Dan Simmons - On K2 with Kanakaredes

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Yikes! Here's a story leading off this so-called cutting edge anthology that could have been published (m

the naughty language) anywhere in the science fiction field in the last forty years. And by that I mean just a

any magazine or anthology— or a number of same outside the field. I could see this one in the Saturday Eve

Post in 1968, for crissakes.

What gives?

I'll tell you what gives: this story is great fiction today, forty

ears ago, or forty years in the future. Great fi

transcends any definition of cutting edge or New Wave.

Or genre labels.

Or any other kind of baloney.

Dan Simmons is well known to you all, or should be. He is the author of Hyperion, The Fall of Hyperion, The

of Kali, and many other sf and horror novels. He's won numerous awards, including the Bram Stoker Award,

World Fantasy Award, and the Hugo Award, and also has conquered the spy thriller and suspense fields.

He's also responsible for the inclusion of one of the other great stories in this book, as you shall see.

But that's later; for now: enjoy the hell out of the following.

On K2 with Kanakaredes

DAN SIMMONS

The South Col of Everest, 26,200 feet

If we hadn't decided to acclimate ourselves for the K2 attempt by secretly climbing to

eight-thousand-meter mark on Everest, a stupid mountain that no self-respecting climbe

would go near anymore, they wouldn't have caught us and we wouldn't have been forced

make the real climb with an alien and the rest of it might not have happened. But we did

and we were and it did.

What else is new? It's as old as Chaos theory. The best-laid plans of mice and men and

forth and so on. As if you have to tell that to a climber.

Instead of heading directly for our Concordia Base Camp at the foot of K2, the three o

had used Gary's nifty little stealth CMG to fly northeast into the Himalayas, straight to

bergeschrund of the Khumbu Glacier at 23,000 feet. Well, fly almost straight to the glaci

we had to zig and zag to stay under HK Syndicate radar and to avoid seeing or being see

by that stinking prefab pile of Japanese shit called the Everest Base Camp Hotel (rooms

$4,500 a night, not counting Himalayan access fee and CMG limo fare).

We landed without being detected (or so we thought), made sure the vehicle was safely

tucked away from the icefalls, seracs, and avalanche paths, left the CMG set in conceal

mode, and started our Alpine-style conditioning climb to the South Col. The weather w

brilliant. The conditions were perfect. We climbed brilliantly. It was the stupidest thing

three of us had ever done.

By late on the third afternoon we had reached the South Col, that narrow, miserable,

windswept notch of ice and boulders wedged high between the shoulders of Lhotse and

Everest. We activated our little smart tents, merged them, anchored them hard to ice-spu

rock, and keyed them white to keep them safe from prying eyes.

Even on a beautiful late-summer Himalayan evening such as the one we enjoyed that d

weather on the South Col sucks. Wind velocities average higher than those encountered n

the summit of Everest. Any high-climber knows that when you see a stretch of relatively

rock free of snow, it means hurricane winds. These arrived on schedule just about at suns

of that third day. We hunkered down in the communal tent and made soup. Our plan was

spend two nights on the South Col and acclimate ourselves to the lower edge of the Deat

Zone before heading down and flying on to Concordia for our legal K2 climb. We had n

intention of climbing higher than the South Col on Everest. Who would?

At least the view was less tawdry since the Syndicate cleaned up Everest and the Sout

Col, flying off more than a century's worth of expedition detritus—ancient fixed ropes,

countless tent tatters, tons of frozen human excrement, about a million abandoned oxyg

bottles, and a few hundred frozen corpses. Everest in the twentieth century had been the

equivalent of the old Oregon Trail—everything that could be abandoned had been,

including climbers' dead friends.

Actually, the view that evening was rather good. The Col drops off to the east for abo

four thousand feet into what used to be Tibet and falls even more sharply—about seven

thousand feet—to the Western Cwm. That evening, the high ridges of Lhotse and the en

visible west side of Everest caught the rich, golden sunset for long minutes after the Col

moved into shadow and then the temperature at our campsite dropped about a hundred

degrees. There was not, as we outdoors people like to say, a cloud in the sky. The high

peaks glowed in all their eight-thousand-meter glory, snowfields burning orange in the

light. Gary and Paul lay in the open door of the tent, still wearing their therm-skin uppers,

and watched the stars emerge and shake to the hurricane wind as I fiddled and fussed with

the stove to make soup. Life was good. Suddenly an incredibly amplified voice bellowed,

"You there in the tent!"

