The Hyperion Cantos 4-Book Bundle (69 page)

I walked slowly back to the ship, half expecting the Shrike to appear, half hoping that it would. I sat on the balcony of my ship for more than an hour, watching the shadows filling the valley and the sand covering the distant corpses. There was no Shrike. No thorn tree. After a while I played a Bach
Prelude
on the Steinway, buttoned up the ship, and rose into space
.

I contacted the Ouster ship and said that there had been an accident. The Shrike had taken the others; the device had been activated prematurely. Even in their confusion and panic, the Ousters offered me refuge. I declined the offer and turned my ship toward the Web. The Ousters did not pursue
.

I used my fatline transmitter to contact Gladstone and to tell her that the Ouster agents had been eliminated. I told her that the invasion was very likely, that the trap would be sprung as planned. I did not tell her about the device. Gladstone congratulated me and called me home. I declined. I told her that I needed silence and solitude. I turned my ship toward the Outback world nearest the Hyperion system, knowing that travel itself would eat time until the next act commenced
.

Later, when the fatline call to pilgrimage came from Gladstone herself, I knew the role the Ousters had planned for me in these final
days: the Ousters, or the Core, or Gladstone and her machinations. It no longer matters who consider themselves the masters of events. Events no longer obey their masters
.

The world as we know it is ending, my friends, no matter what happens to us. As for me, I have no request of the Shrike. I bring no final words for it or the universe. I have returned because I must, because this is my fate. I’ve known what I must do since I was a child, returning alone to Siri’s tomb and swearing vengeance on the Hegemony. I’ve known what price I must pay, both in life and in history
.

But when the time comes to judge, to understand a betrayal which will spread like flame across the Web, which will end worlds, I ask you not to think of me—my name was not even writ on water as your lost poet’s soul said—but to think of Old Earth dying for no reason, to think of the dolphins, their gray flesh drying and rotting in the sun, to see—as I have seen—the motile isles with no place to wander, their feeding grounds destroyed, the Equatorial Shallows scabbed with drilling platforms, the islands themselves burdened with shouting, trammeling tourists smelling of UV lotion and cannabis
.

Or better yet, think of none of that. Stand as I did after throwing the switch, a murderer, a betrayer, but still proud, feet firmly planted on Hyperion’s shifting sand, head held high, fist raised against the sky, crying “A plague on both your houses!”

For you see, I remember my grandmother’s dream. I remember the way it could have been
.

I remember Siri
.

   “Are you the spy?” asked Father Hoyt. “The Ouster spy?”

The Consul rubbed his cheeks and said nothing. He looked tired, spent.

“Yeah,” said Martin Silenus. “CEO Gladstone warned me when I was chosen for the pilgrimage. She said that there was a spy.”

“She told all of us,” snapped Brawne Lamia. She stared at the Consul. Her gaze seemed sad.

“Our friend is a spy,” said Sol Weintraub, “but not merely an Ouster spy.” The baby had awakened. Weintraub lifted her to calm
her crying. “He is what they call in the thrillers a double agent, a triple agent in this case, an agent to infinite regression. In truth, an agent of retribution.”

The Consul looked at the old scholar.

“He’s still a spy,” said Silenus. “Spies are executed, aren’t they?”

Colonel Kassad had the deathwand in his hand. It was not aimed in anyone’s direction. “Are you in touch with your ship?” he asked the Consul.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Through Siri’s comlog. It was … modified.”

Kassad nodded slightly. “And you’ve been in touch with the Ousters via the ship’s fatline transmitter?”

“Yes.”

“Making reports on the pilgrimage as they expected?”

“Yes.”

“Have they replied?”

“No.”

“How can we believe
him
?” cried the poet. “He’s a fucking
spy
.”

“Shut up,” Colonel Kassad said flatly, finally. His gaze never left the Consul. “Did you attack Het Masteen?”

“No,” said the Consul. “But when the
Yggdrasill
burned, I knew that something was wrong.”

“What do you mean?” said Kassad.

The Consul cleared his throat. “I’ve spent time with Templar Voices of the Tree. Their connection to their treeships is almost telepathic. Masteen’s reaction was far too subdued. Either he wasn’t what he said he was, or he had
known
that the ship was to be destroyed and had severed contact with it. When I was on guard duty, I went below to confront him. He was gone. The cabin was as we found it, except for the fact that the Möbius box was in a neutral state. The erg could have escaped. I secured it and went above.”

“You did not harm Het Masteen?” Kassad asked again.

“No.”

“I repeat, why the fuck should we believe
you?”
said Silenus. The poet was drinking Scotch from the last bottle he had brought along.

The Consul looked at the bottle as he answered. “You have no reason to believe me. It doesn’t matter.”

Colonel Kassad’s long fingers idly tapped the dull casing of the deathwand. “What will you do with your fatline commlink now?”

The Consul took a tired breath. “Report when the Time Tombs open. If I’m still alive then.”

Brawne Lamia pointed at the antique comlog. “We could destroy it.”

The Consul shrugged.

“It could be of use,” said the Colonel. “We can eavesdrop on military and civilian transmissions made in the clear. If we have to, we can call the Consul’s ship.”

“No!” cried the Consul. It was the first time he had shown emotion in many minutes. “We can’t turn back now.”

“I believe we have no intention of turning back,” said Colonel Kassad. He looked around at pale faces. No one spoke for a moment.

