The Hyperion Cantos 4-Book Bundle

by Dan Simmons

  “Yes,” said Aenea. Her dark eyes were focused on me now.

  “I thought they were extinct.”

  “Nope,” said Aenea.

  I took a long drink from the beer bulb and shook my head. “I’m confused.”

  “You have a right to be, my dear friend,” Aenea said softly.

  “This place …” I made a weak gesture toward the wall of branches and leaves trailing away so much farther than a planetary horizon, the infinitely distant curve of green and black far above us. “It’s impossible,” I said.

  “Not quite,” said Aenea. “The Templars and Ousters have been working on it—and others like it—for a thousand years.”

  I began chewing again. The cheese and roast beef were delicious. “So this is where the thousands and millions of trees went when they abandoned God’s Grove during the Fall.”

  “Some of them,” said Aenea. “But the Templars had been working with the Ousters to develop orbital forest rings and biospheres long before that.”

  I peered up. The distances made me dizzy. The sense of being on this small, leafy platform so many kilometers above nothing made me reel. Far below us and to our right, something that looked like a tiny, green sprig moved slowly between the latticed branches. I saw the film of energy field around it and realized that I was looking at one of the fabled Templar tree-ships, almost certainly kilometers long. “Is this finished then?” I said. “A true Dyson sphere? A globe around a star?”

  Aenea shook her head. “Far from it, although about twenty standard years ago, they made contact with all the primary trunk tendrils. Technically it’s a sphere, but most of it is comprised of holes at this point—some many millions of klicks across.”

  “Fan-fucking-tastic,” I said, realizing that I could have been more eloquent. I rubbed my cheeks, feeling the heavy growth of beard there. “I’ve been out of it for two weeks?” I said.

  “Fifteen standard days,” said Aenea.

  “Usually the doc-in-the-box works more quickly than that,” I said. I finished the sandwich, stuck the catchplate to the table surface, and concentrated on the beer.

  “Usually it does,” agreed Aenea. “Rachel must have told you that you spent a relatively short time in the autosurgeon. She did most of the initial surgery herself.”

  “Why?” I said.

  “The box was full,” said Aenea. “We defrosted you from fugue as soon as we got here, but the three in the doc ahead of you were in bad shape. De Soya was near death for a full week. The sergeant … Gregorius … was much more seriously injured than he had let on when we met him on the Great Peak. And the third officer—Carel Shan—died despite the box’s and the Ouster medics’ best efforts.”

  “Shit,” I said, lowering the beer. “I’m sorry to hear that.” One got used to autosurgeons fixing almost anything.

  Aenea looked at me with such intensity that I could feel her gaze warming my skin as surely as I could feel the powerful sunlight. “How are you, Raul?”

  “Great,” I said. “I ache a bit. I can feel the healing ribs. The scars itch. And I feel like I overslept by two weeks … but I feel good.”

  She took my hand. I realized that her eyes were moist. “I would have been really pissed if you’d died on me,” she said after a moment, her voice thick.

  “Me too.” I squeezed her hand, looked up, and suddenly leaped to my feet, sending the beer bulb spiraling off into thin air and almost launching myself. Only the sticktite velcro soles on my soft shoes kept me anchored. “Holy shit!” I said, pointing.

  From this distance, it looked like a squid, perhaps only a meter or two long. From experience and a growing sense of perspective here, I knew better.

  “One of the zeplins,” said Aenea. “The Akerataeli have tens of thousands working on the Biosphere. They stay inside the CO2 and O2 envelopes.”

  “It’s not going to eat me again, is it?” I said.

  Aenea grinned. “I doubt it. The one that got a taste of you has probably spread the word.”

  I looked for my beer, saw the bulb tumbling away a hundred meters below us, considered leaping after it, thought better of it, and sat down on the sticktite bench.

  Aenea gave me her bulb. “Go ahead. I can never finish those things.” She watched me drink. “Any other questions while we’re talking?”

  I swallowed and made a dismissive gesture. “Well, there happens to be a bunch of extinct, mythical, and dead people around. Care to explain that?”

