Hyperion h-1

by Dan Simmons

  I felt him die then. I also felt the surge as his hand found the neural shunt, the white-light warmth of the surge to the Schrön loop as everything Johnny Keats ever was or would be exploded into me; almost, almost it was like his orgasm inside me two nights earlier, the surge and throb and sudden warmth and stillness after, with the echo of sensation there.

  I lowered him to the floor and let the acolytes remove the body, taking it out to show the crowd and the authorities and the ones who waited to know.

  I let them take me away.

  I spent two weeks in a Shrike Temple recovery créche.

  Burns healed, scars removed, alien metal extracted, skin grafted, flesh regrown, nerves rewoven. And still I hurt.

  Everyone except the Shrike priests lost interest in me.

  The Core made sure that Johnny was dead; that his presence in the Core had left no trace; that his cybrid was dead.

  The authorities took my statement, revoked my license, and covered things up as best they could. The Web press reported that a battle between Dregs’ Level Hive gangs had erupted onto the Concourse Mall.

  Numerous gang members and innocent bystanders were killed. The police contained it.

  A week before word came that the Hegemony would allow the Yggdrasill to sail with pilgrims for the war zone near Hyperion, I used a Temple farcaster to ’cast to Renaissance Vector where I spent an hour alone in the archives there.

  The papers were in vacuum-press so I could not touch them. The handwriting was Johnny’s; I had seen his writing before. The parchment was yellow and brittle with age. There were two fragments. The first read:

  The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!

  Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,

  Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone,

  Bright eyes, accomplished shape, and languorous waist

  Faded the flower and all its budded charms,

  Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,

  Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,

  Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradisem

  Vanished unseasonably at shut of eve,

  When the dusk holiday—or holinight—

  Of fragrant-curtained love begins to weave

  The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight;

  But, as I’ve read love’s missal through today,

  He’ll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.

  The second fragment was in a wilder hand and on rougher paper, as if slashed across a notepad in haste:

  This living hand, now warm and capable

  Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold

  And in the icy silence of the tomb,

  So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights

  That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood

  So in my veins red life might stream again,

  And thou be conscience-calm’d—see here it is—I hold it towards you

  I’m pregnant. I think that Johnny knew it. I don’t know for sure.

  I’m pregnant twice. Once with Johnny’s child and once with the Schrön-loop memory of what he was. I don’t know if the two are meant to be linked. It will be months before the child is born and only days before I face the Shrike.

  But I remember those minutes after Johnny’s torn body was taken out to the crowd and before I was led away for help. They were all there in the darkness, hundreds of the priests and acolytes and exorcists and ostiaries and worshipers… and as one voice they began to chant, there in that red dimness under the revolving sculpture of the Shrike, and their voices echoed in Gothic vaults. And what they chanted went something like this:

  “BLESSED BE SHE

  BLESSED BE THE MOTHER OF OUR SALVATION

  BLESSED BE THE INSTRUMENT OF OUR ATONEMENT

  BLESSED BE THE BRIDE OF OUR CREATION

  BLESSED BE SHE”

  I was injured and in shock. I didn’t understand it then.

  I don’t understand it now.

  But I know that, when the time arrives and the Shrike comes, Johnny and I will face it together.

  It was long after dark. The tramcar rode between stars and ice. The group sat in silence, the only sound the creak of cable.

  After a time had passed, Lenar Hoyt said to Brawne Lamia, “You also carry the cruciform.”

  Lamia looked at the priest.

  Colonel Kassad leaned toward the woman. “Do you think Het Masteen was the Templar who had spoken to Johnny?”

  “Possibly,” said Brawne Lamia. “I never found out.”

  Kassad did not blink. “Were you the one who killed Masteen?”

  “No.”

  Martin Silenus stretched and yawned. “We have a few hours before sunrise,” he said. “Anyone else interested in getting some sleep?”

  Several heads nodded.

  “I’ll stay up to keep watch,” said Fedmahn Kassad.

  “I’m not tired.”