“There is a decision we have to make,” said Sol Weintraub. He rocked his infant and nodded in the direction of the Consul.

Martin Silenus had been resting his forehead on the mouth of the empty bottle of Scotch. He looked up. “The penalty for treason is death.” He giggled. “We’re all going to die within a few hours anyway. Why not make our last act an execution?”

Father Hoyt grimaced as a spasm of pain gripped him. He touched his cracked lips with a trembling finger. “We’re not a court.”

“Yes,” said Colonel Kassad, “we are.”

The Consul drew up his legs, rested his forearms on his knees, and laced his fingers. “Decide then.” There was no emotion in his voice.

Brawne Lamia had brought out her father’s automatic pistol. Now she set it on the floor near where she sat. Her eyes darted from the Consul to Kassad. “We’re talking treason here?” she said. “Treason toward what? None of us except maybe the Colonel there is exactly a leading citizen. We’ve all been kicked around by forces beyond our control.”

Sol Weintraub spoke directly to the Consul. “What you have ignored, my friend, is that if Meina Gladstone and elements of the
Core chose you for the Ouster contact, they knew very well what you would do. Perhaps they could not have guessed that the Ousters had the means by which to open the Tombs—although with the AIs of the Core one can never know—but they certainly knew that you would turn on both societies, both camps which have injured your family. It is all part of some bizarre plan. You were no more an instrument of your own will than was”—he held the baby up—“this child.”

The Consul looked confused. He started to speak, shook his head instead.

“That may be correct,” said Colonel Fedmahn Kassad, “but however they may try to use all of us as pawns, we must attempt to choose our own actions.” He glanced up at the wall where pulses of light from the distant space battle painted the plaster blood red. “Because of this war, thousands will die. Perhaps millions. If the Ousters or the Shrike gain access to the Web’s farcaster system, billions of lives on hundreds of worlds are at risk.”

The Consul watched as Kassad raised the deathwand.

“This would be faster for all of us,” said Kassad. “The Shrike knows no mercy.”

No one spoke. The Consul seemed to be staring at something at a great distance.

Kassad pressed on the safety and set the wand back in his belt. “We’ve come this far,” he said. “We will go the rest of the way together.”

Brawne Lamia put away her father’s pistol, rose, crossed the small space, knelt next to the Consul, and put her arms around him. Startled, the Consul raised one arm. Light danced on the wall behind them.

A moment later, Sol Weintraub came close and hugged them both with one arm around their shoulders. The baby wriggled in pleasure at the sudden warmth of bodies. The Consul smelled the talc-and-newborn scent of her.

“I was wrong,” said the Consul. “I will make a request of the Shrike. I will ask for
her
.” He gently touched Rachel’s head where the small skull curved in to neck.

Martin Silenus made a noise which began as a laugh and died as a sob. “Our last requests,” he said. “Does the muse grant requests? I have no request. I want only for the poem to be finished.”

Father Hoyt turned toward the poet. “Is it so important?”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes,” gasped Silenus. He dropped the empty Scotch bottle, reached into his bag, and lifted out a handful of flimsies, holding them high as if offering them to the group. “Do you want to read it? Do you want me to read it to you? It’s flowing again. Read the old parts. Read the
Cantos
I wrote three centuries ago and never published. It’s all here. We’re all here. My name, yours, this trip. Don’t you see … I’m not creating a poem, I’m creating the
future
!” He let the flimsies fall, raised the empty bottle, frowned, and held it like a chalice. “I’m creating the future,” he repeated without looking up, “but it’s the past which must be changed. One instant. One decision.”

Martin Silenus raised his face. His eyes were red. “This thing that is going to kill us tomorrow—my muse, our maker, our unmaker—it’s traveled back through time. Well, let it. This time, let it take
me
and leave Billy alone. Let it take me and let the poem end there, unfinished for all time.” He raised the bottle higher, closed his eyes, and threw it against the far wall. Glass shards reflected orange light from the silent explosions.

Colonel Kassad stepped closer and laid long fingers on the poet’s shoulder.

For a few seconds the room seemed warmed by the mere fact of human contact. Father Lenar Hoyt stepped away from the wall where he had been leaning, raised his right hand with thumb and little finger touching, three fingers raised, the gesture somehow including himself as well as those before him, and said softly,
“Ego te absolvo
.”

Wind scraped at the outer walls and whistled around the gargoyles and balconies. Light from a battle a hundred million kilometers away painted the group in blood hues.

Colonel Kassad walked to the doorway. The group moved apart.

“Let’s try to get some sleep,” said Brawne Lamia.

Later, alone in his bedroll, listening to the wind shriek and howl,
the Consul set his cheek against his pack and pulled the rough blanket higher. It had been years since he had been able to fall asleep easily.

The Consul set his curled fist against his cheek, closed his eyes, and slept.

EPILOGUE

The Consul awoke to the sound of a balalaika being played so softly that at first he thought it was an undercurrent of his dream.

The Consul rose, shivered in the cold air, wrapped his blanket around him, and went out onto the long balcony. It was not yet dawn. The skies still burned with the light of battle.

“I’m sorry,” said Lenar Hoyt, looking up from his instrument. The priest was huddled deep in his cape.

“It’s all right,” said the Consul. “I was ready to awaken.” It was true. He could not remember feeling more rested. “Please continue,” he said. The notes were sharp and clear but barely audible above the wind noise. It was as if Hoyt was playing a duet with the cold wind from the peaks above. The Consul found the clarity almost painful.