Dan Simmons - The Hyperion Cantos -

I understand at last. The Consul did not betray us. He simply finished reading the story—and refused to turn the page.

The Shrike tilted its head. A gesture almost human. Almost.

I was an Ouster. Not the swarm-creatures of Hegemony propaganda, all claws and chitin, but a child of the void decades: webbed fingers, lungs adapted to argon-methane mix, eyes that saw ultraviolet. I had come to Hyperion not to die, but to understand. The Hegemony believed the Time Tombs were a weapon. The Ouster Clergy believed they were a god. Dan Simmons - The Hyperion Cantos

The Consul told me the old story: the priest who crucified himself on the tesla trees, the soldier who fell in love with a cyborg, the poet who sold his soul for a single perfect verse. He told it well—with the hollow music of a man reciting a litany he no longer believed.

Both were wrong.

The Shrike’s hand is on my shoulder now. The blades are warm.

Ouster, it said. Not with sound. With the shape of pain yet to come. I understand at last

The Shrike is coming back through the door. I have perhaps three of your seconds.