  “I’ll keep you company,” said the Consul.

  “I’ll heat some coffee for the therm,” said Brawne Lamia.

  When the others slept, the infant Rachel making soft cooing sounds in her sleep, the other three sat at the windows and watched the stars burn cold and distant in the high night.

  Six

  Chronos Keep jutted from the easternmost rim of the great Bridle Range: a grim, baroque heap of sweating stones with three hundred rooms and halls, a maze of lightless corridors leading to deep halls, towers, turrets, balconies overlooking the northern moors, airshafts rising half a kilometer to light and rumored to drop to the world’s labyrinth itself, parapets scoured by cold winds from the peaks above, stairways-inside and out-carved from the mountain stone and leading nowhere, stained-glass windows a hundred meters tall set to catch the first rays of solstice sun or the moon on midwinter night, paneless windows the size of a man’s fist looking out on nothing in particular, an endless array of bas-relief, grotesque sculptures in half-hidden niches, and more than a thousand gargoyles staring down from eave and parapet, transept and sepulcher, peering down through wood rafters in the great halls and positioned so as to peer in the blood-tinted windows of the northeast face, their winged and hunchbacked shadows moving like grim sundial hours, cast by sunlight in the day and gas-fed torches at night.

  And everywhere in Chronos Keep, signs of the Shrike Church’s long occupation—atonement altars draped in red velvet, hanging and free-standing sculptures of the Avatar with polychrome steel for blades and bloodgems for eyes, more statues of the Shrike carved from the stone of narrow stairways and dark halls so that nowhere in the night would one be free of the fear of touching hands emerging from rock, the sharp curve of blade descending from stone, four arms enveloping in a final embrace. As if in a last measure of ornamentation, a filigree of blood in many of the once occupied halls and rooms, arabesques of red spattered in almost recognizable patterns along walls and tunnel ceilings, bedclothes caked hard with rust-red substance, and a central dining hall filled with the stench of food rotting from a meal abandoned weeks earlier, the floor and table, chairs and wall adorned with blood, stained clothing and shredded robes lying in mute heaps. And everywhere the sound of flies.

  “Jolly fucking place, isn’t it?” said Martin Silenus, his voice echoing.

  Father Hoyt took several steps deeper into the great hall. Afternoon light from the west-facing skylight forty meters above fell in dusty columns. “It’s incredible,” he whispered. “St Peter’s in the New Vatican is nothing like this.”

  Martin Silenus laughed. Thick light outlined his cheekbones and satyr’s brows. “This was built for a living deity,” he said.

  Fedmahn Kassad lowered his travel bag to the floor and cleared his throat. “Surely this place predates the Shrike Church.”

  “It does,” said the Consul. “But they’ve occupied it for the past two centuries.”

  “It doesn’t look too occupied now,” said Brawne Lamia. She held her father’s automatic in her left hand.

 
They had all shouted during their first twenty minutes in the Keep, but the dying echoes, silences, and buzz of flies in the dining hall had reduced them to silence.

  “Sad King Billy’s androids and bond clones built the goddamn thing,” said the poet. “Eight local years of labor before the spinships arrived. It was supposed to be the greatest tourist resort in the Web, the jumping-off point for the Time Tombs and the City of Poets. But I suspect that even then the poor schmuck android laborers knew the locals’ version of the Shrike story.”

  Sol Weintraub stood near an eastern window, holding his daughter up so that soft light fell across her cheek and curled fist. “All that matters little now,” he said. “Let’s find a corner free of carnage where we can sleep and eat our evening meal.”

  “Are we going on tonight?” asked Brawne Lamia.

  “To the Tombs?” asked Silenus, showing real surprise for the first time on the voyage. “You’d go to the Shrike in the dark?”

  Lamia shrugged. “What difference does it make?” The Consul stood near a leaded glass door leading to a stone balcony and closed his eyes. His body still lurched and balanced to the movement of the tramcar. The night and day of travel above the peaks had blurred together in his mind, lost in the fatigue of almost three days without sleep and his rising tension. He opened his eyes before he dozed off standing up.

