The Hyperion Cantos 4-Book Bundle Read Free Page B

Lamia’s mouth was wide and expressive to the point of being sensuous, curled slightly at the corners in a slight smile which might be cruel or merely playful. The woman’s dark eyes seemed to dare the observer to discover which was the case.
    It occurred to the Consul that Brawne Lamia might well be considered beautiful.
    Introductions completed, the Consul cleared his throat and turned toward the Templar. “Het Masteen, you said that there were seven pilgrims. Is M. Weintraub’s child the seventh?”
    Het Masteen’s hood moved slowly from side to side. “No. Only those who make a conscious decision to seek the Shrike may be counted among the pilgrims.”
    The group at the table stirred slightly. Each must know what the Consul knew; only a group comprising a prime number of pilgrims might make the Shrike Church–sponsored trip north.
    “I am the seventh,” said Het Masteen, captain of the Templar treeship
Yggdrasill
and True Voice of the Tree. In the silence which followed the announcement, Het Masteen gestured and a group of crew clones began serving the pilgrims their last meal before planetfall.
       “So the Ousters are not in-system yet?” asked Brawne Lamia. Her voice had a husky, throaty quality which strangely stirred the Consul.
    “No,” said Het Masteen. “But we cannot be more than a few standard days ahead of them. Our instruments have detected fusion skirmishes within the system’s Oört cloud.”
    “Will there be war?” asked Father Hoyt. His voice seemed as fatigued as his expression. When no one volunteered a response, the priest turned to his right as if retroactively directing the question to the Consul.
    The Consul sighed. The crew clones had served wine; he wished it had been whiskey. “Who knows what the Ousters will do?” he said. “They no longer appear to be motivated by human logic.”
    Martin Silenus laughed loudly, spilling his wine as he gestured. “As if we fucking
humans
were ever motivated by human logic!” He took a deep drink, wiped his mouth, and laughed again.
    Brawne Lamia frowned. “If the serious fighting starts too soon,” she said, “perhaps the authorities will not allow us to land.”
    “We will be allowed to pass,” said Het Masteen. Sunlight found its way past folds in his cowl to fall on yellowish skin.
    “Saved from certain death in war to be delivered to certain death at the hands of the Shrike,” murmured Father Hoyt.
    “There is no death in all the Universe!” intoned Martin Silenus in a voice which the Consul felt sure could have awakened someone deep in cryogenic fugue. The poet drained the last of his wine and raised the empty goblet in an apparent toast to the stars:
    “
No smell of death—there shall be no death, moan, moan;

Moan, Cybele, moan; for thy pernicious Babes

Have changed a god into a shaking palsy
.
Moan, brethren, moan, for I have no strength left;

Weak as the reed—weak—feeble as my voice—

Oh, oh, the pain, the pain of feebleness
.
Moan, moan, for still I thaw.…”
    Silenus abruptly broke off and poured more wine, belching once into the silence which had followed his recitation. The other six looked at one another. The Consul noticed that Sol Weintraub was smiling slightly until the baby in his arms stirred and distracted him.
    “Well,” said Father Hoyt hesitantly, as if trying to retrieve an earlier strand of thought, “if the Hegemony convoy leaves and the Ousters take Hyperion, perhaps the occupation will be bloodless and they’ll let us go about our business.”
    Colonel Fedmahn Kassad laughed softly. “The Ousters don’t want to
occupy
Hyperion,” he said. “If they take the planet they’ll loot what they want and then do what they do best. They’ll burn the cities into charred rubble, break the rubble into smaller pieces, and then bake the pieces until they glow. They’ll melt the poles, boil the oceans, and then use the residue to salt what’s left of the continents so nothing will ever grow