Rise of Endymion

by Dan Simmons

  “Dear Lord,” said Captain Wolmak and crossed himself.

  “We’ve identified the head of Regent Tokra Reting there among the body parts,” came the Intel officer’s calm voice.

  “The head?” repeated Wolmak, realizing that his useless remark was being sent to the Admiral along with all the rest of this transmission. In four minutes, Admiral Lempriere would know that Wolmak made stupid comments. No matter. “Anyone else important there?” he queried Intel.

  “Negative, sir,” came the young officer’s voice. “But they’re broadcasting on various radio frequencies now.”

  Wolmak raised an eyebrow. So far, the Winter Palace had maintained radio and tightbeam silence. “What are they saying?”

  “It’s in Mandarin and post-Hegira Tibetan, sir,” said the officer. But then, quickly, “They’re in a panic, Captain. The Dalai Lama is missing. So is the head of the boy lama’s security team. General Surkhang Sewon Chempo, leader of the Palace Guard, is dead, sir … they’ve confirmed that his headless body was found there.”

  Wolmak glanced at the clock. The tightbeam broadcast was halfway to the Admiral’s ship. “Who did this, Intel? The Shrike?”

  “Don’t know, sir. As I said, the lenses and cameras were elsewhere. We’ll check the discs.”

  “Do that,” said Wolmak. He could not wait any longer. He tightbeamed the Marine lieutenant. “Get to the palace, Lieutenant. See what the hell is going on. I’m sending down five more dropships, combat EMVs, and a thopter gunship. Search for any sign of Archbishop Breque, Father Farrell, or Father LeBlanc. And the pilot and honor guard, of course.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The tightbeam link went green. The Admiral was receiving the latest transmission. Too late to wait for his command. Wolmak tightbeamed the two closest Pax ships—torchships just beyond the outer moon—and ordered them on battle alert and to drop into matching orbit with the Jibril. He might need the firepower. Wolmak had seen the Shrike’s work before, and the thought of that creature suddenly appearing on his ship made his skin go cold. He tightbeamed Captain Samuels on the torch-ship H.H.S. St. Bonaventure. “Carol,” he said to the startled captain’s image, “go tactical space, please.”

  Wolmak jacked in and was standing in place above the gleaming cloud planet of T’ien Shan. Samuels suddenly appeared next to him in the starry darkness.

  “Carol,” said Wolmak, “something’s going on down there. I think the Shrike may be loose again. If you suddenly lose transmission data from the Jibril, or we start screaming gibberish …”

  “I’ll launch three boats of Marines,” said Samuels.

  “Negative,” said Wolmak. “Slag the Jibril. Immediately.”

  Captain Samuels blinked. So did the floating telltale that showed that Admiral Lempriere’s flagship was tightbeaming. Wolmak jacked out of tactical.

  The message was short. “I’ve spun the Raguel up for a jump in-system to just beyond the critical gravity well around T’ien Shan,” said Admiral Lempriere, his thin face grave.

  Wolmak opened his mouth to protest to his superior, realized that a tightbeamed protest would arrive almost three minutes after the Hawking-drive jump was executed, and shut his mouth. A jump in-system like this was sickeningly dangerous—one chance in four, at least, of a disaster that would claim all hands—but he understood the Admiral’s need to get to where the information was fresh and his commands could be executed immediately.

  Dear Jesus, thought Wolmak, the Grand Inquisitor crippled, the Archbishop and the others missing, the sodding Dalai Lama’s palace looking like an anthill that’s been kicked over. Goddamn that Shrike-thing. Where’s the papal courier probe with its command? Where’s that Core ship we were promised? How can things get worse than this?

  “Captain?” It was the chief Marine medic on the expeditionary force, beaming from the dropship infirmary.

  “Report.”

  “Cardinal Mustafa is conscious, sir … still blind, of course … in terrible pain, but …”

  “Put him on,” snapped Wolmak.

  A terrible visage filled the holosphere. Captain Wolmak sensed others on the bridge shrinking back.

  The Grand Inquisitor’s face was still bloodied. His teeth were bright red as he screamed. His eye sockets were ragged and void, except for tendrils of torn tissue and rivulets of blood.

