Dan Simmons - The fall of Hyperion

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BOOKS BY CLAN SIMMONS

Hyperion

The Fall of Hyfierion

Phases of Gravity

Carrion Comfort

Song of Kali

THE FALL OF

HYPERION

CLAN SIMMONS

BANTAM BOOKS

NEW YORK TORONTO LONDON SYDNEY AUCKLAND

A/f of the characters in this book

are fictitious, and any resemblance

to actual persons, living or dead,

is purely coincidental.

This edition contains the complete text

of the original hardcover edition.

NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

The Fall of Hyperion

A Bantam Spectra Book/published by arrangement with

Doubleday

Spectra and the portrayal of a boxed "s" are trademarks of

Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing

Group, Inc.

PRJNTJNC H/STORY

Doubleday edition published March 1990

Bantam edition/March 1991

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 8937458.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopying, recording, or by any information

storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from

the publisher.

For information address: Doubleday, 666 Fifth Avenue,

New York, NY 10105.

ISBN 0553288202

Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing

Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a rooster,

is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada.

Bantam Books, 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10103.

Printed in the United States of America

OPM 098765452

To John Keats

Whose Name Was Writ

in Eternity

"Can God play a significant game with his own creature? Can any

creator, even a limited one, play a significant game with his own creature?"

--norbert wiener, God and Golem, Inc.

". . . May there not be superior beings amused with any graceful,

though instinctive attitude my mind may fall into, as I am entertained

with the alertness of a Stoat or the anxiety of a Deer? Though a quarrel

in the streets is a thing to be hated, the energies displayed in it are fine

... By a superior being our reasonings may take the same tone--

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though erroneous they may be fine-- This is the very thing in which

consists poetry ..."

--john keats, in a letter to his brother

"The Imagination may be compared to Adam's dream--he awoke and

found it truth."

--john keats, in a letter to a friend

PART ONE

ONE

On the day the armada went off to war, on the last day of life

as we knew it, I was invited to a party. There were parties

everywhere that evening, on More than a hundred and fifty

worlds in the Web, but this was the only party that mattered.

I signified acceptance via the datasphere, checked to make sure that

my finest formal jacket was clean, took my time bathing and shaving,

dressed with meticulous care, and used the one-time diskey in the

invitation chip to farcast from Esperance to Tau Ceti Center at the

appointed time.

It was evening in this hemisphere of TC2, and a low, rich light

illuminated the hills and vales of Deer Park, the gray towers of the

Administration complex far to the south, the weeping willows and

radiant femfire which lined the banks of River Tethys, and the white

colonnades of Government House itself. Thousands of guests were

arriving, but security personnel greeted each of us, checked our invitation

codes against DNA patterns, and showed the way to bar and

buffet with a graceful gesture of arm and hand.

"M. Joseph Severn?" the guide confirmed politely.

"Yes," I lied. It was now my name but never my identity.

"CEO Gladstone still wishes to see you later in the evening. You

will be notified when she is free for the appointment."

"Very good."

"If you desire anything in the way of refreshment or entertainment

that is not set out, merely speak your wish aloud and the grounds

monitors will seek to provide it."

I nodded, smiled, and left the guide behind. Before I had strolled a

dozen steps, he had turned to the next guests alighting from the terminex

platform.

THE FALL OF HYPE

From my vantage point on a low knoll, I could see several thousand

guests milling across several hundred acres of manicured lawn, many

of them wandering among forests of topiary. Above the stretch of grass

where I stood, its broad sweep already shaded by the line of trees along

the river, lay the formal gardens, and beyond them rose the imposing

bulk of Government House. A band was playing on the distant patio,

and hidden speakers carried the sound to the farthest reaches of Deer

Park. A constant line of EMVs spiralcd down from a farcaster portal

far above. For a few seconds I watched their brightly clad passengers

disembark at the platform near the pedestrian terminex. I was fascinated

by the variety of aircraft; evening light glinted not only on the shells of

the standard Vikkens and Altz and Sumatsos, but also on the rococo

decks oflevitation barges and the metal hulls of antique skimmers which

had been quaint when Old Earth still existed.

