The Hyperion Cantos 4-Book Bundle (309 page)

“How?” I said.

“That’s what I told Theo Lane,” said my friend. “When I would be there. The knowledge was kept alive in his family … much as the Shrike Pilgrimage has been kept alive by the
Cantos
.”

“So you
can
see the future,” I said flatly.

“Futures,” corrected Aenea. “I’ve told you I can. And you heard me tonight.”

“You’ve seen your own death?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me what you’ve seen?”

“Not now, Raul. Please. When it’s time.”

“But if there are
futures
,” I said, hearing the growl of pain in my own voice, “why do you have to see one death for your-self? If you can see it, why can’t you avoid it?”

“I could avoid that particular death,” she said softly, “but it would be the wrong choice.”

“How can life over death
ever
be the wrong choice?” I said. I realized that I had shouted it. My hands were balled into fists.

She touched those fists with her warm hands, surrounding them with her slender fingers. “That’s what all this is about,” she said so softly that I had to lean forward to hear her. Lightning played on the shoulders of Heng Shan. “Death is never preferable to life, Raul, but sometimes it’s necessary.”

I shook my head. I realized that I must look sullen at that moment, but I didn’t care. “Will you tell me when I’m going to die?” I said.

She met my gaze. Her dark eyes held depths. “I don’t know,” she said simply.

I blinked. I felt vaguely hurt. Didn’t she care enough to look into my future?

“Of course I care,” she whispered. “I’ve just chosen not to look at those probability waves. Seeing my death is … difficult. Seeing yours would be …” She made a strange noise and I realized that she was weeping. I moved around on the tatami mat until I could put my arms around her. She leaned in against my chest.

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” I said into her hair, although I could not have said exactly what I was sorry about. It was strange to feel so happy and so miserable at the same time. The thought of losing her made me want to scream, to throw rocks at the mountainside. As if echoing my feelings, thunder rumbled from the peak to the north.

I kissed her tears away. Then we just kissed, the salt of her tears mingling with the warmth of her mouth. Then we made love again, and this time it was as slow, careful, and timeless as it had been urgent earlier.

When we were lying in the cool breeze again, our cheeks touching, her hand on my chest, she said, “You want to ask something. I can tell it. What?”

I thought of all the questions I had been filled with during her “discussion time” earlier—all of her talks I had missed that
I needed to catch up on in order to understand why the communion ceremony was necessary:
What is the cruciform really about? What is the Pax up to on those worlds with missing populations? What does the Core really hope to gain in all this? What the hell is the Shrike … is the thing a monster or a guardian? Where did it come from? What’s going to happen to us? What does she see in our future that I need to know in order for us to survive … in order for her to avoid the fate she has known about since before she was born? What’s the giant secret behind the Void Which Binds and why is it so important to connect with it? How are we going to get off this world if the Pax really slagged the only farcaster portal under molten rock and there are Pax warships between the Consul’s ship and us? Who are these “observers” she talked about who have been spying on humanity for centuries? What’s all this about learning the language of the dead and so forth? Why haven’t the Nemes-thing and her clone-siblings killed us yet?

I asked, “You’ve been with someone else? Made love with someone before me?”

This was insanity. It was none of my business. She was almost twenty-two standard years old. I’d slept with women before—I could not remember any of their last names, but in the Home Guard, while working in the Nine Tails Casino—why should I care if—what difference did it make if—I had to know.

She hesitated only a second. “Our first time together was not my … first,” she said.

I nodded, feeling like a swine and a voyeur for asking. There was an actual pain in my chest, much as I had imagined angina from hearing about it. I could not stop. “Did you love … him?”
How did I know it was a he? Theo … Rachel … she surrounds herself with women
. My own thoughts made me sick of myself.

“I love you, Raul,” she whispered.

It was only the second time she had said this, the first being when we had said good-bye on Old Earth more than five and a half years earlier. My heart should have soared at the words. But it hurt too much. There was something important here that I did not understand.

“But there was a man,” I said, the words like pebbles in my mouth. “You loved him …”
Only one? How many?
I wanted to scream at my thoughts to shut up.

