by Dan Simmons
“Extinction,” I said. After a moment I asked, “Can they do it?”
“Of humans in the Web, yes,” said Johnny. “Core intelligences not only create the infrastructure for Hegemony society but are necessary for everything from FORCE deployment to the failsafes on stockpiled nuclear and plasma arsenals.”
“Did you know about this when you were… in the Core?”
“No,” said Johnny. “As a pseudo-poet cybrid retrieval project, I was a freak, a pet, a partial thing allowed to roam the Web the way a pet is let out of the house each day. I had no idea there were three camps of AI influence.”
“Three camps,” I said. “What’s the third? And where does Hyperion come in?”
“Between the Stables and the Volatiles are the Ultimates.
For the past five centuries the Ultimates have been obsessed with the UI Project. The existence or extinction of the human race is of interest to them only in how it applies to the project. To this date, they have been a force for moderation, an ally of the Stables, because it is their perception that such reconstruction and retrieval projects as the Old Earth experiment are necessary to the culmination of the UI.
“Recently, however, the Hyperion issue has caused the Ultimates to move toward the Volatiles’ views. Since Hyperion was explored four centuries ago, the Core has been concerned and nonplussed. It was immediately obvious that the so-called Time Tombs were artifacts launched backward in time from a point at least ten thousand years in the galaxy’s future.
More disturbing, however, is the fact that Core predictive formulae have never been able to factor the Hyperion variable.
“Brawne, to understand this, you must realize how much the Core relies upon prediction. Already, without UI input, the Core knows the details of the physical, human, and AI future to a margin of 98.9995 percent for a period of at least two centuries. The AI Advisory Council to the All Thing with its vague, delphic utterances considered so indispensable by humans—is a joke. The Core drops tidbits of revelations to the Hegemony when it serves the Core’s purposes—sometimes to aid the Volatiles, sometimes the Stables, but always to please the Ultimates.
“Hyperion is a rent in the entire predictive fabric of the Core’s existence. It is the penultimate oxymoron—a nonfactorable variable.
Impossible as it seems, Hyperion appears to be exempt from the laws of physics, history, human psychology, and AI prediction as practiced by the Core.
“The result has been two futures—two realities if you will—one in which the Shrike scourge soon to be released on the Web and interstellar humanity is a weapon from the Core-dominated future, a retroactive first strike from the Volatiles who rule the galaxy millennia hence. The other reality sees the Shrike invasion, the coming interstellar war, and the other products of the Time Tombs’ opening as a human fist struck back through time, a final, twilight effort by the Ousters, ex-colonials, and other small bands of humans who escaped the Volatiles’ extinction programs.”
Water dripped on tile. Somewhere in the tunnels nearby a mech cauterizer’s warning siren echoed from ceramic and stone. I leaned against the wall and stared at Johnny.
“Interstellar war,” I said. “Both scenarios demand an interstellar war?”
“Yes. There is no escaping that.”
“Can both Core groups be wrong in their prediction?”
“No. What happens on Hyperion is problematic, but the disruption in the Web and elsewhere is quite clear. The Ultimates use this knowledge as the prime argument for hurrying the next step in Core evolution.”
“And what did BB’s stolen data show about us, Johnny?”
Johnny smiled, touched my hand, but did not hold it.
“It showed that I am somehow part of the Hyperion unknown. Their creation of a Keats cybrid was a terrible amble. Only my apparent lack of success as a Keats analog allowed the Stables to preserve me. When I made up my mind to go to Hyperion, the Volatiles killed me with the clear intention of obliterating my AI existence if my cybrid again made that decision.”
“You did. What happened?”
“They failed. In the Core’s limitless arrogance, they failed to take two things into account. First, that I might invest all consciousness in my cybrid and thus change the nature of the Keats analog. Second, that I would go to you.”
“Me!”
He took my hand. “Yes, Brawne. It seems that you also are part of the Hyperion unknown.”
