The group broke up at once. General Morpurgo glowered at me as he left. Senator Kolchev stared with some curiosity as he passed. Councilor Albedo merely faded into nothingness. Leigh Hunt was the only one besides Gladstone and me to remain behind. He made himself more comfortable by draping one leg over the arm of the priceless pre-Hegira chair in which he sat. Sit down, said Hunt.
I glanced at the CEO. She had taken her seat behind the massive desk, and now she nodded. I sat in the straight-backed chair General Morpurgo had occupied. CEO Gladstone said, Do you really think that defending Hyperion is stupid?
Yes.
Gladstone steepled her fingers and tapped at her lower lip. Behind her, the window showed the armada party continuing
in silent agitation.
If you have any hope of being reunited with your ah counterpart, she said, it would seem to be in your interest for us to carry out the Hyperion campaign.
I said nothing. The window view shifted to show the night sky still ablaze with fusion trails.
Did you bring drawing materials? asked Gladstone.
I brought out the pencil and small sketchpad I had told Diana Philomel I did not have.
Draw while we talk, said Meina Gladstone.
I began sketching, roughing in the relaxed, almost slumped posture, and then working on the details of the face. The eyes intrigued me.
I was vaguely aware that Leigh Hunt was staring intently at me.
Joseph Severn, he said. An interesting choice of names.
I used quick, bold lines to give the sense of Gladstones high brow and strong nose.
Do you know why people are leery of cybrids? Hunt asked.
Yes, I said. The Frankenstein monster syndrome. Fear of anything in human form that is not completely human. Its the real reason androids were outlawed, I suppose.
Uh-huh, agreed Hunt. But cybrids are completely human, arent they?
Genetically they are, I said. I found myself thinking of my mother, remembering the times I had read to her during her illness. I thought of my brother Torn. But they are also part of the Core, I said, and thus fit the description of not completely human.'
Are you part of the Core? asked Meina Gladstone, turning full face toward me. I started a new sketch.
Not really, I said. I can travel freely through the regions they allow me in, but it is more like someone accessing the datasphere than a true Core personalitys ability. Her face had been more interesting in three-quarters profile, but the eyes were more powerful when viewed straight on. I worked on the latticework of lines radiating from the corners of those eyes. Meina Gladstone obviously had never indulged in Poulsen treatments.
If it were possible to keep secrets from the Core, said Gladstone, it would be folly to allow you free access to the councils of government. As it is She dropped her hands and sat up. I nipped to a new page.
As it is, said Gladstone, you have information I need. Is it true that you can read the mind of your counterpart, the first retrieval persona?
No, I said. It was difficult to capture the complicated interplay of line and muscle at the corners of her mouth. I sketched in my attempt to do so, moved on to the strong chin and shaded the area beneath the underlip.
Hunt frowned and glanced at the CEO. M. Gladstone brought her fingertips together again. Explain, she said.
I looked up from the drawing. I dream, I said. The contents of the dream appear to correspond to the events occurring around the person carrying the implant of the previous Keats persona.
A woman named Brawne Lamia, said Leigh Hunt.
Yes.
Gladstone nodded. So the original Keats persona, the one thought killed on Lusus, is still alive?
I paused. It he is still aware, I said. You know that the primary personality substrate was extracted from the Core, probably by the cybrid himself, and implanted in a Schrön-loop bio-shunt carried by M. Lamia.
Yes, yes, said Leigh Hunt. But the fact is, you are in contact with the Keats persona, and through him, with the Shrike pilgrims.
Quick, dark strokes provided a dark background to give the sketch of Gladstone more depth. I am not actually in contact, I said. I dream dreams about Hyperion that your fatline broadcasts have confirmed as conforming to real-time events. I cannot communicate to the passive Keats persona, nor to its host or the other pilgrims.
CEO Gladstone blinked. How did you know about the fatline broadcasts?
The Consul told the other pilgrims about his comlogs ability to relay through the fatline transmitter in his ship. He told them just before they descended into the valley.
Gladstones tone hinted of her years as a lawyer before entering politics. And how did the others respond to the Consuls revelation?
I put the pencil back in my pocket. They knew that a spy was in their midst, I said. You told each of them.
Gladstone glanced at her aide. Hunts expression was blank. If youre in touch with them, she said, you must know that weve received no message since before they left Keep Chronos to descend to the Time Tombs.
I shook my head. Last nights dream ended just as they approached the valley.