I almost pissed my thermskins. I did spill the soup, slopping it all over Paul's sleepin

bag.

"Fuck," I said.

"God damn it," said Gary, watching the black CMG—its UN markings glowing and

powerful searchlights stabbing—settle gently onto small boulders not twenty feet from t

tent.

"Busted," said Paul.

Hillary Room, Top of the World, 29,035 feet

Two years in an HK floating prison wouldn't have been as degrading as being made to

enter that revolving restaurant on the top of Everest. All three of us protested, Gary the

loudest since he was the oldest and richest, but the four UN security guys in the CMG ju

cradled their standard-issue Uzis and said nothing until the vehicle had docked in the

restaurant airlock-garage and the pressure had been equalized. We stepped out reluctant

and followed other security guards deeper into the closed and darkened restaurant even

more reluctantly. Our ears were going crazy. One minute we'd been camping at 26,000 f

and a few minutes later the pressure was the standard airline equivalent of 5,000 feet. It

was painful, despite the UN CMC's attempt to match pressures while it circled the dark h

of Everest for ten minutes.

By the time we were led into the Hillary Room to the only lighted table in the place, w

were angry and in pain.

"Sit down," said Secretary of State Betty Willard Bright Moon.

We sat. There was no mistaking the tall, sharp-featured Blackfoot woman in the gray

suit. Every pundit agreed that she was the single toughest and most interesting personalit

the Cohen Administration, and the four U.S. Marines in combat garb standing in the

shadows behind her only added to her already imposing sense of authority. The three of

sat, Gary closest to the dark window wall across from Secretary Bright Moon, Paul next to

him, and me farthest away from the action. It was our usual climbing pattern.

On the expensive teak table in front of Secretary Bright Moon were three blue dossiers

couldn't read the tabs on them, but I had little doubt about their contents: Dossier #1, Ga

Sheridan, forty-nine, semi-retired, former CEO of SherPath International, multiple

addresses around the world, made his first millions at age seventeen during the long lost an

rarely lamented dot-corn gold rush of yore, divorced (four times), a man of many passion

the greatest of which was mountain climbing; Dossier #2, Paul Ando Hiraga, twenty-eigh

ski bum, professional guide, one of the world's best rock-and-ice climbers, unmarried;

Dossier #3, Jake Richard Pettigrew, thirty-six, (address: Boulder, Colorado), married, thre

children, high-school math teacher, a good-to-average climber with only two eight-

thousand-meter peaks bagged, both thanks to Gary and Paul, who invited him to join the

on international climbs for the six previous years. Mr. Pettigrew still cannot

elieve his go

luck at having a friend and patron bankroll his climbs, especially when both Gary and Pau

were far better climbers with much more experience. But perhaps the dossiers told of ho

Jake, Paul, and Gary had become close friends as well as climbing partners over the past fe

years, friends who trusted each other to the point of trespassing on the Himalayan Preser

just to get acclimated for the climb of their lives.

Or perhaps the blue folders were just some State Department busy-work that had noth

to do with us.

"What's the idea of hauling us up here?" asked Gary, his voice controlled but tight. Ve

tight. "If the Hong Kong Syndicate wants to throw us in the slammer, fine, but you and

UN can't just drag us somewhere against our will. We're still U.S. citizens. . . ."

"U.S. citizens who have broken HK Syndicate Preserve rules and UN World Historic

Site laws," snapped Secretary Bright Moon.

"We have a valid permit . . . ," began Gary again. His forehead looked very red just

below the line of his cropped white hair.

"To climb K2, commencing three days from now," said the Secretary of State. "Your

climbing team won the HK lottery. We know. But that permit does not allow you to ente

overfly the Himalayan Preserve, or to trespass on Mount Everest."

Paul glanced at me. I shook my head. I had no idea what was going on. We could have

stolen Mount Everest and it wouldn't have brought Secretary Betty Willard Bright Moon

flying around the world to sit in this darkened revolving restaurant just to slap our wrists.