I wandered down the long, gradual slope to the River Tethys, past

the dock where an incredible assortment of river craft disgorged their

passengers. The Tethys was the only webwide river, flowing past its

permanent farcaster portals through sections of More than two hundred

worlds and moons, and the folk who lived along its banks were some

of the wealthiest in the Hegemony. The vehicles on the river showed

this: great, crenelated cruisers, canvas-laden barks, and five-tiered

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barges, many showing signs of being equipped with levitation gear; elaborate

houseboats, obviously fitted with their own farcastcrs; small, motile

isles imported from the oceans of Maui-Covenant; sporty pre-Hegira

speedboats and submersibles; an assortment of hand-carved nautical

EMVs from Renaissance Vector; and a few contemporary go-everywhere

yachts, their outlines hidden by the seamless reflective ovoid surfaces of

containment fields.

The guests who alighted from these craft were no less flamboyant

and impressive than their vehicles: personal styles ranged from pre-

Hegira conservative evening wear on bodies obviously never touched

by Poulsen treatments to this weeks highest fashion from TC2 draped

on figures molded by the Web's most famous ARNists. Then I

moved on, pausing at a long table just long enough to fill my plate

with roast beef, salad, sky squid filet, Parvati curry, and fresh-baked

bread.

The low evening light had faded to twilight by the time I found a

place to sit near the gardens, and the stars were coming out. The lights

of the nearby city and Administration Complex had been dimmed for

tonight's viewing of the armada, and Tau Ceti Center's night sky was More clear than it had been

for centuries.

A woman near me glanced over and smiled. "I'm sure that we've

met before."

I smiled back, sure that we had not. She was very attractive, perhaps

twice my age, in her late fifties, standard, but looking younger than

my own twenty-six years, thanks to money and Poulsen. Her skin was

so fair that it looked almost translucent. Her hair was done in a rising

braid. Her breasts, More revealed than hidden by the wispwear gown,

were flawless. Her eyes were cruel.

"Perhaps we have," I said, "although it seems unlikely. My name is

Joseph Severn."

"Of course," she said. "You're an artist!"

I was not an artist. I was . . . had been ... a poet. But the Severn

identity, which I had inhabited since my real persona's death and

birth a year before, stated that I was an artist. It was in my All Thing

file.

"I remembered," laughed the lady. She lied. She had used her expensive

comlog implants to access the datasphere.

I did not need to access ... a clumsy, redundant word which I despised despite its antiquity. I

mentally closed my eyes and was in the

datasphere, sliding past the superficial All Thing barriers, slipping beneath

the waves of surface data, and following the glowing strand of

her access umbilical far into the darkened depths of "secure" information

flow.

"My name is Diana Philomel," she said. "My husband is sector

transport administrator for Sol Draconi Septem."

I nodded and took the hand she offered. She had said nothing about

the fact that her husband had been head goon for the mold-scrubbers

union on Heaven's Gate before political patronage had promoted him

to Sol Draconi ... or that her name once had been Dinee Teats,

former crib doxie and hopstop hostess to lungpipe proxies in the Mid-

sump Barrens ... or that she had been arrested twice for Flashback

abuse, the second time seriously injuring a halfway house medic . . .

or that she had poisoned her half-brother when she was nine, after he

had threatened to tell her stepfather that she was seeing a Mudflat miner

named...

"Pleased to meet you, M. Philomel," I said. Her hand was warm.

She held the handshake an instant too long.

---------------- THE FALL OF HYPERION ----------------

"Isn't it exciting?" she breathed.

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"What's that?"

She made an expansive gesture that included the night, the glow-

globes just coming on, the gardens, and the crowds. "Oh, the party,

the war, everything," she said.

I smiled, nodded, and tasted the roast beef. It was rare and quite

good, but gave the salty hint of the Lusus clone vats. The squid seemed

authentic. Stewards had come by offering champagne, and I tried mine. It was inferior. Quality

wine, Scotch, and coffee had been the three

irreplaceable commodities after the death of Old Earth. "Do you think

the war is necessary?" I asked.

"Goddamn right it's necessary." Diana Philomel had opened her

mouth, but it was her husband who answered. He had come up from

behind and now took a seat on the faux log where we dined. He was

a big man, at least a foot and a half(aHer than I. But then, I am short.

