The Hyperion Cantos 4-Book Bundle (197 page)

In the final weeks, with all plans made and forces assigned, Father Captain de Soya actually finds time for personal reflection and activities. Alone now, away from the controlled chaos of staff meetings and tactical simulations—away even from Gregorius, Kee, and Rettig, who accepted assignments as his personal bodyguards—de Soya walks the streets of DaVinci, visits the St. Jude Medical Center, and remembers his sister Maria. Somehow, he discovers, the nightly dreams are more compelling than seeing the real places.

De Soya has discovered that his old patron, Father Maher, has been serving for many years as rector in the Ascension Benedictine Monastery in the city-region of Florence on the opposite side of Renaissance V. from DaVinci, and he flies there to spend a long afternoon talking to the old man. Father Maher, now in his late eighties and “looking forward to my first new life in Christ,” is as optimistic, patient, and kind as de Soya remembers from almost three decades ago. Maher, it seems, has returned to MadredeDios more recently than de Soya. “The Llano Estacado has been abandoned,” says the old priest. “The ranches are empty now. Ciudad del Madre has a few dozen inhabitants, but only Pax researchers—seeing if the world is truly worth terraforming.”

“Yes,” says de Soya, “my family emigrated back to Nuevo Madrid more than twenty standard years ago. My sisters serve
the Church—Loretta as a nun on Nevermore, Melinda as a priest on Nuevo Madrid.”

“And your brother Esteban?” asks Father Maher with a warm smile.

De Soya takes a breath. “Killed by the Ousters in a space battle last year,” he says. “His ship was vaporized. No bodies were recovered.”

Father Maher blinks as if he has been slapped. “I had not heard.”

“No,” says de Soya, “you wouldn’t have. It was far away—beyond the old Outback. Word has not officially reached even my family yet. I know only because my duties took me to the vicinity and I met a returning captain who told me the news.”

Father Maher shakes his bald and mottled head. “Esteban has found the only resurrection which Our Lord promised,” he says softly, tears in his eyes. “Eternal resurrection in Our Savior Jesus Christ.”

“Yes,” says de Soya. A moment later he says, “Do you still drink Scotch, Father Maher?”

The old man’s rheumy eyes lift to meet the other’s gaze. “Yes, but only for medicinal purposes, Father Captain de Soya.”

De Soya’s dark brows rise a bit. “I am still recovering from my last resurrection, Father Maher.”

The older priest nods seriously. “And I am preparing for my first one, Father Captain de Soya. I shall find the dusty bottle.”

On the following Sunday, de Soya celebrates Mass at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, where he had accepted the cross so long ago. More than eight hundred of the faithful are in attendance, including Father Maher and Father Brown, the intelligent and insightful aide to Monsignor Oddi. Sergeant Gregorius, Corporal Kee, and Lancer Rettig also attend, taking Communion from de Soya’s hand.

That night de Soya again dreams of Aenea. “How is it that you are my daughter?” he asks this night. “I have always honored my vows of celibacy.”

The child smiles and takes his hand.

One hundred hours before the girl’s ship is to translate, de Soya orders his fleet into position. The translation
point is perilously close to the gravity well of Renaissance Vector, and many of the experts are concerned that the old ship will break up, either under the gravity torque of such an unadvisable close exit from C-plus or from the horrendous deceleration needed if the ship is to land on the planet. Their concerns remain largely unspoken, as is their frustration at being kept in Renaissance System: many of the Fleet units had assignments along the frontier or deep in Ouster space. This waste of time has most of the officers on edge.

It is largely because of this undercurrent of tension that Father Captain de Soya calls a meeting of all line officers ten hours before the translation. Such conferences are usually handled over tightbeam linkups, but de Soya has the men and women physically transfer to the carrier
St. Malo
. The huge ship’s main briefing room is large enough to handle the scores of attending officers.

De Soya begins by reviewing the scenarios they have practiced for weeks or months now. If the child once again threatens self-destruction, three torchships—de Soya’s old MAGI Task Force—will close rapidly, wrap class-ten fields around the ship, stun whoever is aboard into unconsciousness, and hold the ship in stasis until the
Jacob
can take it in tow with its massive field generators.

If the ship tries to leave the system the way it ran from Parvati, ramscouts and fast-attack fighters will harass it while the torchships maneuver to disable it.