I shook my head. Realizing that there was a numbness in my scalp above and behind my left ear, I raised my hand, half expecting to find damage from the datumplane fight. Instead, my fingers encountered the plastic of a neural shunt socket.
I jerked my other hand from Johnny’s grasp and stared at him in horror.
He’d had me wired while I was unconscious.
Johnny held up both hands, palms toward me. “I had to, Brawne. It may be necessary for the survival of both of us.”
I made a fist. “You fucking low-life son of a bitch. Why do I need to interface directly, you lying bastard?”
“Not with the Core,” Johnny said softly. “With me.”
“You?” My arm and fist quivered with the anticipation of smashing his vat-cloned face. “You!” I sneered.
“You’re human now remember?”
“Yes. But certain cybrid functions remain. Do you remember when I touched your hand several days ago and brought us to datumplane?”
I stared at him. “I’m not going to datumplane again.”
“No. Nor am I. But I may need to relay incredible amounts of data to you within a very short period of time. I brought you to a black market surgeon in the Dregs’ last night. She implanted a Schrön loop.”
“Why?” The Schrön loop was tiny, no larger than my thumbnail, and very expensive. It held countless field-bubble memories, each capable of holding near infinite bits of information. Schrön loops could not be accessed by the biological carrier and thus were used for courier purposes. A man or woman could carry AI personalities or entire planetary dataspheres in a Schrön loop. Hell, a dog could carry all that.
“Why?” I said again, wondering if Johnny or some forces behind Johnny were using me as such a courier.
“Why?”
Johnny moved closer and put his hand around my fist.
“Trust me, Brawne.”
I don’t think I’d trusted anyone since Dad blew his brains out twenty years ago and Mom retreated into the pure selfishness of her seclusion.
There was no reason in the universe to trust Johnny now.
But I did.
I relaxed my fist and took his hand.
“All right,” said Johnny. “Finish your meal and we’ll get busy trying to save our lives.”
Weapons and drugs were the two easiest things to buy in Dregs’ Hive. We spent the last of Johnny’s considerable stash of black marks to buy weapons.
By 2200 hours, we each wore whiskered titan-poly body armor. Johnny had a goonda’s mirror-black helmet and I wore a FORCE-surplus command mask.
Johnny’s power gauntlets were massive and a bright red.
I wore osmosis gloves with killing trim. Johnny carried an Ouster hellwhip captured on Bressia and had tucked a laser wand in his belt. Along with Dad’s automatic, I now carried a Steiner-Ginn mini-gun on a gyroed waist brace. It was slaved to my command visor and I could keep both hands free while firing.
Johnny and I looked at each other and began giggling.
When the laughter stopped there was a long silence.
“Are you sure the Shrike Temple here on Lusus is our best chance?” I asked for the third or fourth time.
“We can’t farcast,” said Johnny. “All the Core has to do is record a malfunction and we’re dead. We can’t even take an elevator from the lower levels. We’ll have to find unmonitored stairways and climb the hundred and twenty floors. The best chance to make the Temple is straight down the Concourse Mall.”
“Yes, but will the Shrike Church people take us in?” Johnny
shrugged, a strangely insectoid gesture in his combat outfit. The voice through the goonda helmet was metallic. “They’re the only group which has a vested interest in our survival. And the only ones with enough political pull to shield us from the Hegemony while finding transit for us to Hyperion.”
I pushed up my visor. “Meina Gladstone said that no future pilgrimage flights to Hyperion would be allowed.”
The dome of mirror black nodded judiciously. “Well, fuck Meina Gladstone,” said my poet lover.
I took a breath and walked to the opening of our niche, our cave, our last sanctuary. Johnny came up behind me. Body armor rubbed against body armor.
“Ready, Brawne?”
I nodded, brought the mini-gun around on its pivot, and started to leave.
Johnny stopped me with a touch. “I love you, Brawne.”
I nodded, still tough. I forgot that my visor was up and he could see my tears.