  “We’re tired,” he said. “We’ll stay here tonight and go down in the morning.”

  Father Hoyt had gone out onto the narrow ledge of balcony. He leaned on a railing of jagged stone. “Can we see the Tombs from here?”

  “No,” said Silenus. “They’re beyond that rise of hills. But see those white things to the north and west a bit… those things gleaming like shards of broken teeth in the sand?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the City of Poets. King Billy’s original site for Keats and for all things bright and beautiful. The locals say that it’s haunted now by headless ghosts.”

  “Are you one of them?” asked Lamia.

  Martin Silenus turned to say something, looked a moment at the pistol still in her hand, shook his head, and turned away.

  Footsteps echoed from an unseen curve of staircase and Colonel Kassad reentered the room. “There are two small storerooms above the dining hall,” he said. “They have a section of balcony outside but no other access than this stairway. Easy to defend. The rooms are… clean.”

  Silenus laughed. “Does that mean nothing can get at us or that, when something does get at us, we’ll have no way to get out?”

  “Where would we go?” asked Sol Weintraub.

  “Where indeed?” said the Consul. He was very tired.

  He lifted his gear and took one handle of the heavy Möbius cube, waiting for Father Hoyt to lift the other end. “Let’s do what Kassad says. Find a space to spend the night. Let’s at least get out of this room. It stinks of death.”

  Dinner was the last of their dried rations, some wine from Silenus’s last bottle, and some stale cake which Sol Weintraub had brought along to celebrate their last evening together. Rachel was too little to eat the cake, but she took her milk and went to sleep on her stomach on a mat near her father.

  Lenar Hoyt removed a small balalaika from his pack and strummed a few chords.

  “I didn’t know you played,” said Brawne Lamia.

  “Poorly.”

  The Consul rubbed his eyes. “I wish we had a piano.”

  “You do have one,” said Martin Silenus.

  The Consul looked at the poet.

  “Bring it here,” said Silenus. “I’d welcome a Scotch.”

  “What are you talking about?” snapped Father Hoyt.

  “Make sense.”

  “His ship,” said Silenus. “Do you remember our dear, departed Voice of the Bush Masteen telling our Consul friend that his secret weapon was that nice Hegemony singleship sitting back at Keats Spaceport? Call it up, Your Consulship. Bring it on in.”

  Kassad moved away from the stairway where he had been placing tripbeams.

  “The planet’s datasphere is dead. The comsats are down. The orbiting FORCE ships are on tightbeam. How is he supposed to call it?”

  It was Lamia who spoke. “A fatline transmitter.” The Consul moved his stare to her.

  “Fatline transmitters are the size of buildings,” said Kassad.

  Brawne Lamia shrugged. “What Masteen said made sense. If I were the Consul… if I were one of the few thousand individuals in the entire damn Web to own a singleship… I’d be damn sure I could fly it in on remote if I needed it. The planet’s too primitive to depend on its comm net, the ionosphere’s too weak for shortwave, the comsats are the first things to go in a skirmish… I’d call it by fatline.”

  “And the size?” said the Consul.

  Brawne Lamia returned the diplomat’s level gaze.

  “The Hegemony can’t yet build portable fatline transmitters. There are rumors that the Ousters can.”

  The Consul smiled. From somewhere there came a scrape and then the sound of metal crashing.

  “Stay here,” said Kassad. He removed a deathwand from his tunic, canceled the tripbeams with his tactical comlog, and descended from sight.

  “I guess we’re under martial law now,” said Silenus when the Colonel was gone. “Mars ascendant.”

  “Shut up,” said Lamia.

  “Do you think it’s the Shrike?” asked Hoyt.

  The Consul made a gesture. “The Shrike doesn’t have to clank around downstairs. It can simply appear… here.”

  Hoyt shook his head. “I mean the Shrike that has been the cause of everyone’s… absence. The signs of slaughter here in the Keep.”

