Hyperion

Hyperion(hīˈpi(ə)rēən)

By Dan Simmons

PROLOGUE(-ˌläg,ˈprōˌlôg)

THE HEGEMONY(həˈjemənē,ˈhejəˌmōnē) CONSUL sat on the balcony(ˈbalkənē) of his ebony(ˈebənē) spaceship and played Rachmaninoff(räkˈmənəˈnäf)’s Prelude(ˈprelˌ(y)o͞od,ˈprāˌl(y)o͞od) in C-sharp Minor(ˈmīnər) on an ancient(ˈānCHənt) but well-maintained(mānˈtān) Steinway(ˈstīnˌwā, ˈSHtīn-) while great, green, saurian(ˈsôrēən) things surged(sərj) and bellowed(ˈbelō) in the swamps(swämp) below(bəˈlō). A thunderstorm(ˈTHəndərˌstôrm) was brewing(bro͞o) to the north. Bruise(bro͞oz)-black clouds silhouetted(ˌsilo͞oˈet) a forest(ˈfär-,ˈfôrəst) of giant(ˈjīənt) gymnosperms(ˈjimnəˌspərm) while stratocumulus(ˌstratōˈkyo͞omyələs,ˌstrā-) towered nine kilometers high in a violent(ˈvī(ə)lənt) sky. Lightning rippled(ˈripəl) along the horizon(həˈrīzən). Closer to the ship, occasional(əˈkāZHənl) vague(vāg), reptilian(-ˈtilyən,repˈtilēən) shapes would blunder(ˈbləndər) into the interdiction(ˌin(t)ərˈdikSH(ə)n) field, cry out, and then crash(kraSH) away through indigo(ˈindiˌgō) mists(mist). The Consul(ˈkänsəl) concentrated(ˈkänsənˌtrātid) on a difficult section of the Prelude and ignored the approach of storm and nightfall.

The fatline(fat) receiver chimed(CHīm).

The Consul stopped, fingers hovering above the keyboard, and listened. Thunder rumbled(ˈrəmbəl) through the heavy(ˈhevē) air. From the direction(dəˈrekSH(ə)n, dīˈrekSH(ə)n) of the gymnosperm(ˈjimnəˌspərm) forest there came the mournful(ˈmôrnfəl) ululation(ˈəlyəˌlāt, ˈyo͞o(l)yəˌlāt) of a carrion(ˈkarēən)-breed(brēd) pack. Somewhere in the darkness below, a small-brained(brānd) beast(bēst) trumpeted(ˈtrəmpit) its answering challenge and fell(fel) quiet(ˈkwīət). The interdiction field added its sonic(ˈsänik) undertones(ˈəndərˌtōn) to the sudden(ˈsədn) silence. The fatline chimed(CHīm) again.

“Damn(dam),” said the Consul and went in to answer it.

While the computer took a few seconds to convert(kənˈvərt) and decode the burst(bərst) of decaying(dəˈkā) tachyons(ˈtakēˌän), the Consul poured(pôr) himself a glass of Scotch(skäCH). He settled(ˈsetl) into the cushions(ˈko͝oSHən) of the projection pit(pit) just as the diskey blinked(bliNGk) green. “Play,” he said.

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