The Hive is awake all twenty-eight hours of the day, but through some tradition, Third Shift was the quietest, the least populated. We would have had a better chance at the height of First Shift rush hour along the pedestrian causeways. But if the goondas and thuggees were waiting for us, the death toll of civilians would have been staggering.
It took us more than three hours to climb our way to Concourse Mall, not up a single staircase but along an endless series of mech corridors, abandoned access verticals swept clean by the Luddite riots eighty years ago, and a final stairway that was more rust than metal. We exited onto a delivery corridor less than half a klick from the Shrike Temple.
“I can’t believe it was so easy,” I whispered to him on intercom.
“They are probably concentrating people on the space-port and private farcaster clusters.”
We took the least exposed walkway onto the Concourse, thirty meters below the first shopping level and four hundred meters below the roof.
The Shrike Temple was an ornate, free-standing structure now less than half a klick away. A few off-hour shoppers and joggers glanced at us and then moved quickly away. I had no doubt that the Mall police were being paged, but I’d be surprised if they showed up too quickly.
A gang of brightly painted street thugs exploded from a lift shaft, hollering and whooping. They carried pulse-knives, chains, and power gauntlets. Startled, Johnny wheeled toward them with the hellwhip sending out a score of targeting beams. The mini-gun whir-whirred out of my hands, shifting from aiming point to aiming point as I moved my eyes.
The gang of seven kids skidded to a halt, held up their hands, and backed away, eyes wide. They dropped into the lift shaft and were gone.
I looked at Johnny. Black mirrors looked back. Neither of us laughed.
We crossed to the northbound shopping lane. The few pedestrians scurried for open shopfronts. We were less than a hundred meters from the Temple stairs. I could actually hear my heartbeat in the FORCE helmet ear-phones.
We were within fifty meters of the stairs. As if called, an acolyte or priest of some sort appeared at the ten-meter door of the Temple and watched us approach.
Thirty meters. If anyone was going to intercept us, they would have done it before this.
I turned toward Johnny to say something funny. At least twenty beams and half that many projectiles hit us at once. The outer layer of the titan-poly exploded outward, deflecting most of the projectile energy in the counterblast. The mirrored surface beneath bounced most of the killing light. Most of it.
Johnny was flung off his feet by the impact. I went to one knee and let the mini-gun train on the laser source.
Ten stories up along the residential Hive wall. My visor opaqued. Body armor burned off in a steam of reflective gas. The mini-gun sounded precisely like the kind of chainsaw they used in history holodramas.
Ten stories up, a five-meter section of balcony and wall disintegrated in a cloud of explosive flechettes and armor-piercing rounds.
Three heavy slugs struck me from behind.
I landed on my palms, silenced the mini-gun, and swiveled. There were at least a dozen of them on each level, moving quickly in precise combat choreography.
Johnny had reached his knees and was firing the hell-whip in orchestrated bursts of light, working his way through the rainbow to beat bounce defenses.
One of the running figures exploded into flame as the shopwindow behind it turned to molten glass and spattered fifteen meters onto the Concourse. Two more men came up over the level railings and I sent them back with a burst from the mini-gun.
An open skimmer came down from the rafters, repellers laboring as it banked around pylons. Rocket fire slammed into concrete around Johnny and me. Shop-fronts vomited a billion shards of glass over us. I looked, blinked twice, targeted, and fired. The skimmer lurched sideways, struck an escalator with a dozen cowering civilians on it, and tumbled in a mass of twisting metal and exploding ordnance. I saw one shopper leap in flames to the Hive floor eighty meters below.
“Left!” shouted Johnny over the tightbeam intercom.
Four men in combat armor had dropped from an upper level using personal lift packs. The polymerized chameleon armor labored to keep up with the shifting background but only succeeded in turning each man into a brilliant kaleidoscope of reflections. One moved inside the sweep arch of my mini-gun to neutralize me while the other three went for Johnny.
He came in with a pulse-blade, ghetto style. I let it chew at my armor, knowing it would get through to forearm flesh but using it to buy the second I needed. I got it. I killed the man with the rigid edge of my gauntlet and swept the mini-gun fire into the three worrying Johnny.
