by Dan Simmons
The Consul moved quickly, injecting the full ampule of ultramorph just under the armpit, catching the priest as he collapsed, and gently lowering the unconscious form to the floor. His vision unclear, the Consul ripped open Hoyt’s sweat-sodden shirt, casting the rags aside. It was there, of course, lying under the pale skin of Hoyt’s chest like some great, raw, cross-shaped worm. The Consul took a breath and gently turned the priest over. The second cruciform was where he had expected to find it, a slightly smaller, cross-shaped welt between the thin man’s shoulder blades. It stirred slightly as the Consul’s fingers brushed the fevered flesh.
The Consul moved slowly but efficiently—packing the priest’s belongings, straightening the room, dressing the unconscious man with the gentle care one would use in clothing the body of a dead family member.
The Consuls comlog buzzed. “We need to go,” came Colonel Kassad’s voice.
“We’re coming,” replied the Consul. He coded the comlog to summon, crew clones to fetch the luggage, but lifted Father Hoyt himself. The body seemed to weigh nothing.
The pod door dilated open and the Consul stepped out, moving from the deep shadow of the branch into the blue-green glow of the world which filled the sky. Deciding what cover story he would tell the others, the Consul paused a second to look at the sleeping man’s face. He glanced up at Hyperion and then moved on. Even if the gravity field had been full Earth standard, the Consul knew, the body in his arms would have been no burden.
Once a parent to a child now dead, the Consul walked on, knowing once again the sensation of bearing a sleeping son to bed.
2
It had been a warm, rainy day in Keats, Hyperion’s capital, and even after the rains stopped a layer of clouds moved slow and heavy over the city, filling the air with the salt scent of the ocean twenty kilometers to the west. Toward evening, as the gray daylight was beginning to fade into gray twilight, a double sonic boom shook the town and then echoed from the single, sculpted peak to the south. The clouds glowed blue-white. Half a minute later an ebony spacecraft broke through the overcast and descended carefully on a tail of fusion flame, its navigation lights blinking red and green against the gray.
At one thousand meters the craft’s landing beacons Flared and three beams of coherent light from the spaceport north of town locked the ship in a welcoming ruby tripod. The spacecraft hovered at three hundred meters, slipped sideways as smoothly as a mug sliding on a wet table top, and then settled weightlessly into a waiting blast pit.
High-pressure jets of water bathed the pit and the base of the ship, sending up billows of steam to blend with the curtains of drizzle blowing across the paved plain of the spaceport. When the water jets ceased there was no noise except the whisper of rain and the random ticks and creaks of the cooling spaceship.
A balcony extruded itself from the ships bulkhead twenty meters above the pit wall. Five figures emerged. “Thank you for the ride, sir,” Colonel Kassad said to the Consul.
The Consul nodded and leaned on the railing, taking in deep breaths of fresh air. Droplets of rain beaded on his shoulders and eyebrows.
Sol Weintraub lifted his baby from her infant carrier. Some change in pressure, temperature, scent, motion, noise, or a combination of all of these had awakened her and now she began to cry lustily. Weintraub bounced her and cooed to her but the wailing continued.
“An appropriate comment upon our arrival,” said Martin Silenus. The poet wore a long purple cape and a red beret which slouched to his right shoulder. He took a drink from a wineglass he had carried out from the lounge. “Christ on a stick, this place looks different.”
The Consul, who had been away only eight local years, had to agree. The spaceport had been a full nine klicks from the city when he lived in Keats; now shacks, tents, and mud streets surrounded the landing field’s perimeter. In the Consul’s day, no more than a ship a week had put in at the tiny spaceport; now he counted more than twenty spacecraft on the field. The small administration and customs building had been superseded by a huge, prefabricated structure, a dozen new blast pits and dropship grids had been added where the field had been hastily extended to the west, and the perimeter now was littered with scores of camouflage-sheathed modules which the Consul knew must serve as everything from ground control stations to barracks. A forest of exotic antennae grew skyward from a cluster of such boxes at the far end of the landing apron. “Progress,” murmured the Consul.