  “By extinct you mean the zeplins, Seneschai, and Templars?” she said.

  “Yeah. And the ergs … although I haven’t seen one of those yet.”

  “The Templars and Ousters have been working to preserve such hunted sentient species the way the colonists on Maui-Covenant tried to save the Old Earth dolphins,” she said. “From the early Hegira colonists, then the Hegemony, and now the Pax.”

  “And the mythical and dead people?” I said.

  “By that you mean Colonel Kassad?”

  “And Het Masteen,” I said. “And, for that matter, Rachel. We seem to have the whole cast of the friggin’ Hyperion Cantos showing up here.”

  “Not quite,” said Aenea, her voice soft and a bit sad. “The Consul is dead. Father Duré is never allowed to live. And my mother is gone.”

  “Sorry, kiddo …”

  She touched my hand again. “That’s all right. I know what you mean … it’s disconcerting.”

  “Did you know Colonel Kassad or Het Masteen before this?” I said.

  Aenea shook her head. “My mother told me about them, of course … and Uncle Martin had things to add to his poem’s description. But they were gone before I was born.”

  “Gone,” I repeated. “Don’t you mean dead?” I worked to remember the Cantos stanzas. According to the old poet’s tale, Het Masteen, the tall Templar, the True Voice of the Tree, had disappeared on the windwagon trip across Hyperion’s Sea of Grass shortly after his treeship, the Yggdrasill, had burned in orbit. Blood in the Templar’s cabin suggested the Shrike. He had left behind the erg in a Mobius cube. Sometime later, they had found Masteen in the Valley of the Time Tombs. He had not been able to explain his absence—had said only that the blood in the windwagon had not been his—had cried out that it was his job to be the Voice of the Tree of Pain—and had died.

  Colonel Kassad had disappeared at about that same time—shortly after entering the Valley of the Time Tombs—but the FORCE Colonel had, according to Martin Silenus’s Cantos, followed his phantom lover, Moneta, into the far future where he was to die in combat with the Shrike. I closed my eyes and recited aloud:

  “… Later, in the death carnage of the valley,

  Moneta and a few of the Chosen Warriors,

  Wounded all,

  Torn and tossed themselves by the Shrike horde’s fury,

  Found the body of Fedmahn Kassad

  Still wrapped in death’s embrace with the

  Silent Shrike.

  Lifting the warrior, carrying him, touching him

  With reverence born of loss and battle,

  They washed and tended his ravaged body,

  And bore him to the Crystal Monolith.

  Here the hero was laid on a bier of white marble,

  Weapons were set at his feet.

  In the valley beyond, a great bonfire filled

  The air with light.

  Human men and women carried torches

  Through the dark,

  While others descended, wingsoft, through

  Morning lapis lazuli,

  And some others arrived in faery craft, bubbles of light,

  While still others descended on wings of energy

  Or wrapped in circles of green and gold.

  Later, as the stars burned in place,

  Moneta made her farewells to her future’s

  Friends and entered the Sphinx.

  Multitudes sang. Rat things poked among fallen pennants

  In the field where heroes fell,

  While t
he wind whispered among carapace

  And blade, steel and thorn.

  And thus,

  In the Valley,

  The great Tombs shimmered,

  Faded from gold to bronze,

  And started their long voyage back.”

  “Impressive memory,” said Aenea.

  “Grandam used to cuff me if I screwed it up,” I said. “Don’t change the subject. The Templar and the Colonel sound dead to me.”

  “And so they will be,” said Aenea. “And so shall we all.”

  I waited for her to shift out of her Delphic phase.

  “The Cantos say that Het Masteen was carried away somewhere … somewhen by the Shrike,” she said. “He later died in the Valley of the Time Tombs after returning. The poem did not say if he was gone an hour or thirty years. Uncle Martin did not know.”

  I squinted at her. “What about Kassad, kiddo? The Cantos are fairly specific there … the Colonel follows Moneta into the far future, engages in a battle with the Shrike …”

  “With legions of Shrikes, actually,” corrected my friend.

