Templum Veneris

by Jeremy L. Jones

  Joseph’s hand shot out to stop hers, and he touched the top of her wrist, their eyes met for a moment. His eyes pleaded with her to trust him. Isra let her hand drop.

  Again, they listened to the static in silence. Isra sat still with her eyes closed while Joseph repeatedly cleaned his glasses with the bottom of his vest. The hiss picked up as the sun outside started to rise, adding to the random atmospheric interference and cosmic background noise that the radio always picked up. A red light started flashing indicating that somebody, probably the science team upset at having their window cut short, was trying to establish a connection.

  “Joseph—”

  The static was cut by a high pitched whine and then, somewhere underneath it, a female voice. Joseph manipulated the sensitivity controls, and the voice became clearer, but the message was still garbled

  “Por favor repsonda. Esta *static* …de cidade Cytherea. Tem alguem ai… *static* … de cidade Cytherea…”

  “I don’t think that’s a satellite,” said Joseph cleaning his glasses for at least the tenth time in the last few minutes.

  “Could be a programmed distress signal from a transport ship lost since the Exodus. Some tomb floating around for a thousand years calling for help,” she replied, unconvinced.

  “You’re the romantic type, aren’t you?” said Joseph.

  Ignoring the jibe, Isra leaned in close to the microphone. “Hello? This is the Colombian Province Radio Telescope, South America, planet Earth. Do you copy?”

  “I’ll alert Mr. Marcelo again,” said Joseph, turning toward the door.

  Isra leaned back in the chair. “He will not be pleased.”

  Joseph turned, flashed her that little smile and adjusted his glasses. “No, he won’t.” Joseph scurried off, and Isra waited. Venus and Earth were close in their orbits right now, if she remembered correctly. If somebody was listening on the other end, it shouldn’t take long for them to receive the signal and reply.

  “What did Emilio say?” Isra breathed when Joseph returned fifteen minutes later.

  “He wasn’t happy. He’s going to reschedule this team’s window but with all the shuffling…”

  Joseph didn’t need to say any more, the implication was clear. The District Coordinator and Asset Management Director of the Ministry’s Radio Astronomy Department were upset and, like so many people with long titles and marginal power, he was going to lash out to prove his worth. Isra would be lucky to get five minutes strung together after today.

  They waited. Thirty minutes passed with nothing, just the mind-numbing hiss of unwavering static. After forty-five minutes, Isra decided she couldn’t take it. Not two let-downs in one day. She sighed.

  “I am going to get some sleep, and I will do some follow up next week. If I am even allowed in the building next week.”

  Crestfallen, Joseph hung his head as he removed his glasses for one last good cleaning. “I’m… I’m sorry, Isra.”

  She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, as she reached out to shut the power down.

  The radio crackled, “Sim, sim, eu ouvi-lo. *static* …esta a cidade de Cytherea. Eu ouco voce. Ele fuciona! Eu nao posso acreditar que ele fuciona…”

  Joseph nearly dropped his glasses as he stared at the console. “That’s not a recorded message! That’s a response. Someone is responding!”

  Isra closed her eyes and listened as the voice continued. “It is a romance language, I think. Maybe some version of Italian or French. Set the dish to track Venus throughout the day and record every word until I find a translator. Oh, and get a message to the head of the Ministry of South American Science Research. Try to get Emilio off our back today.”

  Joseph darted for the door to carry out her orders. “If you think he was mad before…”

  “I do not care,” said Isra, already diving into the work ahead. “Not anymore. I do not think I will be on this planet much longer. Not for a while.”

  ****

  Althea felt a rush of euphoria as she walked down the stairs from the C-train station and into Arkester’s Entertainment district. It wasn’t just the chemicals they pumped into the air—a combination of hormones, pheromones, and good, old-fashioned opioids to make people relaxed, happy and, most importantly, free with money—it was the anticipation. The thrill excited her and, at the same time, terrified her. But she was here because she needed to be. Not, she told herself over and over again, because she wanted to be.

  Althea’s eye was drawn to the sky as she walked where resonant transformer coils towered over the buildings and flashes of blue electricity occasionally shot between them. They charged the air and powered the sea of lights that lit every corner of the street in diffused green, blue, and pink light. The air was warm, spiced with the aroma of flowers and pheromones and alive with chatter, laughter, and deep, throbbing noises from the clubs that lined the street. It was so loud that Althea couldn’t hear the sharp cracks of electricity from the coils above.

