Hyperion hung in space, a pebble in the sky, one planet of millions. Of course, a very important one, at least, historically. It had been the place of the death of Sad King Billy, and the Final Shrike Pilgrimage, detailed in the great Hyperion Cantos, which coincided and was very important to the Fall of the Hegemony of Man itself, which had begun the Pax Era. The Pax Era - long over now, ancient history - twenty-three thousand years ago. Now, Hyperion was desolate, and without atmosphere. All that remained was the legendary Tree of Pain, and of course, the Time Tombs. No one had set foot on the planet in thirteen thousand years.
Meanwhile, Terminus had suffered a similar fate. The First Foundation was gone; after the Great Interregnum, the Second Galactic Empire had relocated to Old Trantor. However, unlike Hyperion, the old cities still remained, and a few hundred still lived on the barren, forgotten world. Unbeknownst to the rest of the galaxy, it was the world from which the entire Empire had its roots, and for that most of its remaining citizens were satisfied. Some still mumbled about the arrogance of the Empire, and the loss of the dream of Seldon, whose name had been forgotten, but most simply shook their heads and laughed, feeling learned.
No one in the Galaxy could possibly have known that these two minor worlds, merely a footnote in Galactic history as far as the warped history of the new age of the Empire concerned, would both, once again, play a key role in the fate of humanity, and the entire universe. Nor could they have seen what was coming. Kralizec. Arafel. Doomsday. The Typhoon Struggle. It had been foretold on the ancient planet of Rakis, that place which had been known as Dune, but few told of it know, and those who did, did it to scare children, not really believing.
No one could have been ready for the Collision of Worlds.