  “Yeah,” I said. I had never really understood that. “But it seems continuous enough … he follows her, he fights, he dies, his body is put in the Crystal Monolith, and it and Moneta begin the long trip back through time.”

  Aenea nodded and smiled. “With the Shrike,” she said.

  I paused. The Shrike had emerged from the Tombs … Moneta had traveled with it somehow … so although the Cantos clearly said that Kassad had destroyed the Shrike in that great, final battle, the monster was somehow alive and traveling with Moneta and Kassad’s body back through …

  Damn. Did the poem ever actually say that Kassad was dead?

  “Uncle Martin had to fake parts of the tale, you know,” said Aenea. “He had some descriptions from Rachel, but he took poetic license on the parts he did not understand.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. Rachel. Moneta. The Cantos had clearly suggested that the girl-child Rachel, who went forward with her father, Sol, to the future, would return as the woman Moneta. Colonel Kassad’s phantom lover. The woman he would follow into the future to his fate … And what had Rachel said to me a few hours earlier when I was suspicious that she and Aenea were lovers? “I happen to be involved with a certain soldier … male … whom you’ll meet today. Well, actually, I will be involved with him someday. I mean … shit, it’s complicated.”

  Indeed. My head hurt. I set down the beer bulb and held my head in my hands.

  “It’s more complicated than that,” said Aenea.

  I peered up at her through my fingers. “Care to explain?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “I know,” I said. “At some other time.”

  “Yes,” said Aenea, her hand on mine.

  “Any reason why we can’t talk about it now?” I said.

  Aenea nodded. “We have to go in our pod now and opaque the walls,” she said.

  “We do?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “And then what?” I said.

  “Then,” said Aenea, floating free of the sticktite mat and pulling me with her, “we make love for hours.”

  25

  Zero-g. Weightlessness.

  I had never really appreciated those terms and that reality before.

  Our living pod was opaqued to the point that the rich evening light glowed as if through thick parchment. Once again, I had the impression of being in a warm heart. Once again I realized how much Aenea was in my heart.

  At first the encounter bordered on the clinical as Aenea carefully removed my clothes and inspected the healing surgical scars, gently touched my repaired ribs, and ran her palm down my back.

  “I should shave,” I said, “and shower.”

  “Nonsense,” whispered my friend. “I’ve given you sponge and sonic baths every day … including this morning. You’re perfectly clean, my dear. And I like the whiskers.” She moved her fingers across my cheek.

  We floated above the soft and rounded cubby shelves. I helped Aenea out of her shirt, trousers, and underwear. As each piece came clear, she kicked it through the air into the cubby drawer, shutting the fiber panel with her bare foot when everything was inside. We both chuckled. My own clothes were still floating in the quiet air, the sleeves of my shirt gesturing in slow motion.

  “I’ll get the …” I began.

  “No you won’t,” said Aenea and pulled me closer.

  Even kissing demands new skills in zero-g. Aenea’s hair coiled around her head in a sunlit corona as I held her face in my hands and kissed her—her lips, eyes, cheeks, forehead, and lips again. We began tumbling slowly, brushing the smooth and glowing wall. It was as warm as my dear friend’s flesh. One of us pushed off and we tumbled together into the middle of the oval pod space.

  Our kissing became more urgent. Each time we moved to hold the other more tightly, we would begin to pivot around an invisible center of mass, arms and legs entangled as we pressed tighter and rotated more quickly. Without disentangling or interrupting our kiss, I held out one arm, waited for the flesh-warm walls to reach us, and stopped our tumble. The contact pushed us away from the curved, warmly glowing wall and sent us spinning very slowly toward the center again.

  Aenea broke our kiss and moved her head back a moment, still holding my arms, regarding me from arm’s length. I had seen her smile ten thousand times in the last ten years of her life—had thought that I knew all of her smiles—but this one was deeper, older, more mysterious, and more mischievous than any I had seen before.

  “Don’t move,” she whispered, and, pushing softly against my arm for leverage, rotated in space.