  The streets were busy tonight. Everywhere Althea turned her head she saw the citizens of Arkester laughing or arguing, lovers making out or bickering. Droids and automatons beckoned drunks from one bar to another, each promising more exotic pleasures than the last. A group of prostitutes walked toward her wearing skimpy clothing that cycled through various colors before becoming nearly transparent. Althea sensed a couple of the girls size her up. Possibly either to gauge whether she was an unlicensed practitioner that needed to be reported or fresh meat they could recruit for easy money.

  Either way, Althea wasn’t here to sell her body, despite what the tight, red dress she wore might indicate. Nor was she here to join the foolish antics of Arkester’s rich and over-indulged, though a part of her longed for the carefree days she spent laughing, drinking, and flirting with her friends from the hospital; the ones who had the talent to blow off study sessions and rich families to support such a lifestyle. That was her previous life. Tonight, the District was her hunting ground.

  She passed by a dance club and paused to scan the crowd through the window. The men were young and dressed in the latest fashions to flaunt their wealth, but it was an illusion. Althea could sense it. Something in the way they wore the suits, how they tied their ties, how their glasses and jewelry all looked new. Most of them had probably spent their last fiat on tonight’s attire. It wouldn’t do Althea any good to bother with them, so she moved on.

  Her eyes darted across the street where a man drank alone on a patio outside a club. He had a pressed silver suit so shiny that it reflected the street’s lights. His hair was so rigidly styled she imagined she could bounce a cannonball off his scalp without him noticing. He was too well ordered to work at the hospital which, in this town, meant Financial Consortium for the Corporation. Which meant money. He was also quite young, which indicated his career was just getting started and, while he might have access to some wealth, it probably wouldn’t be enough. Besides, she wasn’t out to ruin a promising new career.

  An older man, stumbling out of a bar, distracted her. That was more her speed. His clothing suggested executive for some consortium, probably medical. A ring on his finger said that he was married, but the way his eyes met hers told her that he wasn’t constrained by that. An assumption he proved as he walked past a brothel and stopped to window shop. Althea sighed as she walked past. He was clearly in the mood for something physical and, although Althea hadn’t always drawn that line in the past, it now felt like an act of desperation. Things weren’t that bad, not yet.

  In truth, she didn’t need the money. Fiat entered her account regularly from the Ministry as a retainer while the Human Reconnection Project was under investigation. It was enough to eat and pay rent, but that was it. She spent her days poring through the newest medical journals on the Neuvonet, the ones she still had access to at any rate. When she was bored or frustrated with that, she would go for a walk, keep up with the few remaining friends she had from the medical consortium, or anything else she could think of to pass the time
.

  There were two things she wouldn’t do. The first was contact Viekko Spade. The second… well, the first one was the important one. A fresh injection of cash meant she could afford to go shopping, eat out, or even do some traveling. The latter held particular interest, for no other reason than it would put some distance between them. Viekko needed time to heal and Althea… well, travel sometimes helped her discover what she needed.

  A flash of light from the sky in between the buildings ahead caught her attention as three District Drones rounded the corner and scanned the crowd on the street. She cursed herself for letting her mind wander and ducked into an alleyway; not so fast as to arouse suspicion, but fast enough to get out of sight before they spotted her. She crouched in a doorway as they buzzed overhead. In the streets, nothing changed. Most people didn’t even notice the drones anymore. That’s because they belonged here. They had money in an account, they had credit and they didn’t—and this was the most important part—have a criminal record; especially a criminal record that involved taking advantage of rich people in the District.

  Once the soft hum from the drones died away, she took a deep breath, walked back out into the street, and nearly ran into the young man from the patio.

  “Well hello! You look lost, darlin’,” he said, stepping back with the wide eyes and a big smile of a man who, entirely by accident, wandered into a pleasant surprise.

  “Terribly sorry. Should watch where I’m going,” Althea mumbled, stepping around him.

  “Hold on, not so fast,” he said rushing to keep up. “Where are you headed this lovely evening?”