My memory tells me that I once wrote a verse ridiculing myself as ". . .

Mr. John Keats, five feet high," although I am five feet one, slightly

short when Napoleon and Wellington were alive and the average height

for men was five feet six, ridiculously short now that men from avcrageg

worlds range from six feet tall to almost seven. I obviously did not

have the musculature or frame to claim I had come from a high-g

world, so to all eyes I was merely short. (I report my thoughts above

in the units in which I think ... of all the mental changes since my

rebirth into the Web, thinking in metric is by far the hardest. Sometimes

I refuse to try.)

"Why is the war necessary?" I asked Hermund Philomel, Diana's

husband.

"Because they goddamn asked for it," growled the big man. He was

a molar grinder and a cheek-muscle flexer. He had almost no neck and

a subcutaneous beard that obviously defied depilatory, blade, and

shaver. His hands were half again as large as mine and many times More powerful.

"I sec," I said.

"The goddamn Ousters goddamn asked for it," he repeated, reviewing

the high points of his argument for me. "They fucked with us on Bressia

and now they're fucking with us on ... in ... whatsis ..."

"Hyperion system," said his wife, her eyes never leaving mine.

"Yeah," said her lord and husband, "Hyperion system. They fucked

with us, and now we've got to go out there and show them that the

Hegemony isn't going to stand for it. Understand?"

Memory told me that as a boy I had been sent off to John Clarke's

academy at Enfield and that there had been More than a few small-

brained, ham-fisted bullies like this there. When I first arrived, I avoided

them or placated them. After my mother died, after the world changed,

I went after them with rocks in my small fists and rose from the ground

to swing again, even after they had bloodied my nose and loosened my

teeth with their blows.

"I understand," I said softly. My plate was empty. I raised the last

of my bad champagne to toast Diana Philomel.

"Draw me," she said.

"I beg your pardon7"

"Draw me, M. Severn. You're an artist."

"A painter," I said, making a helpless gesture with an empty hand.

"I'm afraid I have no stylus."

Diana Philomel reached into her husband's tunic pocket and handed

me a light pen. "Draw me. Please."

I drew her. The portrait took shape in the air between us, lines rising

and falling and turning back on themselves like neon filaments in a

wire sculpture. A small crowd gathered to watch. Mild applause rippled

when I finished. The drawing was not bad. It caught the lady's long,

voluptuous curve of neck, high braid bridge of hair, prominent cheekbones

. . . even the slight, ambiguous glint of eye. It was as good as I

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could do after the RNA medication and lessons had prepared me for

the persona. The real Joseph Severn could do better . . . had done

better. I remember him sketching me as I lay dying.

M. Diana Philomel beamed approval. M. Hermund Philomel glowered.

A shout went up. "There they are!"

The crowd murmured, gasped, and hushed. Glow-globes and garden

lights dimmed and went off. Thousands of guests raised their eyes to

the heavens. I erased the drawing and tucked the light pen back in

Hermund's tunic.

"It's the armada," said a distinguished-looking older man in FORCE

dress black. He lifted his drink to point something out to his young

female companion. "They've just opened the portal. The scouts will

come through first, then the torchship escorts."

The FORCE military farcaster portal was not visible from our vantage

point; even in space, I imagine it would look like nothing More than

a rectangular aberration in the starfield. But the fusion tails of the

scoutships were certainly visible--first as a score of fireflies or radiant

THE FALL OF HYPERION

gossamers, then as blazing comets as they ignited their main drives and

swept out through Tau Ceti System's cislunar traffic region. Another

cumulative gasp went up as the torchships farcast into existence, their

firetails a hundred times longer than the scouts'. TC^'s night sky was

scarred from zenith to horizon with gold-red streaks.

Somewhere the applause began, and within seconds the fields and

lawns and formal gardens of Government House's Deer Park were filled

with riotous applause and raucous cheering as the well-dressed crowd

of billionaires and government officials and members of noble houses

from a hundred worlds forgot everything except a jingoism and war lust

awakened now after More than a century and a half of dormancy.

I did not applaud. Ignored by those around me, I finished my

toast--not to Lady Philomel now, but to the enduring stupidity of my

race--and downed the last of the champagne. It was flat.