De Soya pauses in the briefing. “Questions?” Among the familiar faces he can see in the row upon row of briefing chairs are Captains Lempriere, Sati, Wu, and Hearn, Father Brown, Mother Captain Boulez, Mother Commander Stone, and Commander Barnes-Avne. Sergeant Gregorius, Kee, and Rettig stand at parade rest near the back of the briefing room, allowed in this august company only because of their status as personal bodyguards.

Captain Marget Wu says, “And if the ship attempts to land on Renaissance Vector, Renaissance Minor, or one of the moons?”

De Soya steps away from the low podium. “As we discussed at our last meeting, should the ship attempt to land, we will make the judgment at the time.”

“Based on what factors, Father Captain?” asks Fleet Admiral Serra from the C
³
ship
St. Thomas Aquinas
.

De Soya hesitates only a second. “Several factors, Admiral. Where the ship is headed … whether it would be safer—for the girl—to allow it to land or to attempt to disable it en route … whether there is any chance for the ship to escape.”

“Is there any chance?” asks Commander Barnes-Avne. The woman is hale and formidable again in her space-black uniform.

“I will not say that there is no chance,” says Father Captain de Soya. “Not after Hyperion. But we will minimize any chance.”

“If the Shrike creature appears …,” begins Captain Lempriere.

“We have rehearsed the scenario,” says de Soya, “and I see no reason to vary from our plans. This time we will rely upon computerized fire control to a greater extent. On Hyperion the creature remained in one spot for less than two seconds. This was too fast for human reactions and confused the programming in automated fire-control systems. We have reprogrammed those systems—including individual trooper’s suit fire-control systems.”

“So the Marines will board the ship?” asks a ramscout captain in the last row.

“Only if all else fails,” says de Soya. “Or after the girl and any companions have been locked in the stasis fields and stunned into unconsciousness.”

“And deathwands will be used against the creature?” asks a destroyer captain.

“Yes,” says de Soya, “as long as doing so does not put the child in danger. Any other questions?”

The room is silent.

“Father Maher from Ascension Monastery will close with the blessing,” says Father Captain de Soya. “Godspeed to you all.”

I am not sure what made us all go up to the Consul’s bedroom at the apex of the ship to watch the translation to normal space. His large bed—the one I had been sleeping in for the past couple of weeks—was in the center of the room, but it folded to a sort of couch, and I did that now. Behind his bed were two opaque cubes—the wardrobe cubby and the shower-lavatory cube—but when the hull was allowed to go transparent, these cubes were just dark blocks against the starfield all around and overhead. As the ship spun down from Hawking velocities, we asked that the hull be made transparent.

Our first glimpse, before the ship started its rotation to line up for deceleration, was of the world of Renaissance Vector, close enough to be a blue-and-white disk rather than a starry speck, with two of its three moons visible. The Renaissance sun was brilliant to the left of the illuminated planet and moons. There were scores of stars visible, which was unusual, since the glare of the sun usually darkened the sky so that only a few of the brightest stars could be seen. Aenea commented on this.

“Those are not stars,” said the ship as it completed its slow rotation. The fusion drive roared into existence as we began decelerating toward the planet. Normally we never would have exited from C-plus this close to a planet and moons—their gravity wells made spindown velocities very dangerous—but
the ship had assured us that its augmented fields would handle any problems. But not this problem.

“Those are not stars,” repeated the ship. “There are more than fifty ships under drive within a one-hundred-thousand-kilometer radius of us. There are dozens more in orbital defense positions. Three of those ships—torchships, from their fusion signature—are within two hundred kilometers of us and are closing.”

None of us said a word. The ship had not had to tell us this final bit of information—the three fusion-drive streaks seemed to be directly overhead, burning down at the top of our decelerating ship like blowtorch flames coming at our faces.

“We are being hailed,” said the ship.

“Visual?” said Aenea.

“Audio only.” The ship’s voice sounded more terse and businesslike than usual. Was it possible for an AI to feel tension?

“Let’s hear it,” said the girl.

“… the ship which has just entered Renaissance System,” the voice was saying. It was a familiar voice. We had heard it in Parvati System. Father Captain de Soya: “Attention, the ship which has just entered Renaissance System,” he said again.