Gary shrugged and sat back. "So what do you want?"

Secretary Bright Moon opened the closest blue dossier and slid a photo across the

polished teak toward us. We huddled to look at it.

"A bug? "said Gary.

"They prefer Listener" said the secretary of state. "But mantispid will do."

"What do the bugs have to do with us?" said Gary.

"This particular bug wants to climb K2 with you in three days," said Secretary Bright

Moon. "And the government of the United States of America in cooperation with the

Listener Liaison and Cooperation Council of the United Nations fully intend to have hi

... or her . . . do so."

Paul's jaw dropped. Gary clasped his hands behind his head and laughed. I just stared.

Somehow I found my voice first.

"That's impossible," I said.

Secretary Betty Willard Bright Moon turned her flat, dark-eyed gaze on me. "Why?"

Normally the combination of that woman's personality, her position, and those eyes

would have stopped me cold, but this was too absurd to ignore. I just held out my hands,

palms upward. Some things are too obvious to explain. "The bugs have six legs," I said at

last. "They look like they can hardly walk. We're climbing the second tallest mountain on

earth- And the most savage."

Secretary Bright Moon did not blink. "The bu— The mantispids seem to get around

their freehold in Antarctica quite well," she said flatly. "And sometimes they walk on tw

legs."

Paul snorted. Gary kept his hands clasped behind his head, his shoulders back, posture

relaxed, but his eyes were flint. "I presume that if this

ug climbed with us, that you'd hol

responsible for his safety and well-being," he said.

The secretary's head turned as smoothly as an owl's. "You presume correctly," she said

"That would be our first concern. The safety of the Listeners is always our first concern."

Gary lowered his hands and shook his head. "Impossible. Above eight thousand mete

no one can help anyone."

"That's why they call that altitude the Death Zone," said Paul. He sounded angry.

Bright Moon ignored Paul and kept her gaze locked with Gary's. She had spent too ma

decades steeped in power, negotiation, and political in-fighting not to know who our lead

was. "We can make the climb safer," she said. "Phones, CMGs on immediate call, uplink

Gary was shaking his head again. "We do this climb without phones and medevac

capability from the mountain."

"That's absurd . . .," began the secretary of state.

Gary cut her off. "That's the way it is," he said. "That's what real mountaineers do in t

day and age. And what we don't do is come to this fucking obscenity of a restaurant." He

gestured toward the darkened Hillary Room to our right, the gesture including all the

revolving Top of the World. One of the marines blinked at Gary's obscenity.

Secretary Bright Moon did not blink. "All right, Mr. Sheridan. The phones and CMG

medevacs are not negotiable. I presume everything else is."

Gary said nothing for a minute. Finally, "I presume that if we say no, that you're going

make our lives a living hell."

The secretary of state smiled ever so slightly. "I think that all of you will find that there wi

be no more visas for foreign climbs," she said. "Ever. And all of you may encounter

difficulties with your taxes soon. Especially you, Mr. Sheridan, since your corporate accoun

are so ... complicated."

Gary returned her smile. For an instant it seemed as if he were actually enjoying this.

"And if we said yes," he said slowly, almost drawling, "what's in it for us?"

Bright Moon nodded, and one of the lackeys to her left opened another dossier and sli

slick color photograph across the table toward us. Again all three of us leaned forward t

look. Paul frowned. It took me a minute to figure out what it was—some sort of reddish

shield volcano. Hawaii?

"Mars," Gary said softly. "Olympus Mons."

Secretary Bright Moon said, "It is more than twice as tall as Mount Everest."

Gary laughed easily. "Twice as tall? Shit, woman, Olympus Mons is more than three

times the height of Everest—more than eighty-eight thousand feet high, three hundred a

thirty-five miles in diameter. The caldera is fifty-three miles wide. Christ, the outward

facing cliff ringing the bottom of the thing is taller than Everest—thirty-two thousand eig

hundred feet, vertical with an overhang."

Bright Moon had finally blinked at the "Shit, woman"—I wondered wildly when the la

time had been that someone had spoken to this secretary of state like that—but now she

smiled.

