softly. “They had other places to go. Things to teach to others.”

  I looked at her for a moment. “You mean the Lions and Tigers and Bears are allowing others to farcast now? Or are all the old portals opening?”

  “No,” answered Aenea, although to which question I was not sure. “No, the farcasters are as dead as ever. It’s just … well … a few special cases.”

  Again I did not press the issue. She went on.

  After Ixion, she had ’cast to the world of Maui-Covenant.

  “Siri’s world!” I said, remembering Grandam’s voice teaching me the cadences of the Hyperion Cantos. That had been the locale for one of the pilgrims’ tales.

  Aenea nodded and continued. Maui-Covenant had been battered by revolution and Hegemony attacks way back during the Web, had recovered during the Fall interregnum, had been recolonized during the Pax expansion without the help of the locals who, in the best Siri tradition, had fought from their motile isles and alongside their dolphin companions until Pax Fleet and Swiss Guard had put their boots down hard. Now Maui-Covenant was being Christianized with a vengeance, the residents of the one large continent, the Equatorial Archipelago, and the thousands of migrating motile isles being sent to “Christian academies” for reeducation.

  But Aenea and A. Bettik had stepped through to a motile isle still belonging to the rebels—groups of neo-pagans called Sirists who sailed at night, floated among the traveling archipelagoes of empty isles during the daylight, and who fought the Pax at every turn.

  “What did you build?” I asked. I thought that I remembered from the Cantos that the motile isles carried little except treehouses under their sailtrees.

  “Treehouses,” said Aenea, grinning. “Lots of treehouses. Also some underwater domes. That’s where the pagans were spending most of their time.”

  “So you designed treehouses.”

  She shook her head. “Are you kidding? These are—next to the missing God’s Grove Templars—the best treehouse builders in human space. I studied how to build treehouses. They were gracious enough to let A. Bettik and me help.”

  “Slave labor,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  She had spent only some three standard months on Maui-Covenant. That is where she had met Theo Bernard.

  “A pagan rebel?” I said.

  “A runaway Christian,” corrected Aenea. “She had come to Maui-Covenant as a colonist. She fled the colonies and joined the Sirists.”

  I was frowning without realizing it. “She carries a cruciform?” I said. Born-again Christians still made me nervous.

  “Not anymore,” said Aenea.

  “But how …” I knew of no way that a Christian with the cross could rid herself of a cruciform, short of the secret ritual of excommunication, which only the Church could perform.

  “I’ll explain later,” said Aenea. Before her tale was done, this phrase would be used more than a few times.

  After Maui-Covenant, she and A. Bettik and Theo Bernard had farcast to Renaissance Vector.

  “Renaissance Vector!” I almost shouted. That was a Pax stronghold. We had almost been shot down on Renaissance Vector. It was a hyperindustrialized world, all cities and robot factories and Pax centers.

  “Renaissance Vector.” Aenea smiled. It had not been easy. They had been forced to disguise A. Bettik as a burn victim with a synflesh mask. It had been uncomfortable for him for the six months they were there.

  “What jobs did you do there?” I asked, finding it hard to imagine my friend and her friends staying hidden in the thronging world-city that was Renaissance Vector.

  “Just one job,” said Aenea. “We worked on the new cathedral in Da Vinci—St. Matthew’s.”

  It took me a minute of staring before I could speak. “You worked on a cathedral? A Pax cathedral? A Christian church?”

  “Of course,” said Aenea calmly. “I labored alongside some of the best stonemasons, glass workers, builders, and craftsmen in the business. I was an apprentice at first, but before we left I was assistant to the chief designer working on the nave.”

  I could only shake my head. “And did you … have discussion circles?”

  “Yes,” said Aenea. “More came on Renaissance Vector than on any of the other worlds. Thousands of students, before it was over.”

  “I’m amazed that you weren’t betrayed.”

  “I was,” she said. “But not by one of the students. One of the glass workers turned us in to the local Pax garrison. A. Bettik, Theo, and I barely made it out.”

  “Via farcaster,” I said.

  “By … ’casting, yes,” said Aenea. It was only much later that I realized that there had been a slight hesitation in her voice there, an unspoken qualification.

  “And did others leave with you?”

  “Not with me,” she said again. “But hundreds ’cast elsewhere.”

  “Where?” I said, mystified.

  Aenea sighed. “Do you remember our discussion, Raul, where I said that the Pax thought that I was a virus? And that they were right?”

  “Yeah.”

 
; “Well, these students of mine are also carrying the virus.” she said. “They had places to go. People to infect.”