Above, the More important ships of the flotilla had translated in-

system. I knew from the briefest touch of the datasphere--its surface

now agitated with surges of information until it resembled a storm-

tossed sea--that the main line of the FORCE:space armada consisted

of More than a hundred capital spinships: matte-black attack carriers,

looking like thrown spears, with their launch-arms lashed down; Three-

C command ships, as beautiful and awkward as meteors made of black

crystal; bulbous destroyers resembling the overgrown torchships they

were; perimeter defense pickets, More energy than matter, their massive

containment shields now set to total reflection--brilliant mirrors reflecting

Tau Ceti and the hundreds of flame trails around them; fast

cruisers, moving like sharks among the slower schools of ships; lumbering

troop transports carrying thousands of FORCE:Marines in their

zero-g holds; and scores of support ships--frigates; fast attack fighters;

torpedo ALRs; fatline relay pickets; and the farcaster JumpShips themselves,

massive dodecahedrons with their fairyland arrays of antennae

and probes.

All around the fleet, kept at a safe distance by traffic control, flitted

the yachts and sunjammers and private in-system ships, their sails catching

sunlight and reflecting the glory of the armada.

The guests on the Government House grounds cheered and applauded.

The gentleman in FORCE black was weeping silently.

Nearby, concealed cameras and wideband imagers carried the moment

to every world in the Web and--via fatline--to scores of worlds which

were not.

I shook my head and remained seated.

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"M. Severn?" A security guard stood over me.

"Yes?"

She nodded toward the executive mansion. "CEO Gladstone will

sec you now."

TWO

Every age fraught with discord and danger seems to spawn a leader

meant only for that age, a political giant whose absence, in

retrospect, seems inconceivable when the history of that age is

written. Meina Gladstone was just such a leader for our Final Age,

although none then could have dreamed that there would be no one

but me to write the true history of her and her time.

Gladstone had been compared to the classical figure of Abraham

Lincoln so many times that when I was finally ushered into her presence

that night of the armada party, I was half surprised not to find her in

a black frock coat and stovepipe hat. The CEO of the Senate and leader

of a government serving a hundred and thirty billion people was wearing

a gray suit of soft wool, trousers and tunic top ornamented only by the

slightest hint of red cord piping at seems and cuffs. I did not think she

looked like Abraham Lincoln . . . nor like Alvarez-Temp, the second

most common hero of antiquity cited as her Doppelganger by the press.

I thought that she looked like an old lady.

Meina Gladstone was tall and thin, but her countenance was More

aquiline than Lincolnesque, with her blunt beak of a nose; sharp cheekbones;

the wide, expressive mouth with thin lips; and gray hair rising

in a roughly cropped wave, which did indeed resemble feathers. But

to my mind, the most memorable aspect of Meina Gladstone's appearance

was her eyes: large, brown, and infinitely sad.

We were not alone. I had been led into a long, softly lighted room

lined with wooden shelves holding many hundreds of printed books. A

long holoframe simulating a window gave a view of the gardens. A

meeting was in the process of breaking up, and a dozen men and women

stood or sat in a rough half-circle that held Gladstone's desk at its cusp.

I o

The CEO leaned back casually on her desk, resting her weight on the

front of it, her arms folded. She looked up as I entered.

"M. Severn?"

"Yes."

"Thank you for coming." Her voice was familiar from a thousand

All Thing debates, its timbre rough with age and its tone as smooth as

an expensive liqueur. Her accent was famous--blending precise syntax

with an almost forgotten lilt ofpre-Hegira English, evidently now found

only in the river-delta regions other home world ofPatawpha. "Gentlemen

and ladies, let me introduce M. Joseph Severn," she said.

Several of the group nodded, obviously at a loss as to why I was there.

Gladstone made no further introductions, but I touched the datasphere

to identify everyone: three cabinet members, including the Minister of

Defense; two FORCE chiefs of staff; two aides to Gladstone; four senators,

including the influential Senator Kolchev; and a projection of a

TechnoCore Councilor known as Albcdo.

"M. Severn has been invited here to bring an artist's perspective to

the proceedings," said CEO Gladstone.