  “The empty villages might be the result of the evacuation order,” said the Consul. “No one wants to stay behind to face the Ousters. The SDF forces have been running wild. Much of the carnage could be their doing.”

  “With no bodies?” laughed Martin Silenus. “Wishful thinking. Our absent hosts downstairs dangle now on the Shrike’s steel tree. Where, ere long, we too will be.”

  “Shut up,” Brawne Lamia said tiredly.

  “And if I don’t,” grinned the poet, “will you shoot me, madam?”

  “Yes.”

  The silence lasted until Colonel Kassad returned. He reactivated the tripbeams and turned to the group seated on packing crates and flowfoam cubes. “It was nothing. Some carrion birds—harbingers, I think the locals call them—had come in through the broken glass doors in the dining hall and were finishing the feast.”

  Silenus chuckled. “Harbingers. Very appropriate.” Kassad sighed, sat on a blanket with his back to a crate, and poked at his cold food. A single lantern brought from the windwagon lighted the room and the shadows were beginning to mount the walls in the corners away from the door to the balcony. “It’s our last night,” said Kassad. “One more story to tell.” He looked at the Consul.

  The Consul had been twisting his slip of paper with the number 7 scrawled on it. He licked his lips. “What’s the purpose? The purpose of the pilgrimage has been destroyed already.”

  The others stirred.

  “What do you mean?” asked Father Hoyt.

  The Consul crumpled the paper and threw it into a corner. “For the Shrike to grant a request, the band of pilgrims must constitute a prime number. We had seven. Masteen’s… disappearance… reduces us to six. We go to our deaths now with no hope of a wish being granted.”

  “Superstition,” said Lamia.

  The Consul sighed and rubbed his brow. “Yes. But that is our final hope.”

  Father Hoyt gestured toward the sleeping infant.

  “Can’t Rachel be our seventh?”

  Sol Weintraub rubbed his beard. “No. A pilgrim must come to the Tombs of his or her own free will.”

  “But she did once,” said Hoyt. “Maybe it qualifies.”

  “No,” said the Consul.

  Martin Silenus had been writing notes on a pad but now he stood and paced the length of
the room. “Jesus Christ, people. Look at us. We’re not six fucking pilgrims, we’re a mob. Hoyt there with his cruciform carrying the ghost of Paul Duré. Our “semisentient” erg in the box there. Colonel Kassad with his memory of Moneta. M. Brawne there, if we are to believe her tale, carrying not only an unborn child but a dead Romantic poet. Our scholar with the child his daughter used to be. Me with my muse. The Consul with whatever fucking baggage he’s brought to this insane trek. My God, people, we should have received a fucking group rate for this trip.”

  “Sit down,” said Lamia in a dead even tone.

  “No, he’s right,” said Hoyt. “Even the presence of Father Duré in cruciform must affect the prime-number superstition somehow. I say that we press on in the morning in the belief that…”

  “Look!” cried Brawne Lamia, pointing to the balcony doorway where the fading twilight had been replaced with pulses of strong light.

  The group went out into the cool evening air, shielding their eyes from the staggering display of silent explosions which filled the sky: pure white fusion bursts expanding like explosive ripples across a lapis pond; smaller, brighter plasma implosions in blue and yellow and brightest red, curling inward like flowers folding for the night: the lightning dance of gigantic hellwhip displays, beams the size of small worlds cutting their swath across light-hours and being contorted by the riptides of defensive singularities: the aurora shimmer of defense fields leaping and dying under the assault of terrible energies only to be reborn nanoseconds later. Amid it all, the blue-white fusion tails of torchships and larger warships slicing perfectly true lines across the sky like diamond scratches on blue glass.

  “The Ousters,” breathed Brawne Lamia.

  “The war’s begun,” said Kassad. There was no elation in his voice, no emotion of any kind.

  The Consul was shocked to discover that he was weeping silently. He turned his face from the group.

  “Are we in danger here?” asked Martin Silenus. He sheltered under the stone archway of the door, squinting at the brilliant display.