  At first, Captain Wolmak could not discern the word from the shriek. But then he realized what the Cardinal was screaming.

  “Nemes! Nemes! Nemes!”

  • • •

  THE CONSTRUCTS CALLED NEMES, SCYLLA, AND BRIAREUS continue eastward.

  The three remain phase-shifted, oblivious to the staggering amounts of energy this consumes. The energy is sent from elsewhere, it is not their worry. All of their existence has led to this hour.

  After the timeless interlude of slaughter under the Pargo Kaling Western Gate, Nemes leads the way up the tower and across the great metal cables holding the suspension bridge in place. The three jog through Drepung Marketplace, three motile figures moving through thickened, amber air, past human forms frozen in place. At Phari Marketplace, the thousands of shopping, browsing, laughing, arguing, jostling human statues make Nemes smile her thin-lipped smile. She could decapitate all of them and they would have had no warning of their destruction. But she has an objective.

  At the Phari Ridge cableway juncture, the three shift down—friction on the cable would be a problem otherwise.

  Scylla, the northern High Way, Nemes sends on the common band. Briareus, the middle bridge. I will take the cableway.

  Her siblings nod, shimmer, and are gone. The cablemaster steps forward to protest Nemes’s shoving in line ahead of scores of waiting cable passengers. It is a busy time of day.

  Rhadamanth Nemes picks the cablemaster up and flings him off the platform. A dozen angry men and women shove toward her, shouting, bent on revenge.

  Nemes leaps from the platform and grabs the cable. She has no pulley, no brakes, no climbing harness. She phase-shifts only the palms of her inhuman hands and hurtles down the cable toward K’un Lun Ridge. The angry mob behind her clip onto the cable and give chase—a dozen, two dozen, more. The cablemaster had been liked by many.

  It takes Nemes half the usual transit time to cover the great abyss between Phari and K’un Lun ridges. She brakes sloppily on the approach and slams into the rock, phase-shifting at the last instant. Pulling herself out of the crumbling indentation on the cliff behind the landing ledge, she walks back to the cable.

  Pulleys whine as the first of her pursuers careen down the last few hundred meters of wire. More spread out to the horizon, black beads on a thin string. Nemes smiles, phase-shifts both her hands, reaches high, and severs the cable.

  She is surprised how few of the dozens of doomed men and women scream as they slide off the twisting, falling cable to their deaths.

  Nemes jogs to the fixed ropes, climbs them freehand, and cuts all of them loose—ascent lines, rappel lines, safety lines, everything. Five armed members of the K’un Lun Constabulary from Hsi wang-mu confront her on the ridgeline just south of the slideway. She phase-shifts only her left forearm and swats them off into space.

  Looking northwest, Nemes adjusts her infrared and telescopic vision and zooms in on the great swinging bonsai-bamboo bridge connecting the High Way promontories between Phari Ridge and K’un Lun Ridge. The bridge falls as she watches, the slats and vines and support cables writhing as they fall back to the western ridgeline, the lower reaches of the bridge dropping into phosgene clouds.

  That’s that, sends Briareus.

  How many on it when it fell? queries Nemes.

  Many. Briareus disconnects.

  A second later, Scylla logs on. Northern bridge down. I’m destroying the High Way as I go.

  Good, sends Nemes. I’ll see you in Jo-kung.

  The three shift down as they pass through the city fissure at Jo-kung. It is raining lightly, the clouds as thick as summer fog. Nemes’s thin hair i
s plastered to her forehead and she notices that Scylla and Briareus have the same look. The crowd parts for them. The ledge road to the Temple Hanging in Air is empty.

  Nemes is leading as they approach the final, short swinging bridge before the ledge below the stairway to the Temple. This had been the first artifact repaired by Aenea—a simple, twenty-meter swinging span above a narrow fissure between dolomite spires a thousand meters above the lower crags and cloudtops—and now the monsoon clouds billow beneath and around the dripping structure.

  Invisible in the thick clouds, something stands on the cliff ledge at the other side of the bridge. Nemes shifts to thermal imaging and smiles when she sees that the tall shape radiates no heat whatsoever. She pings it with her forehead-generated radar and studies the image: three meters tall, thoms, bladed fingers on four oversized hands, a perfectly radar-reflective carapace, sharp blades on chest and forehead, no respiration, razor wire rising from the shoulders and spikes from the forehead.