FORCE:ground General Morpurgo snorted a laugh. "An artist's perspective7 With all due respect,

CEO, what the hell docs that mean?"

Gladstone smiled. Instead of answering the General, she turned back

to me. "What do you think of the passing of the armada, M. Severn?"

"It's pretty," I said.

General Morpurgo made a noise again. "Pretty? He looks at the

greatest concentration of space-force firepower in the history of the

galaxy and calls it pretty?" He turned toward another military man and

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shook his head.

Gladstone's smile had not wavered. "And what of the war?" she asked

me. "Do you have an opinion on our attempt to rescue Hyperion from

the Ouster barbarians?"

"It's stupid," I said.

The room became very silent. Current real-time polling in the All

Thing showed 98 percent approval of CEO Gladstone's decision to fight

rather than cede the colonial world of Hyperion to the Ousters. Glad-

stone's political future rested on a positive outcome of the conflict. The

men and women in that room had been instrumental in formulating

the policy, making the decision to invade, and carrying out the logistics.

The silence stretched.

"Why is it stupid?" Gladstone asked softly.

---------------- THE FALL OF HYPEBION ----------------

I made a gesture with my right hand. "The Hegemony's not been at

war since its founding seven centuries ago," I said. "It is foolish to test

its basic stability this way."

"Not at war!" shouted General Morpurgo. He gripped his knees with

massive hands. "What the hell do you call the Glennon-Height Rebellion?"

"A rebellion," I said. "A mutiny. A police action."

Senator Kolchev showed his teeth in a smile that held no amusement.

He was from Lusus and seemed More muscle than man. "Fleet actions,"

he said, "half a million dead, two FORCE divisions locked in combat

for More than a year. Some police action, son."

I said nothing.

Leigh Hunt, an older, consumptive-looking man reported to be Glad-

stone's closest aide, cleared his throat. "But what M. Severn says is

interesting. Where do you see the difference between this ... ah ...

conflict and the Glennon-Height wars, sir?"

"Glennon-Height was a former FORCE officer," I said, aware that

I was stating the obvious. "The Ousters have been an unknown quantity

for centuries. The rebels' forces were known, their potential easily

gauged; the Ouster Swarms have been outside the Web since the Hegira.

Glennon-Height stayed within the Protectorate, raiding worlds no farther

than two months' time-debt from the Web; Hyperion is three years from Parvati, the closest Web

staging area."

"You think we haven't thought of all this?" asked General Morpurgo.

"What about the Battle of Bressia? We've already fought the Ousters

there. That was no ... rebellion."

"Quiet, please," said Leigh Hunt. "Co on, M. Severn."

I shrugged again. "The primary difference is that in this case we are

dealing with Hyperion," I said.

Senator Richeau, one of the women present, nodded as if I had

explained myself in full. "You're afraid of the Shrike," she said. "Do

you belong to the Church of the Final Atonement?"

"No," I said, "I'm not a member of the Shrike Cult."

"What are you?" demanded Morpurgo.

"An artist," I lied.

Leigh Hunt smiled and turned to Gladstone. "I agree that we needed

this perspective to sober us, CEO," he said, gesturing toward the window

and the holo images showing the still-applauding crowds, "but while

our artist friend has brought up necessary points, they have all been

reviewed and weighed in full."

---------------------------------------------------- I 3 ------------------------------------------

----------

Senator Kolchev cleared his throat. "I hate to mention the obvious

when it seems we are all intent on ignoring it, but does this . . . gentleman . . . have the

proper security clearance to be present at such

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a discussion?"

Gladstone nodded and showed the slight smile so many caricaturists

had tried to capture. "M. Severn has been commissioned by the Arts

Ministry to do a series of drawings of me during the next few days or

weeks. The theory is, I believe, that these will have some historical

significance and may lead to a formal portrait. At any rate, M. Severn

has been granted a T-level gold security clearance, and we may speak

freely in front of him. Also, I appreciate his candor. Perhaps his arrival

serves to suggest that our meeting has reached its conclusion. I will join

you all in the War Room at 0800 hours tomorrow morning, just before

the fleet translates to Hyperion space."