  Her litany of worlds and jobs went on. Patawpha for three months, where she had used her treehouse experience to build mansions in the interwoven branches and trunks growing from the endless swamps there.

  Amritsar, where she had worked for four standard months in the desert building tent homes and meeting places for the nomad bands of Sikhs and Sufis who wandered the green sands there.

  “That’s where you met Rachel,” I said.

  “Correct.”

  “What is Rachel’s last name?” I said. “She didn’t mention it to me.”

  “She has never mentioned it to me, either,” said Aenea and went on with her tale.

  From Amritsar, she and A. Bettik and her two female friends had ’cast to Groombridge Dyson D. This world had been a Hegemony terraforming failure, abandoned to its encroaching methane-ammonia glaciers and ice-crystal hurricanes, its dwindling number of colonists retreating to its biodomes and orbital construction shacks. But its people—mostly Suni Muslim engineers from the failed Trans-African Genetic Reclamation Project—stubbornly refused to die during the Fall, and ended up terraforming Groombridge Dyson D into a Lap landic tundra world with breathable air and adapted-Old Earth flora and fauna, including wooly mammoths wandering the equatorial highlands. The millions of hectares of grasslands were perfect for horses—Old Earth horses of the kind that had disappeared during the Tribulations before the homeworld fell into itself—so the gene-designers took their original seedship stock and bred horses by the thousands, then by the tens of thousands. Nomad bands wandered the greenways of the southern continent, living in a kind of symbiosis with the great herds, while the farmers and city folk moved into the high foothills along the equator. There were violent predators there, evolved and unleashed during the centuries of accelerated and self-directed ARNying experimentation: mutant carrion-breed packs and burrowing night terrors, thirty-meter-long grass serpents descended from those from Hyperion’s Sea of Grass and Fuji rock tigers, smart wolves, and IQ-enhanced grizzlies.

  The humans had the technology to hunt the adapted killers to extinction in a year or less, but the residents of the world chose a different path: the nomads would take their chances, one-on-one with the predators, protecting the great horse herds as long as the grass grows and the water flows, while the city types would begin work on a wall—a single wall eventually to be more than five thousand kilometers long that would separate the wilder sections of the savage highlands from the horse-herd savannahs and evolving eye lad forests to the south. And the wall was to be more than a wall, it was to become the great linear city of Groombridge Dyson D, thirty meters tall at its lowest, its ramparts resplendent with mosques and minarets, the travelway on top wide enough that three chariots could pass without rubbing wheels.

  The colonists were too few and too busy with other projects to work full-time on such a wall, but they programmed robots and decanted androids from their seedship vaults to carry out the labor. Aenea and her friends joined in this project, working for six standard months as the wall took shape and began its relentless march along the base of the highlands and the edge of the grasslands.

  “A. Bettik found two of his siblings there,” said Aenea softly.

  “My God,” I whispered. I had almost forgotten. When we were on Sol Draconi Septem some years ago, sitting by the warmth of a heating cube in Father Glaucus’s book-lined study inside a skyscraper that, in turn, was frozen within the eternal glacier of that world’s frozen atmosphere … A. Bettik had talked about one of his reasons for coming on the Odyssey with the child, Aenea, and me: he was hoping against logic to find his four siblings—three brothers and a sister. They had been separated shortly after their training period as children—if an android’s accelerated early years could be called “childhood.”

  “So he found them?” I said, marveling.

  “Two of them,” repeated Aenea. “One of the other males in his growth crèche—A. Antibbe—and his sister, A. Darria.”

  “Were they like him?” I asked. The old poet had used androids in his empty city of Endymion, but I had not paid much attention to any of them except A. Bettik. Too much had been happening too fast.

  “Much like him,” said Aenea. “But very different, as well. Perhaps he will tell you more.”

  She wrapped up her story. After six standard months working on the linear city wall on Groombridge Dyson D, they had had to leave.

  “Had to leave?” I said. “The Pax?”

  “The Commission for Justice and Peace, to be precise,” said Aenea. “We did not want to leave, but we had no choice.”

  “What is the Commission for Justice and Peace?” I said. Something about the way she had pronounced the words made the hairs on my arm stand up.

  “I’ll explain later,” she said.

  “All right,” I said, “but explain something else now.”

  Aenea nodded and waited.

  “You say you spent five standard months on lxion,” I said. “Three months on Maui-Covenant, six months on Renaissance Vector, three months on Patawpha, four standard months on Amritsar, about six standard months on—what was it?—Groombridge Dyson D?”

  Aenea nodded.

  “And you’ve been here about a standard year you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s only thirty-nine standard months,” I said. “Three standard years and three months.”