Aenea put her finger on my lips. “I love you, Raul, remember that as I tell you these things. Everything is … complicated.
By who I am. By what I must do. But I love you … I have loved you since the first time I saw you in the dreams of my future. I loved you when we met in the dust storm on Hyperion, with the confusion and shooting and the Shrike and the hawking mat. Do you remember how I squeezed my arms around you when we were flying on the mat, trying to escape? I loved you then …”

I waited in silence. Aenea’s finger moved from my lips to my cheek. She sighed as if the weight of the worlds were on her shoulders. “All right,” she said softly. “There was someone. I’ve made love before. We …”

“Was it serious?” I said. My voice sounded strange to me, like the ship’s artificial tones.

“We were married,” said Aenea.

Once, on the River Kans on Hyperion, I’d gotten into a fistfight with an older bargeman who was half again my weight with infinitely more experience in fighting. With no warning he had clipped me under the jaw with a single blow that had blacked out my vision, buckled my knees, and sent me reeling back over the barge railing into the river. The man had held no grudge and had personally dived in to fish me out. I’d regained consciousness in a minute or two, but it was hours before I could shake the ringing out of my head and truly focus my eyes.

This was worse than that. I could only lie there and look at her, at my beloved Aenea, and feel her fingers against my cheek as strange and cold and alien as a stranger’s touch. She moved her hand away.

There was something worse.

“The twenty-three months, one week, and six hours that were unaccounted for,” she said.

“With him?” I could not remember forming the two words but I heard them spoken in my voice.

“Yes.”

“Married …” I said and could not go on.

Aenea actually smiled, but it was the saddest smile I think I had ever seen. “By a priest,” she said. “The marriage will be legal in the eyes of the Pax and the Church.”

“Will be?”

“Is.”

“You are still married?” I wanted to get up then and be sick over the edge of the platform, but I could not move.

For a second Aenea seemed confused, unable to answer. “Yes …” she said, her eyes gleaming with tears. “I mean,
no … I’m not married now … you … dammit, if I could only …”

“But the man’s still alive?” I interrupted, my voice as flat and emotionless as a Holy Office Inquisition interrogator’s.

“Yes.” She put her hand on her own cheek. Her fingers were trembling.

“Do you love him, kiddo?”

“I love
you
, Raul.”

I pulled away slightly, not consciously, not deliberately, but I could not stay in physical contact with her while we had this discussion.

“There’s something else …” she said.

I waited.

“We had … I’ll … I had a child, a baby.” She looked at me as if trying to force understanding of all this through her gaze directly into my mind. It did not work.

“A child,” I repeated stupidly. My dear friend … my child friend turned woman turned lover … my beloved had a child. “How old is it?” I said, hearing the banality like the thunder rumbling closer.

Again she seemed confused, as if uncertain of facts. Finally she said, “The child is … nowhere I can find it now.”

“Oh, kiddo,” I said, forgetting everything but her pain. I folded her against me as she wept. “I’m so sorry, kiddo … I’m so sorry,” I said as I patted her head.

She pulled back, wiping away tears. “No, Raul, you don’t understand. It’s all right … it’s not … that part’s all right …”

I pulled away from her and stared. She was distraught, sobbing. “I understand,” I lied.

“Raul …” Her hand felt for mine.

I patted her hand but got out of the bedclothes, pulled on my clothes, and grabbed my climbing harness and pack from their place by the door.

“Raul …”

“I’ll be back before dawn,” I said, facing in her general direction but not looking at her. “I’m just going for a walk.”

“Let me go with you,” she said, standing with the sheet around her. Lightning flashed behind her. Another storm was coming in.

“I’ll be back before dawn,” I said and went out the door before she could dress or join me.

It was raining—a cold, sleety rain. The platforms were
quickly coated and made slick. I hurtled down ladders and jogged down the vibrating staircases, seeing my way by the occasional lightning flash, not slowing until I was several hundred meters down the east ledge walk headed toward the fissure where I had first landed in the ship. I did not want to go there.