The group broke up at once. General Morpurgo glowered at me as

he left. Senator Kolchev. stared with some curiosity as he passed. Councilor

Albedo merely faded into nothingness. Leigh Hunt was the only

one besides Gladstone and me to remain behind. He made himself More comfortable by draping one leg

over the arm of the priceless pre-

Hegira chair in which he sat. "Sit down," said Hunt.

I glanced at the CEO. She had taken her seat behind the massive

desk, and now she nodded. I sat in the straight-backed chair General

Morpurgo had occupied. CEO Gladstone said, "Do you really think

that defending Hyperion is stupid?"

"Yes."

Gladstone stcepled her fingers and tapped at her lower lip. Behind

her, the window showed the armada party continuing in silent agitation.

"If you have any hope of being reunited with your ... ah ... counterpart,"

she said, "it would seem to be in your interest for us to carry

out the Hyperion campaign."

I said nothing. The window view shifted to show the night sky still

ablaze with fusion trails.

"Did you bring drawing materials?" asked Gladstone.

I brought out the pencil and small sketchpad I had told Diana Philomel

I did not have.

"Draw while we talk," said Meina Gladstone.

I began sketching, roughing in the relaxed, almost slumped posture,

and then working on the details of the face. The eyes intrigued me.

I was vaguely aware that Leigh Hunt was staring intently at me.

"Joseph Severn," he said. "An interesting choice of names."

---------------- THE FALL OF HYPERION ----------------

I used quick, bold lines to give the sense of Gladstone's high brow

and strong nose.

"Do you know why people are leery of cybrids?" Hunt asked.

"Yes," I said. "The Frankenstein monster syndrome. Fear of anything

in human form that is not completely human. It's the real reason

androids were outlawed, I suppose."

"Uh-huh," agreed Hunt. "But cybrids are completely human, aren't

they?"

"Genetically they are," I said. I found myself thinking of my mother,

remembering the times I had read to her during her illness. I thought

of my brother Torn. "But they are also part of the Core," I said, "and

thus fit the description of'not completely human.' "

"Are you part of the Core?" asked Meina Gladstone, turning full face

toward me. I started a new sketch.

"Not really," I said. "I can travel freely through the regions they

allow me in, but it is More like someone accessing the datasphere than

a true Core personality's ability." Her face had been More interesting

in three-quarters profile, but the eyes were More powerful when viewed

straight on. I worked on the latticework of lines radiating from the corners of those eyes. Meina

Gladstone obviously had never indulged

in Poulsen treatments.

"If it were possible to keep secrets from the Core," said Gladstone,

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"it would be folly to allow you free access to the councils of government.

As it is ..." She dropped her hands and sat up. I nipped to a new

page.

"As it is," said Gladstone, "you have information I need. Is it true

that you can read the mind of your counterpart, the first retrieval

persona?"

"No," I said. It was difficult to capture the complicated interplay of

line and muscle at the corners of her mouth. I sketched in my attempt

to do so, moved on to the strong chin and shaded the area beneath the

underlip.

Hunt frowned and glanced at the CEO. M. Gladstone brought her

fingertips together again. "Explain," she said.

I looked up from the drawing. "I dream," I said. "The contents of

the dream appear to correspond to the events occurring around the

person carrying the implant of the previous Keats persona."

"A woman named Brawne Lamia," said Leigh Hunt.

"Yes."

Gladstone nodded. "So the original Keats persona, the one thought

killed on Lusus, is still alive?"

I paused. "It ... he ... is still aware," I said. "You know that the

primary personality substrate was extracted from the Core, probably by

the cybrid himself, and implanted in a Schron-loop bio-shunt carried

by M. Lamia."

"Yes, yes," said Leigh Hunt. "But the fact is, you are in contact with

the Keats persona, and through him, with the Shrike pilgrims."

Quick, dark strokes provided a dark background to give the sketch of

Gladstone More depth. "I am not actually in contact," I said. "I dream

dreams about Hyperion that your fatline broadcasts have confirmed as

conforming to real-time events. I cannot communicate to the passive

Keats persona, nor to its host or the other pilgrims."

CEO Gladstone blinked. "How did you know about the fatline broadcasts?"

