by Dan Simmons
“It has been done,” Johnny said softly. “Once. A personality reconstruction not too different from my own. A twentieth-century poet named Ezra Pound. He abandoned his AI persona and fled from the Web in his cybrid. But the Pound reconstruction was insane.”
“Or sane,” I said.
“Yes.”
“So all of the data and personality of an AI can survive in a cybrid’s organic brain.”
“Of course not, Brawne. Not one percent of one percent of my total consciousness would survive the transition. Organic brains can’t process even the most primitive information the way we can. The resultant personality would not be the AI persona … neither would it be a truly human consciousness or cybrid …” Johnny stopped in mid-sentence and turned quickly to look out the window.
After a long minute I said, “What is it?” I reached out a hand but did not touch him.
He spoke without turning. “Perhaps I was wrong to say that the consciousness would not be human,” he whispered. “It is possible that the resulting persona could be human touched with a certain divine madness and meta-human perspective. It could be … if purged of all memory of our age, of all consciousness of the Core … it could be the person the cybrid was programmed to be.…”
“John Keats,” I said.
Johnny turned away from the window and closed his eyes. His voice was hoarse with emotion. It was the first time I had heard him recite poetry:
“Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave
A paradise for a sect, the savage too
From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep
Guesses at Heaven; pity these have not
Traced upon vellum or wild Indian leaf
The shadows of melodious utterance.
But bare of laurel they live, dream, and die;
For Poesy alone can tell her dreams,
With the fine spell of words alone can save
Imagination from the sable charm
And dumb enchantment Who alive can say,
Thou art no Poet—mayst not tell thy dreams?
Since every man whose soul is not a clod
Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved,
And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
Whether the dream now purposed to rehearse
Be Poet’s or Fanatics will be known
When this warm scribe my hand is in the grave.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “What does it mean?”
“It means,” said Johnny, smiling gently, “that I know what decision I made and why I made it. I wanted to cease being a cybrid and become a man. I wanted to go to Hyperion. I still do.”
“Somebody killed you for that decision a week ago,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And you’re going to try again?”
“Yes.”
“Why not invest consciousness in your cybrid here? Become human in the Web?”
“It would never work,” said Johnny. “What you see as a complex interstellar society is only a small part of the Core reality matrix. I would be constantly confronted with and at the mercy of the AIs. The Keats persona … reality … would never survive.”
“All right,” I said, “you need to get out of the Web. But there are other colonies. Why Hyperion?”
Johnny took my hand. His fingers were long and warm and strong. “Don’t you see, Brawne? There is some connection here. It may well be that Keats’s dreams of Hyperion were some sort of transtemporal communication between his then persona and his now persona. If nothing else, Hyperion is the key mystery of our age—physical and poetic—and it is quite probable that he … that was born, died, and was born again to explore it.”
“It sounds like madness to me,” I said. “Delusions of grandeur.”
“Almost certainly,” laughed Johnny. “And I never have been happier!” He grabbed my arms and brought me to my feet, his arms around me. “Will you go with me, Brawne? Go with me to Hyperion?”
I blinked in surprise, both at his question and the answer, which filled me like a rush of warmth. “Yes,” I said. “I’ll go.”
We went into the sleeping area then and made love the rest of that day, sleeping finally to awaken to the low light of Shift Three in the industrial trench outside. Johnny was lying on his back, his hazel eyes open and staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. But not so lost he did not smile and put his arm around me. I nestled my cheek against him, settling into the small curve where shoulder meets chest, and went back to sleep.
I was wearing my best clothes—a suit of black whipcord, a blouse woven of Renaissance silk with a Carvnel bloodstone at the throat, a cocked Eulin Bré tricorne—when Johnny and I farcast to TC2 the next day. I left him in the wood and brass bar near the central terminex, but not before I slid Dad’s automatic across to him in a paper bag and told him to shoot anyone who even looked cross-eyed at him.
“Web English is such a subtle tongue,” he said.
“That phrase is older than the Web,” I said. “Just do it.” I squeezed his hand and left without looking back.
I took a skycab to the Administration Complex and walked my way through about nine security checks before they let me into the Center grounds. I walked the half klick across Deer Park, admiring the swans in the nearby lake and the white buildings oh the hilltop in the distance, and then there were nine more checkpoints before a Center security woman led me up the flagstoned path to Government House, a low, graceful building set amid flower gardens and landscaped hills. There was an elegantly furnished waiting room but I barely had time to sit down on an authentic pre-Hegira de Kooning before an aide appeared and ushered me into the CEO’s private office.
Meina Gladstone came around the desk to shake my hand and show me to a chair. It was strange to see her in person again after all those years of watching her on HTV. She was even more impressive in the flesh: her hair was cut short but seemed to be blowing back in gray-white waves; her cheeks and chin were as sharp and Lincolnesque as all the history-prone pundits insisted, but it was the large, sad, brown eyes (which dominated the face and made one feel as if he or she were in the presence of a truly original person.
I found that my mouth was dry. “Thank you for seeing me, M. Executive. I know how busy you are.”
“I’m never too busy to see you, Brawne. Just as your father was never too busy to see me when I was a junior senator.”