  Perfect sends Nemes.

  Perfect, agrees Scylla and Briareus.

  The figure at the other end of the dripping bridge makes no response.

  WE MADE IT TO THE MOUNTAIN WITH ONLY A FEW meters to spare. Once we dropped out of the lower reaches of the jet stream, our descent was steady and irreversible. There were few thermals out above the cloud ocean and many down-drafts, and while we made the first half of the hundred-klick gap in a few minutes of thrilling acceleration, the second half was all heart-stopping descent—now certain that we would make it with room to spare, now more certain that we would drop into the clouds and never even see our deaths rising to surround us until the kite wings struck acid sea.

  We did descend into the clouds, but these were the monsoon clouds, the water vapor clouds, the breathable clouds. The three of us flew as close as we could, blue delta, yellow delta, green delta, the metal and fabric of our parawings almost touching, more fearful of losing one another and dying alone than of striking one another and falling together.

  Aenea and I had the comthreads, but we talked to each other just once during that suspenseful descent to the east. The fog had thickened, I caught the merest glimpses of her yellow wing to my left, and I was thinking, She had a child … she married someone else … she loved someone else, when I heard her voice on the hearpatch of my suit, “Raul?”

  “Yes, kiddo.”

  “I love you, Raul.”

  I hesitated a few heartbeats, but the emotional vacuum that had pulled me a moment earlier was swept away in the surge of affection for my young friend and lover. “I love you, Aenea.” We swept lower through the murk. I thought that I could taste an acrid scent on the wind … the fringes of the phosgene clouds?

  “Kiddo?”

  “Yes, Raul.” Her voice was a whisper in my ears. We had both removed our osmosis masks, I knew … although they would have protected us from the phosgene. We did not know if A. Bettik could breathe the poison. If he could not, the unspoken plan between Aenea and me was to close our masks and hope that we could reach the edges of the mountain before we struck the acid sea, dragging the android up the slope and out of the poison air if we could. We both knew that it was a flimsy plan—the radar aboard the ship during my initial descent had shown me that most of the peaks and ridges dropped abruptly beneath the phosgene cloud layer and it would be only a matter of minutes between entering the poisonous clouds before we struck the sea anyway—but it was better to have a plan than to surrender to fate. In the meantime, we both had our masks up, breathing fresh air while we could.

  “Kiddo,” I said, “if you know that this isn’t going to work … if you’ve seen what you think is …”

  “My death?” she completed the sentence for me. I could not have said it aloud.

  I nodded stupidly. She could not see me through the clouds between us.

  “They’re only possibilities, Raul,” she said softly. “Although the one I know of with the greatest probability is not this. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t have asked you both to go with me if I thought this was … it.” I heard the humor in her voice through the tension.

  “I know,” I said, glad that A. Bettik could not pick up this conversation. “I wasn’t thinking of that.” I had been thinking that perhaps she had known that the android and I would make it to the mountain, but she would not. I did not believe that now. As long as my fate was entwined with hers, I could accept about anything. “I was just wondering why we were running again, kiddo,” I said. “I’m sick of running away from the Pax.”

  “So am I,” said Aenea. “And trust me, Raul, that’s not all we’re doing here. Oh, shit!”

  Hardly the quotable pronouncement from a messiah, but in a second I saw the reason for her shout. A rocky hillside had appeared twenty meters ahead of us, large boulders visible between scree slopes, sheer cliffs lower down.

  A. Bettik led the way in, pulling up on his control bar at the last minute and dropping his legs from the stirrups of the rigging, using the kite like a parachute above him. He bounced twice on his boots and set the kite down quickly, snapping off his harness. Lhomo had shown us many times that it was important on dangerous and windy landing sites to separate yourself from the parawing quickly so that it did not drag you over some edge. And there was definitely an edge to be dragged over here.