"The Consul told the other pilgrims about his comlog's ability to

relay through the fatline transmitter in his ship. He told them just before

they descended into the valley."

Gladstone's tone hinted of her years as a lawyer before entering

politics. "And how did the others respond to the Consul's revelation?"

I put the pencil back in my pocket. "They knew that a spy was in

their midst," I said. "You told each of them."

Gladstone glanced at her aide. Hunt's expression was blank. "If you're

in touch with them," she said, "you must know that we've received no

message since before they left Keep Chronos to descend to the Time

Tombs."

I shook my head. "Last night's dream ended just as they approached

the valley."

Meina Gladstone rose, paced to the window, raised a hand, and the

image went black. "So you don't know if any of them arc still alive?"

"No."

"What was their status the last time you . . . dreamt?"

Hunt was watching me as intensely as ever. Meina Gladstone was

staring at the dark screen, her back to both of us. "All of the pilgrims

were alive," I said, "with the possible exception of Het Masteen, the

True Voice of the Tree."

"He was dead?" asked Hunt.

"He disappeared from the windwagon on the Sea of Grass two nights

before, only hours after the Ouster scouts had destroyed the treeship

THE FALL OF HYPERION

Yggdrasill. But shortly before the pilgrims descended from Keep

Chronos, they saw a robed figure crossing the sands toward the Tombs."

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"Het Masteen?" asked Gladstone.

I lifted a hand. "They assumed so. They were not sure."

"Tell me about the others," said the CEO.

I took a breath. I knew from the dreams that Gladstone had known

at least two of the people on the last Shrike Pilgrimage; Brawne Lamia's

father had been a fellow senator, and the Hegemony Consul had been

Gladstone's personal representative in secret negotiations with the Ousters.

"Father Hoyt is in great pain," I said. "He told the story of the

cruciform. The Consul learned that Hoyt also wears one . . . two

actually. Father Dure's and his own."

Gladstone nodded. "So he still carries the resurrection parasite?"

"Yes."

"Does it bother him More as he approaches the Shrike's lair?"

"I believe so," I said.

"Go on."

"The poet, Silenus, has been drunk much of the time. He is convinced

that his unfinished poem predicted and determines the course

of events."

"On Hyperion?" asked Gladstone, her back still turned.

"Everywhere," I said.

Hunt glanced at the chief executive and then looked back at me. "Is

Silenus insane?"

I returned his gaze but said nothing. In truth, I did not know.

"Go on," Gladstone said again.

"Colonel Kassad continues with his twin obsessions of finding the

woman named Moneta and of killing the Shrike. He is aware that they

may be one and the same."

"Is he armed?" Gladstone's voice was very soft.

"Yes."

"Go on."

"Sol Weintraub, the scholar from Barnard's World, hopes to enter

the tomb called the Sphinx as soon as--"

"Excuse me," said Gladstone, "but is his daughter still with him?"

"Yes."

"And how old is Rachel now?"

"Five days, I believe." I closed my eyes to remember the previous

night's dream in greater detail. "Yes," I said, "five days."

"And still aging backward in time?"

"Yes."

"Go on, M. Severn. Please tell me about Brawnc Lamia and the

Consul."

"M. Lamia is carrying out the wishes of her former client . . .and

lover," I said. "The Keats persona felt it was necessary for him to

confront the Shrike. M. Lamia is doing it in his stead."

"M. Severn," began Leigh Hunt, "you speak of'the Keats persona'

as if it had no relevance or connection to your own ..."

"Later, please, Leigh," said Meina Gladstone. She turned to look at

me. "I'm curious about the Consul. Did he take his turn at telling his

reason for joining the pilgrimage?"

"Yes," I said.

Gladstone and Hunt waited.

"The Consul told them about his grandmother," I said. "The woman

called Siri who started the Maui-Covenant rebellion More than half a

century ago. He told them about the death of his own family during

the battle for Bressia, and he revealed his secret meetings with the

Ousters."

"Is that all?" asked Gladstone. Her brown eyes were very intense.

"No," I said. "The Consul told them that he had been the one to

trigger an Ouster device which hastened the opening of the Time

Tombs."

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Dan Simmons - The fall of Hyperion

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