I nodded. Dad had once described Meina Gladstone as the only political genius in the Hegemony. He knew that she would be CEO someday despite her late start in politics. I wished Dad had lived to see it.
“How is your mother, Brawne?”
“She’s well, M. Executive. She rarely leaves our old summer place on Freeholm anymore but I see her every Christmas Fest.”
Gladstone nodded. She had been sitting casually on the edge of a massive desk which the tabloids said had once belonged to an assassinated President—not Lincoln—of the pre-Mistake USA, but now she smiled and went around to the simple chair behind it. “I miss your father, Brawne. I wish he were in this administration. Did you see the lake when you came in?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember sailing toy boats there with my Kresten when you were both toddlers?”
“Just barely, M. Executive. I was pretty young.”
Meina Gladstone smiled. An intercom chimed but she waved it into silence. “How can I help you, Brawne?”
I took a breath. “M. Executive, you may be aware that I’m working as an independent private investigator …” I didn’t wait for her nod. “A case I’ve been working on recently has led me back to Dad’s suicide …”
“Brawne, you know that was investigated most thoroughly. I saw the commission’s report.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I did too. But recently I’ve discovered some very strange things about the TechnoCore and its attitude toward the world Hyperion. Weren’t you and Dad working on a bill that would have brought Hyperion into the Hegemony Protectora
te?”
Gladstone nodded. “Yes, Brawne, but there were over a dozen other colonies being considered that year. None were allowed in.”
“Right. But did the Core or the AI Advisory Council take a special interest in Hyperion.”
The CEO tapped a stylus against her lower lip. “What kind of information do you have, Brawne?” I started to answer but she held up a blunt finger. “Wait!” She keyed an interactive. “Thomas, I’ll be stepping out for a few minutes. Please be sure that the Sol Draconi trade delegation is entertained if I fall a bit behind schedule.”
I didn’t see her key anything else but suddenly a blue and gold farcaster portal hummed into life near the far wall. She gestured me to go through first.
A plain of gold, knee-high grass stretched to horizons which seemed farther away than most. The sky was a pale yellow with burnished copper streaks which may have been clouds. I didn’t recognize the world.
Meina Gladstone stepped through and touched the comlog design on her sleeve. The farcaster portal winked out. A warm breeze blew spice scents to us.
Gladstone touched her sleeve again, glanced skyward, and nodded. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Brawne. Kastrop-Rauxel has no datasphere or sats of any kind. Now please go ahead with what you were saying. What kind of information have you come across?”
I looked around at the empty grasslands. “Nothing to warrant this security … probably. I’ve just discovered that the TechnoCore seems very interested in Hyperion. They’ve also built some sort of analog to Old Earth … an entire world!”
If I expected shock or surprise I was disappointed. Gladstone nodded. “Yes. We know about the Old Earth analog.”
I was shocked. “Then why hasn’t it ever been announced? If the Core can rebuild Old Earth, a lot of people would be interested.”
Gladstone began walking and I strolled with her, walking faster to keep up with her long-legged strides. “Brawne, it would not be in the Hegemony’s interest to announce such a thing. Our best human intelligence sources have no idea why the Core is doing such a thing. They have offered no insight. The best policy now is to wait. What information do you have about Hyperion?”
I had no idea whether I could trust Meina Gladstone, old times or not. But I knew that if I was going to get information I would have to give some, “They built an analog reconstruction of an Old Earth poet,” I said, “and they seem obsessed with keeping any information about Hyperion away from him.”
Gladstone picked a long stem of grass and sucked on it. “The John Keats cybrid.”
“Yes.” I was careful not to show surprise this time. “I know that Dad was pushing hard to get Protectorate status for Hyperion. If the Core has some special interest in the place, they may have had something to do … may have manipulated …”
“His apparent suicide?”
“Yeah.”
The wind moved gold grass in waves. Something very small scurried away in the stalks at our feet. “It is not beyond the realm of possibility, Brawne. But there was absolutely no evidence. Tell me what this cybrid is going to do.”
“First tell me why the Core is so interested in Hyperion.”
The older woman spread her hands. “If we knew that, Brawne, I would sleep much easier nights. As far as we know, the TechnoCore has been obsessed with Hyperion for centuries. When CEO Yevshensky allowed King Billy of Asquith to recolonize the planet, it almost precipitated a true secession of AIs from the Web. Recently the establishment of our fatline transmitter there brought about a similar crisis.”
“But the AIs didn’t secede.”
“No, Brawne, it appears that, for whatever reason, they need us almost as badly as we need them.”
“But if they’re so interested in Hyperion, why don’t they allow it into the Web so they can go there themselves?”
Gladstone ran a hand through her hair. The bronze clouds far above rippled in what must be a fantastic jet stream. “They are adamant about Hyperion not being admitted to the Web,” she said. “It is an interesting paradox. Tell me what the cybrid is going to do.”
“First tell me why the Core is obsessed with Hyperion.”
“We do not know for sure.”
“Best guess then.”
CEO Gladstone removed the stem of grass from her mouth and regarded it. “We believe that the Core is embarked on a truly incredible project which would allow them to predict … everything. To handle every variable of space, time, and history as a quantum of manageable information.”