Half a klick from the Temple were fixed lines rising to the top of the ridge. The sleet was pounding on the cliff face now, the red and black lines were coated with a layer of ice. I clipped carabiners onto the line and harness, pulling the powered ascenders from the pack and attaching them without double-checking the connections, then began jumaring up the icy ropes.

The wind came up, whipping my jacket and pushing me away from the rock wall. Sleet pounded at my face and hands. I ignored it and ascended, sometimes sliding back three or four meters as the jumar clamps failed on the icy line, then recovering and climbing again. Ten meters below the razor’s-edge summit of the ridgeline, I emerged from the clouds like a swimmer coming up out of the water. The stars still burned coldly up there, but the billowing cloud masses were piling against the north wall of the ridge and rising like a white tide around me.

I slid the ascenders higher and jumared until I reached the relatively flat area where the fixed lines were attached. Only then did I notice that I had not tied on the safety line.

“Fuck it,” I said and began walking northeast along the fifteen-centimeter-wide ridgeline. The storm was rising around me to the north. The drop to the south was kilometers of empty, black air. There were patches of ice here and it was beginning to snow.

I broke into a trot, running east, jumping icy spots and fissures, not giving a good goddamn about anything.

While I was obsessed with my own misery, there were other things occurring in the human universe. On Hyperion, when I was a boy, news filtered slowly from the interstellar Pax to our moving caravans on the moors: an important event on Pacem or Renaissance Vector or wherever would, of necessity, be many weeks or months old from Hawking-drive time-debt, with additional weeks of transit from Port Romance or another major city to our provincial region. I was used to not paying attention to events elsewhere. The lag in news had lessened, of course, when I was guiding offworld hunters in the
Fens and elsewhere, but it was still old news and of little importance to me. The Pax held no fascination for me, although offworld travel certainly had. Then there had been almost ten years of disconnection during our Old Earth hiatus and my five years of time-debt Odyssey. I was not used to thinking of events elsewhere except where they affected me, such as the Pax’s obsession with finding us.

But this would soon change.

That night on T’ien Shan, the Mountains of Heaven, as I ran foolishly through sleet and fog down the narrow ridgeline, these were some of the events happening elsewhere:

On the lovely world of Maui-Covenant, where the long chain of events culminating with my presence here with Aenea could be said to have begun with the courtship of Siri and Merin some four centuries ago, rebellion raged. The rebels on the motile isles had long since become followers of Aenea’s philosophy, had drunk of her communion wine, had rejected the Pax and the cruciform forever, and were waging a war of sabotage and resistance while trying not to harm or kill the Pax soldiers occupying the world. For the Pax, Maui-Covenant offered special problems because it was primarily a vacation world—hundreds of thousands of wealthy born-again Christians traveled there via Hawking drive every standard year to enjoy the warm seas, the beautiful beaches of the Equatorial Archipelago isles, and the dolphin/motile isles migrations. The Pax also benefited from the hundreds of oil-drilling platforms around the mostly ocean world, situated out of sight of tourist areas but vulnerable to attack from motile isles or rebel submersibles. Now many of the Pax tourists themselves were—inexplicably—rejecting the cruciform and becoming followers of Aenea’s teachings. Rejecting immortality. The planetary governor, the resident archbishop, and the Vatican officials called in for the crisis could not understand it.

On cold Sol Draconi Septem, where most of the atmosphere was frozen into a single giant glacier, there were no tourists, but the Pax attempt at colonization there over the past ten years had turned into a nightmare.

The gentle bands of Chitchatuk whom Aenea, A. Bettik, and I had befriended some nine and a half years ago had turned into implacable foes of the Pax. The skyscraper frozen into the atmospheric ice where Father Glaucus had welcomed all travelers still blazed with light despite that kind man’s murder at the hand of Rhadamanth Nemes. The Chitchatuk kept the place
alight like a shrine. Somehow they knew who had murdered the harmless blind man and Cuchiat’s tribe—Cuchiat, Chiaku, Aichacut, Cuchtu, Chithticia, Chatchia—all of those whom Aenea, A. Bettik, and I had known by name. The other Chitchatuk blamed the Pax, who were attempting to colonize the temperate bands along the equator where the air was gaseous and the great glacier melted down to the ancient permafrost.