  She waited. The corners of her mouth twitched slightly, but I realized that she was not going to smile … it looked more as if she was trying to avoid crying. Finally, she said, “You were always good at math, Raul.”

  “My trip here took five years’ time-debt,” I said softly. “So that’s about sixty standard months for you, but you’ve only accounted for thirty-nine. Where are the missing twenty-one standard months, kiddo?”

  I saw the tears in her eyes. Her mouth was quavering slightly, but she tried to speak in a light tone. “It was sixty-two standard months, one week, and six days for me,” she said. “Five years, two months, and one day time-debt on the ship, about four days accelerating and decelerating, and eight days’ travel time. You forgot your travel time.”

  “All right, kiddo,” I said, seeing the emotion well in her. Her hands were shaking. “Do you want to talk about the missing … what was it?”

  “Twenty-three months, one week, and six hours,” she said.

  Almost two standard years, I thought. And she doesn’t want to tell me what happened to her during that time. I had never seen her exercise such rigid control before; it was as if she were trying to hold herself together physically against some terrible centrifugal force.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” she said, pointing out the open doorway at the cliff face to the west of the Temple. “Look.”

  I could just make out figures—two-legged and four-legged—on the narrow ledge. They were still several klicks away along the cliff face. I walked over to my pack, retrieved my binoculars, and studied the forms.

  “The pack animals are zygoats,” said Aenea. “The porters are hired in Phari Marketplace and will be returning in the morning. See anyone familiar?”

  I did. The blue face in the hooded chuba looked much the way it had five of his years earlier. I turned back to Aenea, but she was obviously finished talking about her missing two years. I allowed her to change the subject again.

  Aenea began asking me questions then and we were still talking when A. Bettik arrived. The women—Rachel and Theo—wandered in a few minutes later. One of the tatami mats folded back to reveal a cooking brazier in the floor near the open wall, and Aenea and A. Bettik began cooking for everyone. Others wandered in and were introduced—the foremen George Tsarong and Jigme Norbu, two sisters who were in charge of much of the decorative railing work—Kuku and Kay Se, Gyalo Thondup in his formal silken robes and Jigme Taring in soldier’s garb, the teaching monk Chim Din and his master, Kempo Ngh
a Wang Tashi, abbot of the gompa at the Temple Hanging in Air, a female monk named Donka Nyapso, a traveling trade agent named Tromo Trochi of Dhomu, Tsipon Shakabpa who was the Dalai Lama’s overseer of construction here at the Temple, and the famed climber and paraglide flyer Lhomo Dondrub, who was perhaps the most striking man I had ever seen and—I later discovered—one of the few flyers who would drink beer or break bread with Dugpas, Drukpas, or Drungpas.

  The food was tsampa and momo—a roasted barley mixed into zygoat-buttered tea, forming a paste that one rolled into balls and ate with other balls of steamed dough holding mushrooms, cold zygoat tongue, sugared bacon, and bits of pears that A. Bettik told me were from the fabled gardens of Hsi wang-mu. More people came in as the bowls were being handed out—Labsang Samten—who, A. Bettik whispered, was the older brother of the current Dalai Lama and was now in his third year of monkhood here at the Temple, and various Drungpas from the wooded clefts—including master carpenter Changchi Kenchung with his long, waxed mustaches, Perri Samdup, an interpreter, and Rimsi Kyipup, a brooding and unhappy young scaffold-rigger. Not all of the monks who dropped in that night were descended from the Chinese/Tibetan Old Earth seedship colonists. Laughing and lifting their rough mugs of beer with us were the fearless high riggers Haruyuki Otaki and Kenshiro Endo, the master bamboo workers Voytek Majer and Janusz Kurtyka, and the brickmakers Kim Byung-Soon and Viki Groselj. The mayor of Jo-kung, the nearest cliff city, was there—Charles Chi-kyap Kempo—who also served as Lord Chamberlain of all the Temple’s priest officials and was an appointed member of both the Tsongdu, the regional assembly of elders, and advisor to Yik-Tshang, literally the “Nest of Letters,” the secret four-person body that reviewed the monks’ progress and appointed all priests. Charles Chi-kyap Kempo was the first member of our party to drink enough to pass out. Chim Din and several of the other monks dragged the snoring man away from the edge of the platform and left him sleeping in the corner.

  There were others—at least forty people must have filled the little pagoda as the last of the sunlight ebbed away and the moonlight from the Oracle and three of her siblings lit the cloudtops below—but I forgot their names that night as we ate tsampa and momo, drank beer in great quantities, and made the torches burn bright in Hsuan-k’ung Ssu.