  Aenea landed next, me a few seconds later. I had the sloppiest of the three landings, bouncing high, dropping almost straight down, twisting my ankle on the small stones, and going to my knees while the parawing struck hard on a boulder above me, bending metal and rending fabric. The kite tried to tip over backward then, pulling me over the cliffs edge just as Lhomo had warned, but A. Bettik grabbed the left struts, Aenea seized the broken right spar a second later, and they stabilized it long enough for me to struggle out of my harness and hobble a few steps away from the wreckage, dragging my backpack with me.

  Aenea knelt on the cold, wet rocks at my feet, loosening my boot and studying my ankle. “I don’t think it’s sprained badly,” she said. “It may swell a bit, but you should be able to walk on it all right.”

  “Good,” I said stupidly, aware only of her bare hands on my bare ankle. Then I jumped a bit as she sprayed something cold from her medkit on the puffy flesh.

  They both helped me to my feet, we gathered our gear, and the three of us started arm-in-arm up the slick slope toward where the clouds glowed more brightly.

  WE CAME UP INTO THE SUNLIGHT HIGH ON THE SACRED slopes of T’ai Shan. I had pulled off the skinsuit cowl and mask, but Aenea suggested that I keep the suit on. I pulled my therm jacket on over it to feel less naked, and I noticed that my friend did the same. A. Bettik was rubbing his arms and I saw that the high altitude cold had left his flesh chilled almost white.

  “Are you all right?” I asked him.

  “Fine, M. Endymion,” said the android. “Although another few minutes at that altitude …”

  I looked down at the clouds where we had folded the damaged kites and left them. “I guess we’re not getting off this hill with the parawings.”

  “Correct,” said Aenea. “Look.”

  We had come out of the boulder fields and scree slopes to grassy highlands between great cliffs, the succulent meadows crisscrossed with zygoat trails and stepping-stone paths. Glacial melt streams trickled over rocks but there were bridges made of stone slabs. A few distant herders had watched us impassively as we climbed higher. Now we had come around a switchback below the great icefields and looked up at what could only be temples of white stone set on gray ramparts. The gleaming buildings—bright beneath the blue-white expanse of ice and snow slopes that stretched up and out of sight to the blue zenith—looked like altars. What Aenea had pointed out was a great white stone set next to the trail, with this poem carved in its smooth face:

  With what can I compare the Great Peak?

  Over the surrounding provinces, its blue-green hue

  never

  dwindles from sight.

  Infused by the Shaper of Form
s with the soaring power

  of

  divinity,

  Shaded and sunlit, its slopes divide night from day.

  Breast heaving as I climb toward the clouds,

  Eyes straining to follow birds flying home,

  Someday I shall reach its peerless summit,

  And behold all mountains in a single glance.

  —Tu Fu, T’ang Dynasty, China, Old Earth

  And so we entered Tai’an, the City of Peace. There on the slopes were the scores of temples, hundreds of shops, inns, and homes, countless small shrines, and a busy street filled with stalls, each covered by a bright canvas awning. The people here were lovely—that is a poor word, but the only proper one, I think—all with dark hair, bright eyes, gleaming teeth, healthy skin, and a pride and vigor to their carriage and step. Their clothes were silk and dyed cotton, bright but elegantly simple, and there were many, many monks in orange and red robes. The crowds would have been forgiven if they had stared—no one visits T’ai Shan during the monsoon months—but all the glances I saw were welcoming and easy. Indeed, many of the people in the street milled around, greeting Aenea by name and touching her hand or sleeve. I remembered then that she had visited the Great Peak before.

  Aenea pointed out the great slab of white rock that covered a hillside above the City of Peace. On the polished face of that slab had been carved what she explained was the Diamond Sutra in huge Chinese characters: one of the principle works of Buddhist philosophy, she explained, it reminded the monk and passerby of the ultimate nature of reality as symbolized in the empty expanse of blue sky overhead. Aenea also pointed out the First Heavenly Gate at the edge of the city—a gigantic stone archway under a red pagoda roof with the first of the twenty-seven thousand steps starting up toward the Jade Summit.

  incredibly, we had been expected. In the great gompa at the center of the City of Peace, more than twelve hundred red-robed monks sat cross-legged in patient files, waiting for Aenea. The resident lama greeted Aenea with a low bow—she helped him to his feet and hugged the old man—and then A. Bettik and I were sitting at one side of the low, cushioned dais while Aenea briefly addressed the waiting multitude.