“Their Ultimate Intelligence Project,” I said, knowing that I was being careless and not caring.
This time CEO Gladstone did register shock. “How do you know about that?”
“What does that project have to do with Hyperion?”
Gladstone sighed. “We don’t know for sure, Brawne. But we do know that there is an anomaly on Hyperion which they have not been able to factor into their predictive analyses. Do you know about the so-called Time Tombs that the Shrike Church holds holy?”
“Sure. They’ve been off limits to tourists for a while.”
“Yes. Because of an accident to a researcher there a few decades ago, our scientists have confirmed that the anti-entropic fields around the Tombs are not merely a protection against time’s erosive effects as has been widely believed.”
“What are they?”
“The remnants of a field … or force … which has actually propelled the Tombs and their contents backward in time from some distant future.”
“Contents?” I managed. “But the Tombs are empty. Ever since they were discovered.”
“Empty now,” said Meina Gladstone. “But there is evidence that they were full … will be full … when they open. In our near future.”
I stared at her. “How near?”
Her dark eyes remained soft but the movement of her head was final. “I’ve told you too much already, Brawne. You are forbidden to repeat it. We’ll ensure that silence if necessary.”
I hid my own confusion by finding a piece of grass to strip for chewing. “All right,” I said. “What’s going to come out of the Tombs? Aliens? Bombs? Some sort of reverse time capsules?”
Gladstone smiled tightly. “If we knew that, Brawne, we would be ahead of the Core, and we are not.” The smile disappeared. “One hypothesis is that the Tombs relate to some future war. A settling of future scores by rearranging the past, perhaps.”
“A war between who, for Chrissakes?”
She opened her hands again. “We need to be getting back, Brawne. Would you please tell me what the Keats cybrid is going to do now?”
I looked down and then back up to meet her steady gaze. I couldn’t trust anyone, but the Core and the Shrike Church already knew Johnnys plans. If this was a three-sided game, perhaps each side should know in case there was a good guy in the bunch. “He’s going to invest all consciousness in the cybrid,” I said rather clumsily. “He’s going to become human, M. Gladstone, and then go to Hyperion. I’m going with him.”
The CEO of the Senate and All Thing, chief officer for a government which spanned almost two hundred worlds and billions of people, stared at me in silence for a long moment. Then she said, “He plans to go with the Templar ship on the pilgrimage then.”
“Yes.”
“No,” said Meina Gladstone.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the Sequoia Sempervirens will not be allowed to leave Hegemony space. There will be no pilgrimage unless the Senate decides it is in our interest.” Her voice was iron-hard.
“Johnny and I’ll go by spinship,” I said. “The pilgrimage is a loser’s game anyway.”
“No,” she said. “There will be no more civilian spinships to Hyperion for some time.”
The word “civilian” tipped me. “War?”
Gladstone’s lips were tight. She nodded. “Before most spinships could reach the region.”
“A war with … the Ousters?”
“Initially. View it as a way
to force the issue between the TechnoCore and ourselves, Brawne. We will either have to incorporate the Hyperion system into the Web to allow it FORCE protection, or it will fall to a race which despises and distrusts the Core and all AIs.”
I didn’t mention Johnny’s comment that the Core had been in touch with the Ousters. I said, “A way to force the issue. Fine. But who manipulated the Ousters into attacking?”
Gladstone looked at me. If her face was Lincolnesque at that moment, then Old Earth’s Lincoln was one tough son of a bitch. “It’s time to get back, Brawne. You appreciate how important it is that none of this information gets out.”
“I appreciate the fact that you wouldn’t have told me unless you had a reason to,” I said. “I don’t know who you want the stuff to go to, but I know I’m a messenger, not a confidante.”
“Don’t underestimate our resolve to keep this classified, Brawne.”
I laughed. “Lady, I wouldn’t underestimate your resolve in anything.”
Meina Gladstone gestured for me to step through the farcaster portal first.
“I know a way we can discover what the Core is up to,” said Johnny as we rode alone in a rented jetboat on Mare Infinitus. “But it would be dangerous.”
“So what else is new?”
“I’m serious. We should only attempt it if we feel that it is imperative to understand what the Core fears from Hyperion.”
“I do.”
“We will need an operative. Someone who is an artist in datum-plane operations. Someone smart but not so smart that they won’t take a chance. And someone who would risk everything and keep the secret just for the ultimate in cyberpuke pranks.”
I grinned at Johnny. “I’ve got just the man.”
BB lived alone in a cheap apartment at the base of a cheap tower in a cheap TC2 neighborhood. But there was nothing cheap about the hardware that filled most of the space in the four-room flat. Most of BB’s salary for the past standard decade had gone into state-of-the-art cyberpuke toys.
I started by saying that we wanted him to do something illegal. BB said that, as a public employee, he couldn’t consider such a thing. He asked what the thing was. Johnny began to explain. BB leaned forward and I saw the old cyberpuke gleam in his eyes from our college days. I half expected him to try to dissect Johnny right there just to see how a cybrid worked. Then Johnny got to the interesting part and BB’s gleam turned into a sort of green glow.