“Which ship is the call coming from?” asked A. Bettik as he watched the three torchships close on us. His blue face was bathed in blue light from the plasma drives overhead.

“Unknown,” said the ship. “It is a tightbeam transmission and I have not located the source. It might be coming from any of the seventy-nine ships I am currently tracking.”

I felt as if I should make some comment, say something intelligent. “Yoicks,” I said. Aenea glanced at me and then looked back at the closing torchship drives.

“Time to Renaissance V.?” she asked softly.

“Fourteen minutes at constant delta-v,” said the ship. “But this level of deceleration would be illegal within four planetary distances.”

“Continue this level,” Aenea said.

“Attention, the ship which has just entered Renaissance System,” the de Soya voice was saying. “Prepare to be boarded. Any resistance will result in your being rendered unconscious. I repeat … attention, the ship which has just entered …”

Aenea looked up at me and grinned. “I guess I can’t use the depressurization ploy, huh, Raul?”

I could not think of anything clever to say beyond my “Yoicks” commentary. I lifted my hands, palms up.

“Attention, the ship which has just entered the system. We are coming alongside. Do not resist as we merge external containment fields.”

For some reason, at that moment, as Aenea and A. Bettik raised their faces to watch the three fusion drives separate as the torchships actually became visible less than a kilometer away, one on each point of an equilateral triangle around us, I watched the girl’s face. Her features were tense, perhaps—a slight tension at the corners of her mouth—but all in all, she seemed perfectly composed and raptly interested. Her dark eyes were large and luminous.

“Attention, the ship,” said the Pax captain’s voice again. “We will be merging fields in thirty seconds.”

Aenea walked to the edge of the room, reaching out to touch the invisible hull. From my vantage point, it was as if we were standing on a circular summit of a very tall mountain, with stars and blue comet tails on every side, and Aenea was perched on the edge of the precipice.

“Ship, please give me widebeam audio so all the Pax ships can hear me.”

Father Captain de Soya is watching the proceedings in tactical reality as well as real space. In tactical, he stands above the plane of the ecliptic and sees his ships arrayed around the decelerating target ship like points of light set along the spokes and rim of a wheel. Near the hub, so close to the girl’s ship as to be almost indistinguishable, are the
Melchior
, the
Gaspar
, and the
Balthasar
. Farther out, but decelerating in perfect synchronicity with the four ships at the hub, are more than a dozen other torchships under the close command of Captain Sati on the
St. Anthony
. Ten thousand klicks beyond them, set around a slowly rotating perimeter hub, also decelerating into cislunar Renaissance V. space, are the Benediction-class destroyers, three of the six C
³
ships, and the attack carrier
St. Malo
, upon which de Soya watches the events from the ship’s Combat Control Center. He had, of course, wanted to be with
the MAGI Task Force, closing on the girl’s ship, but he realized it would be inappropriate to be in such close command. It would have been especially galling to Mother Captain Stone—promoted only last week by Admiral Serra—to have her first full command undermined in such a way.

So de Soya watches from the
St. Malo
, his archangel
Raphael
in parking orbit around Renaissance V. with the defense pickets and protective ALRs. Switching quickly from the crowded red-lit reality of
St. Malo
’s CCC to the fusion-flame view of tactical space, he sees the sparks above this rotating wheel of ships, the dozens of ships set in a giant sphere to stop the girl’s ship from fleeing in any direction. Moving awareness back to the crowded CCC, he notes the blood-red faces of observers Wu and Brown, as well as Commander Barnes-Avne, who is in tightbeam contact with the fifty Marines aboard the MAGI ships. In the corners of the crowded Combat Control Center, de Soya can see Gregorius and his two troopers. All three of them had been bitterly disappointed not to be in the boarding parties, but de Soya is holding them back as personal bodyguards for the trip back to Pacem with the child.

He keys the tightbeam channel to the girl’s ship again. “Attention, the ship,” he says, feeling the pounding of his heart almost as background noise, “we will be merging fields in thirty seconds.” He realizes that he is terrified for the girl’s safety. If something is to go wrong, it will be in the next few minutes. Simulations have honed the process so that there is only a six percent projected chance of the girl’s being harmed … but six percent is too large for de Soya. He has dreamed of her every night for 142 nights.