“War,” said Colonel Kassad.
“Those are people,” said Brawne Lamia, pointing toward the main terminal gates on the south side of the field. A wave of drab colors crashed like a silent surf against the outer fence and the violet containment field.
“My God,” said the Consul, “you’re right.”
Kassad produced his binoculars and they took turns staring at the thousands of forms tugging at the wire, pressing against the repelling field.
“Why are they here?” asked Lamia. “What do they want?” Even from half a kilometer away, the mindless will of the mob was daunting. Dark forms of FORCE: Marines could be seen patrolling just within the perimeter. The Consul realized that between the wire, the containment field, and the Marines a strip of raw earth almost surely signified mines or a deathbeam zone, or both.
“What do they want?” repeated Lamia.
“They want out,” said Kassad.
Even before the Colonel spoke, the Consul realized that the shack city around the spaceport and the mob at the gates were inevitable; the people of Hyperion were ready to leave. He guessed that there must be such a silent surge toward the gates each time a ship landed.
“Well, there’s one who’ll be staying,” said Martin Silenus and pointed toward the low mountain across the river to the south. “Old Weeping William Rex, God rest his sinful soul.” The sculpted face of Sad King Billy was just visible through the light rain and growing darkness. “I knew him, Horatio,” said the drunken poet. “A man of infinite jest. Not one of them funny. A real horse’s ass, Horatio.”
Sol Weintraub stood just inside the ship, shielding his baby from the drizzle and removing her cries from the vicinity of the conversation. He pointed. “Someone is coming.”
A groundcar with its camouflage polymer inert and a military EMV modified with hoverfans for Hyperion’s weak magnetic field were crossing the damp hardpan.
Martin Silenus’s gaze never left Sad King Billy’s dour visage. Silenus said in a voice almost too soft to be heard:
“Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve’s one star,
Sat gray-hair’d Saturn, quiet as a stone,
Still as the silence round about his lair;
Forest on forest hung above his head
Like cloud on cloud.…”
Father Hoyt came onto the balcony, rubbing his face with both hands. His eyes were wide and unfocused, a child rising from his nap. “Are we there?” he asked.
“Fucking aye,” cried Martin Silenus, returning the binoculars to the Colonel. “Lets go down and greet the gendarmes.”
The young Marine lieutenant seemed unimpressed with the group even after he had scanned the authorization wafer Het Masteen had passed along from the task force commander. The lieutenant took his time scanning their visa chips, letting them wait in the drizzle, occasionally making a comment with the idle arrogance common to such nobodies who have just come into a small bit of power. Then he came to Fedmahn Kassad’s chip and looked up with the expression of a startled stoat. “Colonel Kassad!”
“Retired,” said Kassad.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the lieutenant, stumbling over his words as he fumbled the visas back to everyone. “I had no idea you were with this party, sir. That is … the Captain just said … I mean … my uncle was with you on Bressia, sir. I mean, I’m sorry … anything I or my men can do to …”
“At ease, Lieutenant,” said Kassad. “Is there any chance of
getting some transport into the city?”
“Ah … well, sir …” The young Marine started to rub his chin and then remembered that he was wearing his helmet. “Yes, sir. But the problem is, sir, the mobs can get pretty nasty and … well, the damn EMVs don’t work for shit on this … uh, pardon me, sir. You see, the ground transports’re limited to cargo and we don’t have any skimmers free to leave the base until 2200 hours but I’ll be happy to get your party on the roster for …”
“Just a minute,” said the Consul. A battered passenger skimmer with the gold geodesic of the Hegemony painted on one flare skirt had landed ten meters away. A tall, thin man stepped out. “Theo!” cried the Consul.