Gary said, "So what? The Mars program is dead. We chickened out, just like with the

Apollo Program seventy-five years ago. Don't tell me that you're offering to send us there

because we don't even have the technology to go back."

"The bugs do," said Secretary Bright Moon. "And if you agree to let the son of the

mantispid speaker climb K2 with you, the Listeners guarantee that they will transport yo

Mars within twelve months— evidently the transit time will be only two weeks in each

direction—and they'll outfit a mountain-climbing expedition up Olympus Mons for you.

Pressure suits, rebreathers, the whole nine yards."

The three of us exchanged glances. We did not have to discuss this. We looked back at

the photograph. Finally Gary looked up at Bright Moon. "What do we have to do other t

climb with him?"

"Keep him alive if you can," she said.

Gary shook his head. "You heard Paul. Above eight thousand meters, we can't guarantee

even keeping ourselves alive."

The secretary nodded, but said softly, "Still, if we added a simple emergency calling

device to one of your palmlogs—a distress beacon, as it were—this would allow us to com

quickly to evacuate the mantispid if there were a problem or illness or injury to him,

without interfering with the ... integrity ... of the rest of your climb."

"A red panic button," said Gary, but the three of us exchanged dances again. This id

was distasteful but reasonable in its way. Besides, once the bug was taken off the hill, for

whatever reason, the three of us could get on with the climb and maybe still get a crack at

Olympus Mons. "What else?" Gary asked the woman.

Secretary Bright Moon folded her hands and lowered her gaze a moment. When she

looked up again, her gaze appeared to be candid. "You gentlemen know how little the

mantispids have talked to us ... how little technology they have shared with us—"

"They gave us CMG," interrupted Gary.

"Yes," said Bright Moon, "CMG in exchange for their Antarctic freehold. But we've

only had hints of the other wonders they could share with us—generation starflight

technology, a cure for cancer, free energy. The Listeners just . . . well, listen. This is the

first overture they've made."

The three of us waited.

"We want you to record everything this son of the speaker says during the climb," said

Secretary Bright Moon. "Ask questions. Listen to the answers. Make friends with him if

can. That's all."

Gary shook his head. "We don't want to wear a wire." Before Bright Moon could object

he went on, "We have to wear thermskins—molecular heat membranes. We're not going to

wear wires under or over them."

The secretary looked as if she was ready to order the marines to shoot Gary and probabl

throw Paul and me out the window, not that the window could be opened. The whole

damned restaurant was pressurized.

"I'll do it," I said.

Gary and Paul looked at me in surprise. I admit that I was also surprised at the offer. I

shrugged. "Why not? My folks died of cancer. I wouldn't mind finding a cure. You guys c

weave a recording wire into my overparka. Or I can use the recorder in my palmlog. I'll

record the bug when I can, but I'll summarize the other conversations on my palm-log. Yo

know, keep a record of things."

Secretary Betty Willard Bright Moon looked as if she were swallowing gall, but she

nodded, first to us and then at the marine guards. The marines came around the table to

escort us back to the UN CMG.

"Wait," said Gary before we were led away. "Does this bug have a name?"

"Kanakaredes," said the secretary of state, not even looking up at us.

"Sounds Greek," said Paul.

"I seriously doubt it," said Secretary Bright Moon.

K2 Base Camp, 16,500 feet

I guess I expected a little flying saucer—a smaller version of the shuttle craft the bugs h

first landed near the UN nine years earlier—but they all arrived in an oversize, bright red

DaimlerChrysler CMG. I saw them first and shouted. Gary and Paul came out of the

supply tent where they had been triple-checking our provisions.

Secretary Bright Moon wasn't there to see us off, of course—we hadn't spoken to her

since the night at the Top of the World three days earlier—but the Listener Liaison guy,

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Yikes!Here'sastoryleadingoffthisso-calledcuttingedgeanthologythatcouldhavebeenpublished(mithenaughtylanguage)anywhereinthesciencefictionfieldinthelastfortyyears.AndbythatImeanjustabanymagazineoranthology—oranumberofsameoutsidethefield.IcouldseethisoneintheSaturdayEvenPostin1968,forcrissakes.Whatgive...

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Dan Simmons - On K2 with Kanakaredes

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