  “Aenea …” was all I could say and then I could say nothing. I closed my eyes, oblivious of everything except sensation. I could feel my darling’s hands tight on the backs of my legs, pulling me closer to her.

  After a moment, her knees came to rest against my shoulders, her thighs bumping softly against my chest. I reached out to the hollow of her back and pulled her closer, sliding my cheek along the strong muscle of her inner thigh. At Taliesin West, one of the cooks had owned a tabby cat. Many evenings, when I was sitting alone out on the western terrace watching the sunset and feeling the stones lose their day’s heat, waiting for the hour when Aenea and I could sit in her shelter and talk about everything and nothing, I would watch the cat lap slowly from her bowl of cream. I visualized that cat now, but within minutes I could visualize nothing but the immediate and overpowering sense of my dear friend opening to me, of the subtle taste of the sea, of our movements like the tide rising, of all of my senses being centered in the slow but growing sensation at the core of me.

  How long we floated this way, I have no idea. Such overwhelming excitement is like a fire that consumes time. Total intimacy is an exemption from the space/time demands of the universe. Only the growing prerogatives of our passion and the ineluctable need to be even closer than this penultimate closeness marked the minutes of our lovemaking.

  Aenea opened her legs wider, moved away, released me with her mouth but not her hand. We pivoted again in the sepia light, her tight fingers and my excitement the center of our slow rotation. We kissed, lips moist, Aenea’s grasp tightening around me. “Now,” she whispered. I obeyed.

  If there is a true secret to the universe, it is this … these first few seconds of warmth and entry and complete acceptance by one’s beloved. We kissed again, oblivious of our slow tumbling, the rich light taking on a heart warmth around us. I opened my eyes long enough to see Aenea’s hair swirling like Ophelia’s cloak in the wine-dark sea of air in which we floated. It was indeed like holding my beloved in deep, salty water—buoyed up and weightless, the warmth of her around me like the rising tide, our movements as regular as the surf against warm sand.

  “Oops …” whispered Aenea after only a moment of this perfection.

  I paused in my kissing long enough to assess what was separating us. “Newton’s Law,” I whispered against her cheek.r />
  “For every action …” whispered Aenea, chuckling softly, holding my shoulders like a swimmer pausing to rest.

  “… an equal and opposite reaction …” I said, smiling until she kissed me again.

  “Solution,” whispered Aenea. Her legs closed tight around my hips. Her breasts floated between us, the nipples teasing my chest.

  Then she lay back, again the swimmer, floating this time, her arms spread but her fingers still interlaced with mine. We continued to pivot slowly around our common center of gravity, a slow tumble, my head coming over and down and around like a rider on a porpoise doing slow cartwheels in the sunlit depths, but I was no longer interested or aware of the elegant ballistics of our lovemaking, but only in the lovemaking. We moved faster in the warm sea of air.

  Some minutes later, Aenea released my hands, moved up-right and forward as we tumbled together, still moving, sank her short nails into my back even while she kissed me with a wild urgency, and then moved her mouth away to gasp and cry out, once, softly. At the same instant as her cry, I felt the warm universe of her close around me with that short, tight throb, that intimate, shared pulse. A second later it was my turn to gasp, to cling to her as I throbbed within her, to whisper into her salty neck and floating hair—“Aenea … Aenea.” A prayer. My only prayer then. My only prayer now.

  For a long time we floated together even after we had become two people again rather than one. Our legs were still intertwined, our fingers stroking and holding one another. I kissed her throat and felt her pulse like a memory echo against my lips. She ran her fingers through my sweaty hair.

  I realized that for this moment, nothing in the past mattered. Nothing terrible in the future mattered. What mattered was her skin against me, her hand holding me, the perfume of her hair and skin and the warmth of her breath against my chest. This was satori. This was truth.

  Aenea kicked away to the pod cubby just long enough to return with a small, warm, and wet towel. We took turns wiping some of the sweat and slickness from us. My shirt floated by, the empty sleeves attempting to swim in the gentle air currents. Aenea laughed and lingered in her washing and drying, the simple act quickly turning into something else.