The two men stepped forward, started to shake hands, and then hugged each other instead. “Damn,” said the Consul, “you look good, Theo.” It was true. His former aide had gained half a dozen years on the Consul, but the younger man still had the boyish smile, thin face, and thick red hair that had attracted every unmarried woman—and not a few married ones—on the consulate staff. The shyness which had been part of Theo Lane’s vulnerability was still there, as evidenced by the way he now needlessly adjusted his archaic horn-rimmed glasses—the young diplomat’s one affectation.
“It’s good to have you back,” said Theo.
The Consul turned, started to introduce his friend to the group, and then stopped. “My God,” he said, “you’re Consul now. I’m sorry, Theo, I wasn’t thinking.”
Theo Lane smiled and adjusted his glasses. “No problem, sir,” he said. “Actually, I’m no longer Consul. For the last few months I’ve been acting Governor-General. The Home Rule Council finally requested—and received—formal colonial status. Welcome to the newest world in the Hegemony.”
The Consul stared a second and then hugged his former protege again. “Congratulations, Your Excellency.”
Theo grinned and glanced at the sky. “It’s going to rain in earnest before long. Why don’t we get your group aboard the skimmer and I’ll drive you into town” The new Governor-General smiled at the young Marine. “Lieutenant?”
“Uh … yes, sir?” The officer had snapped to attention.
“Could you get your men to load these good people’s luggage, please? We’d all like to get in out of the rain.”
The skimmer flew south above the highway at a steady sixty meters. The Consul rode in the front passenger seat; the rest of the group relaxed in flowfoam recliners behind. Martin Silenus and Father Hoyt appeared to be asleep. Weintraub’s baby had ceased crying in favor of nursing on a soft bottle of synthesized mother’s milk.
“Things have changed,” said the Consul. He rested his cheek against the rain-spattered canopy and looked down’ at the chaos.
Thousands of shacks and lean-tos covered the hillsides and gullies along the three-klick ride to the suburbs. Fires were being lighted under wet tarps and the Consul watched mud-colored figures moving between mud-colored shacks. High fences had been rigged along the old Spaceport Highway and the road itself had been widened and regraded. Two lanes of truck and hover traffic, most of it military green or shrouded with inactive camouflage polymer, moved sluggishly in both directions. Ahead, the lights of Keats seemed to have multiplied and spread across new sections of the river valley and hills.
“Three million,” said Theo, as if reading his former boss’s mind.
“At least three million people and growing every day.”
The Consul stared. “There were only four and a half million people on the planet when I left.”
“Still are,” said the new Governor-General. “And every one of them wants to get to Keats, board a ship, and get the hell out. Some are waiting forlhe farcaster to be built, but most don’t believe it’ll happen in time. They’re afraid.”
“Of the Ousters?”
“Them too,” said Theo, “but mostly of the Shrike.”
The Consul turned his face from the coolness of the canopy. “It’s come south of the Bridle Range then?”
Theo laughed without humor. “It’s everywhere. Or they’re everywhere. Most people are convinced that there are dozens or hundreds of the things now. Shrike deaths have been reported on all three continents. Everywhere except Keats, segments of the coast along the Mane, and a few of the big cities like Endymion.”
“How many casualties?” The Consul did not really want to know.
“At least twenty thousand dead or missing,” said Theo. “There are a lot of injured people but that isn’t the Shrike, is it?” Again came the dry laugh. “The Shrike doesn’t just wound people, does it? Uh-uh, people shoot each other by accident, fall down stairways or jump out windows in their panic, and trample each other in crowds. It’s a fucking mess.”
In the eleven years the Consul had worked with Theo Lane, he had never heard the younger man use profanity of any sort. “Is FORCE any help?” the Consul asked. “Are they what’s keeping the Shrike away from the big cities?”
Theo shook his head. “FORCE hasn’t done a damn thing except control the mobs. Oh, the Marines put on a show of keeping the spaceport open here and the harbor landing zone at Port R. secure, but they haven’t even tried to confront the Shrike. They’re waiting to fight the Ousters.”
“SDF?” asked the Consul, knowing even as he spoke that the poorly trained Self-defense Force would have been of little use.
