A security guard met us in the anteroom and started to lead me toward the maze of corridors and checkpoints. Hunt called out for him to stop and strode across the wide hall, his steps echoing on the building. He touched my arm. Make no mistake, he said. We know she knows who you are and what you are and whom you represent.
I met his gaze and calmly extracted my arm. Thats good, I said, because at this point, I am quite sure that I do not know.
Three
Brawne Lamia is tired and aching and very irritable. The sound of Sol Weintraubs baby crying sets her teeth on edge. She knows the others are also tired; none has slept more than a few hours in the past three nights, and the day just ending has been filled with tension and unresolved terrors. She sets the last piece of wood on the fire.
Theres no more where that came from, snaps Martin Silenus. The fire lights the poets satyrish features from below.
I know it, says Brawne Lamia, too tired to put anger or any other energy into her voice. The firewood is from a cache carried in by the pilgrim groups of years gone by. Their three small tents are set in the area traditionally used by the pilgrims in their last night before confronting the Shrike. They are camped close to the Time Tomb called the Sphinx, and the black sweep of what may be a wing blots out some of the sky.
Well use the lantern when this is gone, says the Consul. The diplomat looks even more exhausted than the others. The flickering light casts a red tint over his sad features. He had dressed in diplomatic finery for the day, but now the cape and tricorne cap look as soiled and wilted as the Consul himself.
Colonel Kassad returns to the fire and slides the night visor up onto the top of his helmet. Kassad is wearing full combat gear, and the activated chameleon polymer shows only his face, floating two meters above the ground. Nothing, he says. No movement. No heat traces. No sound besides the wind. Kassad leans the FORCE multipurpose assault rifle against a rock and sits near the others, the fibers of his impact armor deactivating into a matte black not much more visible than before.
Do you think the Shrike will come tonight? asks Father Hoyt. The priest has his black cloak wrapped around him and seems as much a part of the night as Colonel Kassad. The thin mans voice is strained.
Kassad leans forward and pokes the fire with his baton. There is no way to tell. Ill stand watch just in case.
Suddenly all six look up as the star-filled sky spasms with color, orange and red blossoms unfolding silently, obliterating the starfield.
There hasnt been much of that in the past few hours, says Sol Weintraub, rocking his infant. Rachel has quit crying and now tries to grasp her fathers short beard. Weintraub kisses her tiny hand.
Theyre testing Hegemony defenses again, says Kassad. Sparks rise from the prodded fire, embers floating into the sky as if seeking to join the brighter flames there.
Who won? asks Lamia, referring to the silent space battle which had filled the sky with violence all the night before and much of that day.
Who fucking cares? says Martin Silenus. He searches through the pockets of his fur coat as if he might find a full bottle there. He does not. Who fucking cares, he mutters again.
I care, the Consul says tiredly. If the Ousters break through, they may destroy Hyperion before we find the Shrike.
Silenus laughs derisively. Oh, that would be terrible, wouldnt it? To die before we discover death? To be killed before we are scheduled to be killed? To go out swiftly and without pain, rather than to writhe forever on the Shrikes thorns? Oh, terrible thought, that.
Shut up, says Brawne Lamia, and her voice again is without emotion but this time is not devoid of threat. She looks at the Consul. So where is
the Shrike? Why didnt we find it?
The diplomat stares at the fire. I dont know. Why should I know?
Perhaps the Shrike is gone, says Father Hoyt. Perhaps by collapsing the anti-entropic fields youve freed it forever. Perhaps its carried its scourge elsewhere.
The Consul shakes his head and says nothing.
No, says Sol Weintraub. The baby is sleeping against his shoulder. It will be here. I feel it.
Brawne Lamia nods. So do I. Its waiting. She had retrieved several ration units from her pack, and now she pulls heating tabs and passes the units around.
I know that anticlimax is the warp and woof of the world, says Silenus. But this is fucking ridiculous. All dressed up with nowhere to die.
Brawne Lamia glowers but says nothing, and for a while they eat in silence. The flames fade from the sky, and the densely packed stars return, but embers continue to rise as if seeking escape.
Wrapped in the dream-hazy tumble of Brawne Lamias thoughts twice-removed, I try to reconstruct the events since last I dreamt their lives.
The pilgrims had descended into the valley before dawn, singing, their shadows thrown before them by the light from the battle a billion kilometers above. All day they had explored the Time Tombs. Each minute they expected to die. After some hours, as the sun rose and the high desert cold gave way to heat, their fear and exultation faded.