Hyperion by Dan Simmons

difference between death and true death?" I asked, not trusting the cornlog or my temper at this point.

The third Bikura, Del, grunted a response that the comlog interpreted as, 'Your companion died the true death. You did not."

Finally, in frustration far too close to rage, I snapped, 'Why not? Why didn't you kill me?"

All three stopped in the middle of their mindless weaving and looked at me. 'You cannot be killed because you cannot die,' said Alpha. 'You cannot die because you belong to the cruciform and follow the way of the cross."

I had no idea why the damn machine would translate cross as 'cross' one second and as 'cruciform' the next.

Because you belong to the cruciform.

A chill went through me, followed by the urge to laugh. Had I stumbled into that old adventure ho10 clich – the lost tribe that worshiped the 'god' that had tumbled into their jungle until the poor bastard cuts himself shaving or something, and the tribespeople, assured and a bit relieved at the obvious mortality of their visitor, offer up their erstwhile deity as a sacrifice?

It would have been funny if the image of Tuk's bloodless face and raw-rimmed, gaping wound was not so fresh.

Their reaction to the cross certainly suggested that l had encountered a group of survivors of a once Christian colony – Catholics? – even though the data in the comiog insisted that the dropship of seventy colonists who had crashed on this plateau four hundred years ago had held only Neo-Kerwin Marxists, all of whom should have been indifferent if not openly hostile to the old religions.

I considered dropping the matter as being far too dangerous to pursue, but my stupid need to know drove me on. 'Do you worship Jesus?" I asked.

Their blank expressions left no need for a verbal negative.

'Christ?" I tired again. 'Jesus Christ?

Christian? The Catholic Church?"

No interest.

'Catholic? Jesus? Mary? St Peter? Paul? St Tellhard?"

The comiog made noises but the words seemed to have no meaning for them.

'You follow the cross?" I said, flailing for some last contact.

All three looked at me. 'We belong to the cruciform,' said Alpha.

I nodded, understanding nothing.

This evening I fell asleep briefly just before sunset and when I awoke it was to the organ-pipe music of the Cleft's nightfall winds. It was much louder here on the village ledges. Even the hovels seemed to join the chorus as the rising gusts whistled and whined through stone gaps, flapping fronds, and crude smokeholes.

Something was wrong. It took me a groggy minute to realize that the village was abandoned. Every hut was empty. I sat on a cold boulder and wondered if my presence had sparked some mass exodus. The wind music had ended and meteors were beginning their nightly show through cracks in low clouds when I heard a sound behind me and turned to find all seventy of the Three Score and Ten behind me.

They walked past without a word and went to their huts. There were no lights. I imagined them sitting in their hovels, staring.

I stayed outside for some time before returning to my own hut. After a while I walked to the edge of the grassy shelf and stood where rock dropped away into the abyss. A cluster of vines and roots clung to the cliff face but appeared to end a few meters into space and hang there above emptiness. No vine could have been long enough to offer a way to the river two kilometers below.

But the Bikura had come from this direction.

Nothing made sense. I shook my head and went back to my hut.

Sitting here, writing by the light of the cornlog diskey, I try to think of precautions I can take to insure that I will see the sunrise.

I can think of none.

Day 103:

The more I learn, the less 1 understand.

I have moved most of my gear to the hut they leave empty for me here in the village.

I have taken photographs, recorded video and audio chips, and imaged a full holoscan of the village and its inhabitants. They do not seem to care. I project