Theo snorted. “At least eight thousand of the casualties are SDF. General Braxton took the ‘Fighting Third’ up the River Road to ‘strike at the Shrike menace in their lair’ and that was the last we heard of them.”
“You’re joking,” said the Consul, but one look at his friend’s face told him that he wasn’t. “Theo,”, he said, “how in the world did you have time to meet us at the spaceport?”
“I didn’t,” said the Governor-General. He glanced in the back. The others were sleeping or staring exhaustedly out windows. “I needed to talk to you,” said Theo. “Convince you not to go.”
The Consul started to shake his head but Theo grasped his arm, squeezed hard. “Now listen to what I have to say, damn it. I know how hard it is for you to come back here after … what happened but, goddamn it, there’s no sense in your throwing everything away for no reason. Abandon this stupid pilgrimage. Stay in Keats.”
“I can’t …” began the Consul.
“Listen to me,” demanded Theo. “Reason one: you’re the finest diplomat and crisis manager I’ve ever seen and we need your skills.”
“It doesn’t …”
“Shut up a minute. Reason two: you and the others won’t get within two hundred klicks of the Time Tombs. This isn’t like the old days when you were here and the goddamned suicides could get up there and even sit around for a week and maybe even change their minds and come home. The Shrike is on the move. It’s like a plague.”
“I understand that but …”
“Reason three: I need you. I begged Tau Ceti Center to send someone else out. When I found that you were poroipg … well, hell, it got me through the last two years.”
The Consul shook his head, not understanding.
Theo started the turn toward the city center and then hovered, taking his eyes off the controls to look directly at the Consul. “I want you to take over the governor-generalship. The Senate won’t interfere—except perhaps for Gladstone—and by the time she finds out, it will be too late.”
The Consul felt as though someone had struck him below the third rib. He looked away, down at the maze of narrow streets and crooked buildings that was Jacktown, the Old City. When he could speak again, he said, “I can’t, Theo.”
“Listen, if you …”
“No. I mean I cannot. It would be no good if I did accept it, but the simple truth is, I can’t. I have to go on this pilgrimage.”
Theo straightened his glasses, stared straight ahead.
“Look, Theo, you’re the most competent and capable Foreign Service professional I’ve ever worked with. I’ve been out of things for eight years. I think …”
“Yes.”
The skimmer circled and settled. The Consul was staring at nothing, thinking, when the side doors of the skimmer raised and folded and Sol Weintraub said, “Good God.”
The group stepped out and stared at the charred and toppled wreckage of what had been the Shrike Temple. Since the Time Tombs had been closed as too dangerous some twenty-five local years earlier, the Shrike Temple had become Hyperion’s most popular tourist attraction. Filling three full city blocks, rising more than a hundred and fifty meters to its central, sharpened spire, the Shrike Church’s central temple was part awe-inspiring cathedral, part Gothic joke with its fluid, buttressed curves of stone permabonded to its whiskered-alloy skeleton, part Escher print with its tricks of perspective and impossible angles, part Boschian nightmare with its tunnel entrances, hidden chambers, dark gardens, and forbidden sections, and—more than anything else—it had been part of Hyperion’s past.
Now it was gone. Tall heaps of blackened stone were the only hint of the structure’s former majesty. Melted alloy girders rose from the stones like the ribs of some giant carcass. Much of the rubble had tumbled into the pits, basements, and passages which had lain beneath the three-century-old landmark. The Consul walked close to the edge of a pit and wondered if the deep basements had—as legend decreed—actually connected to one of the planet’s labyrinths.
“It looks as if they used a hellwhip on this place,” said Martin Silenus, using an archaic term for any high-energy laser weapon. The poet seemed suddenly sobered as he joined the Consul at the edge of the pit. “I remember when the Temple and parts of the Old City were the only things here,” he said. “After the disaster near the Tombs, Billy decided to relocate Jacktown here because of the Temple. Now it’s gone. Christ.”