“Look,” said Lamia, “what good would telling each other stories do? When we meet the Shrike, we tell it what we want, one of us is granted the wish, and the others die. Correct?”
“So goes the myth,” said Weintraub.
“The Shrike is no myth,” said Kassad. “Nor its steel tree.”
“So why bore each other with stories?” asked Brawne Lamia, spearing the last of her chocolate cheesecake.
Weintraub gently touched the back of his sleeping infant’s head. “We live in strange times,” he said. “Because we are part of that one tenth of one tenth of one percent of the Hegemony’s citizens who travel between the stars rather than along the Web, we represent odd epochs of our own recent past. I, for example, am sixty-eight standard years old, but because of the time-debts my travels could have incurred, I might have spread these threescore and eight years across well more than a century of Hegemony history.”
“So?” said the woman next to him.
Weintraub opened his hand in a gesture which included everyone at the table. “Among us we represent islands of time as well as separate oceans of perspective. Or perhaps more aptly put, each of us may hold a piece to a puzzle no one else has been able to solve since humankind first landed on Hyperion.” Weintraub scratched his nose. “It is a mystery,” he said, “and to tell the truth, I am intrigued by mysteries even if this is to be my last week of enjoying them. I would welcome some glimmer of understanding but, failing that, working on the puzzle will suffice.”
“I agree,” said Het Masteen with no emotion. “It had not occurred to me, but I see the wisdom of telling our tales before we confront the Shrike.”
“But what’s to keep us from lying?” asked Brawne Lamia.
“Nothing.” Martin Silenus grinned. “That’s the beauty of it.”
“We should put it to a vote,” said the Consul. He was thinking about Meina Gladstone’s contention that one of the group was an Ouster agent. Would hearing the stories be a way of revealing the spy? The Consul smiled at the thought of an agent so stupid.
“Who decided that we are a happy little democracy?” Colonel Kassad asked dryly.
“We had better be,” said the Consul. “To reach our individual goals, this group needs to reach the Shrike regions together. We require some means of making decisions.”
“We could appoint a leader,” said Kassad.
“Piss on that,” the poet said in a pleasant tone. Others at the table also shook their heads.
“All right,” said the Consul, “we vote. Our first decision relates to M. Weintraub’s suggestion that we tell the stories of our past involvement with Hyperion.”
“All or nothing,” said Het Masteen. “We each share our story or none does. We will abide by the will of the majority.”
“Agreed,” said the Consul, suddenly curious to hear the others tell their stories and equally sure that he would never tell his own. “Those in favor of telling our tales?”
“Yes,” said Sol Weintraub.
“Yes,” said Het Masteen.
“Absolutely,” said Martin Silenus. “I wouldn’t miss this little comic farce for a month in the orgasm baths on Shote.”
“I vote yes also,” said the Consul, surprising himself. “Those opposed?”
“Nay,” said Father Hoyt but there was no energy in his voice.
“I think it’s stupid,” said Brawne Lamia.
The Consul turned to Kassad. “Colonel?”
Fedmahn Kassad shrugged.
“I register four yes votes, two negatives, and one abstention,” said the Consul. “The ayes have it. Who wants to start?”
The table was silent. Finally Martin Silenus looked up from where he had been writing on a small pad of paper. He tore a sheet into several smaller strips. “I’ve recorded numbers from one to seven,” he said. “Why don’t we draw lots and go in the order we draw?”
“That seems rather childish, doesn’t it?” said M. Lamia.
“I’m a childish fellow,” responded Silenus with his satyr’s smile. “Ambassador”—he nodded toward the Consul—“could I borrow that gilded pillow you’re wearing for a hat?”
The Consul handed over his tricorne, the folded slips were dropped in, and the hat passed around. Sol Weintraub was the first to draw, Martin Silenus the last.
The Consul unfolded his slip, making sure that no one else could see it. He was number seven. Tension ebbed out of him like air out of an overinflated balloon. It was quite possible, he reasoned, that events would intercede before he had to tell his story. Or the war would make everything academic. Or the group could lose interest in stories. Or the king could die. Or the horse could die. Or he could teach the horse how to talk.
No more whiskey, thought the Consul.
“Who’s first?” asked Martin Silenus.
In the brief silence, the Consul could hear leaves stirring to unfelt breezes.
“I am,” said Father Hoyt. The priest’s expression showed the same barely submerged acceptance of pain which the Consul had seen on the faces of terminally ill friends. Hoyt held up his slip of paper with a large 1 clearly scrawled on it.
“All right,” said Silenus. “Start.”
“Now?” asked the priest.
“Why not?” said the poet. The only sign that Silenus had finished at least two bottles of wine was a slight darkening of the already ruddy cheeks and a somewhat more demonic tilt to the pitched eyebrows. “We have a few hours before planetfall,” he said, “and I for one plan to sleep off the freezer fugue when we’re safely down and settled among the simple natives.”
“Our friend has a point,” Sol Weintraub said softly. “If the tales are to be told, the hour after dinner each day is a civilized time to tell them.”
Father Hoyt sighed and stood. “Just a minute,” he said and left the dining platform.
After some minutes had passed, Brawne Lamia said, “Do you think he’s lost his nerve?”
“No,” said Lenar Hoyt, emerging from the darkness at the head of the wooden escalator which served as the main staircase. “I needed these.” He dropped two small, stained notebooks on the table as he took his seat.
“No fair reading stories from a primer,” said Silenus. “These are to be our own tall tales, Magus!”
“Shut up, damn it!” cried Hoyt. He ran a hand across his face, touched his chest. For the second time that night, the Consul knew that he was looking at a seriously ill man.
“I’m sorry,” said Father Hoyt. “But if I’m to tell my … my tale, I have to tell someone else’s story as well. These journals belong to the man who was the reason for my coming to Hyperion … and why I am returning today.” Hoyt took a deep breath.
The Consul touched the journals. They were begrimed and charred, as if they had survived a fire. “Your friend has old-fashioned tastes,” he said, “if he still keeps a written journal.”
“Yes,” said Hoyt. “If you’re all ready, I will begin.”
The group at the table nodded. Beneath the dining platform, a kilometer of treeship drove through the cold night with the strong pulse of a living thing. Sol Weintraub lifted his sleeping child from the infant carrier and carefully set her on a cushioned mat on the floor near his chair. He removed his comlog, set it near the mat, and programmed the diskey for white noise. The week-old infant lay on her stomach and slept.
The Consul leaned far back and found the blue and green star which was Hyperion. It seemed to grow larger even as he watched. Het Masteen drew his cowl forward until only shadows showed for his face. Sol Weintraub lighted a pipe. Others accepted refills of coffee and settled back in their chairs.