Their armor went rigid and I used the gun to sweep them backward like someone hosing down a littered sidewalk.
Only one of the men got to his feet before I blew them all off the level overhang.
Johnny was down again. Parts of his chest armor were gone, melted away.
I smelled cooking flesh but saw no mortal wounds. I half crouched, lifted him.
“Leave me, Brawne. Run. The stairs.” The tightbeam was breaking up.
“Fuck off,” I said, getting my left arm around him enough to support him while allowing room for the mini-gun to track. “I’m still getting paid to be your bodyguard.”
They were sniping at us from both walls of the Hive, the rafters, and the shopping levels above us. I counted at least twenty bodies on the walkways; about half were brightly clad civilians. The power assist on the left leg of my armor was grinding. Straight-legged, I awkwardly pulled us another ten meters toward the Temple stairs.
There were several Shrike priests at the head of the stairs now, seemingly oblivious to the gunfire all around them.
“Above!”
I swiveled, targeted, and fired in one moment, hearing the gun go empty after one burst and seeing the second skimmer get off its missiles in the instant before it became a thousand pieces of hurtling, unrelated metal and torn flesh. I dropped Johnny heavily to the pavement and fell on him, trying to cover his exposed flesh with my body.
The missiles detonated simultaneously, several in airburst and at least two burrowing. Johnny and I were lifted into the air and hurled fifteen or twenty meters down the pitching walkway. Good thing. The alloy and ferroconcrete pedestrian strip where we had been a second before burned, bubbled, sagged, and tumbled down onto the flaming walkway below. There was a natural moat there now, a gap between most of the other ground troops and us.
I rose, slapped away the useless mini-gun and mount, pulled off useless shards of my own armor, and lifted Johnny in both arms. His helmet had been blown off and his face was very bad. Blood seeped through a score of gaps in his armor. His right arm and left foot had been blown off. I turned and began carrying him up the Shrike Temple stairs.
There were sirens and security skimmers filling the Concourse flyspace now. The goondas on the upper levels and far side of the tumbled walkway ran for cover.
Two of the commandos who had dropped on lift packs ran up the stairs af
ter me. I did not turn. I had to lift my straight and useless left leg for every step. I knew that I had been seriously burned on my back and side and there were shrapnel wounds elsewhere.
The skimmers whooped and circled but avoided the Temple steps. Gunfire rattled up and down the Mall. I could hear metal-shod footsteps coming rapidly behind me. I managed another three steps. Twenty steps above, impossibly far away, the bishop stood amid a hundred Temple priests.
I made another step and looked down at Johnny. One eye was open, staring up at me. The other was closed with blood and swollen tissue.
“It’s all right,” I whispered, aware for the first time that my own helmet was gone. “It’s all right. We’re almost there.” I managed one more step.
The two men in bright black combat armor blocked my way. Both had lifted visors streaked with deflection scars and their faces were very hard.
“Put him down, bitch, and maybe we’ll let you live.”
I nodded tiredly, too tired to take another step or do anything but stand there and hold him in both arms.
Johnny’s blood dripped on white stone.
“I said, put the son of a bitch down and…”
I shot both of them, one in the left eye and one in the right, never lifting Dad’s automatic from where I held it under Johnny’s body.
They fell away. I managed another step. And then another. I rested a bit and then lifted my foot for another.
At the top of the stairs the group of black and red robes parted. The doorway was very tall and very dark. I did not look back but I could hear from the noise behind us that the crowd on the Concourse was very large. The bishop walked by my side as I went through the doors and into the dimness.
I laid Johnny on the cool floor. Robes rustled around us. I pulled my own armor off where I could, then batted at Johnny’s. It was fused to his flesh in several places.
I touched his burned cheek with my good hand. “I’m sorry…”
Johnny’s head stirred slightly and his eye opened. He lifted his bare left hand to touch my cheek, my hair, the back of my head. “Fanny…”