  Althea kept walking and added some extra speed to her step. “I was just… looking for an old haunt of mine. A quiet drink maybe. Alone,” she added, with some conviction.

  “You’re in luck! I love drinking alone. Maybe we could drink alone together. Come on, it’s on me.” He matched her speed. He was persistent, she gave him that.

  Althea stopped and looked him in the face. He was cute, but he couldn’t be much over twenty, a kid, really. And yet, he looked at her with the confidence of a man who was used to getting everything he ever wanted. His eyes wandered all over her body letting him know precisely what Althea intended her targets to learn. Her bright, unnaturally red hair and emerald green eyes—both the product of genetic modification—told him that she had money. Her jewelry, elegant but understated, indicated that she was a good, professional member of the Corporation when the sun was up but the tight red dress that clung to her body said that since it was dark, they might as well have some fun.

  Althea, in turn, took a moment to size up her target. She examined the silver suit he wore and recognized the design. It was expensive, and it was real. No forger could pull off the exact lines or the way the fabric shimmered in the light. Yet, there was a hint of desperation in his voice. Something about the way he said the phrase, ‘on me’. It was as if he knew that nobody, especially a beautiful woman, would choose to spend time with him unless he was paying. Desperation meant something unfulfilled; a need. Maybe she had misread him before. He wasn’t her ideal target, but he might be just what she was looking for.

  “I dunno,” she said, casting her eyes downward.

  “Why not?” He leaned back, and his body swayed. He was already a drink or two in himself.

  “Because you don’t know what you are getting into.”

  He reached out to touch her hand. “That’s a lovely accent. Britannia?”

  “I grew up there.”

  “I’ve heard it’s beautiful. I’ve always wanted to see it.”

  Althea put on a shy, flirty smile. She could almost see him go weak at the knees. “It’s like anywhere else in the world. If you’ve got money, then it’s perfectly lovely.”

  The boy grinned and held out his arm. “If that’s true, then the whole world is our diamond. Come on. One drink. I promise.”

  Maybe he did deserve it, just a little. It probably wouldn’t be much of a score anyway and the boy could clearly afford it. Think of it as a learning experience.

  She brushed back her flaming red hair and smiled; an expression she crafted and honed like a weapon. She hadn’t used it in a while but judging by the man’s eyes, it still had its desired effect.

  She didn’t feel happy; she felt exhilarated. Like the moment before a skydive, playing the winning hand or right before sex.

  “Okay,” she said. “One drink.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Nobody knows who threw the original Molotov cocktail in that video from so long ago. The name of the victim has been lost to history. All that is known is, moments before he was engulfed in flames, he tried to disperse a crowd of illegally striking dock workers. But in a video that was reportedly seen by every person on the planet at that time, Diana Adriana walked onto the world stage. As the man writhing in pain crawled to her, probably hoping for help, she knelt down, lifted a bottle of alcohol to her lips and sprayed it in his face.

  -From The Fall: The Decline and Failure of 21st Century Civilization by Martin Raffe

  On the outskirts of Arkester, Viekko shuffled forward in a line of recovering triple-T addicts in the basement of a crumbling building, like a herd following the Judas goat to slaughter. Nobody said anything. Nobody did anything besides shuffle forward. The only light came from rows of pale fluorescent lights that cast everything in a sickly green glow, illuminating walls that had apparently been whitewashed long ago before chunks had fallen off and exposed the brick, wood, and battered drywall underneath. Somebody, at some point, tried to cover some of the damage with paper-thin screens that displayed short video loops of inspiring scenes; families having a picnic together, an old married couple holding hands, a father playing and laughing with his little girl. They all had uplifting phrases holographically projected under the video that jumped out and followed him as he walked down the hallway.

  “Recovery is possible.”

  “You can reclaim your life.”

  “Happiness is closer than you think.”

  Bullshit platitudes wasted on people who have long since forgotten what hope felt like.

  Viekko lived upstairs with the rest of these human ruins in a small clinic for triple-T addicts. It was mostly a peaceful life; people stripped of every human emotion tend to make boring party guests. That's what the Haze did to people. Triple-T was the ultimate drug. While riding its high, colors, tastes, sensations, the whole world, was brighter, sharper, and more vibrant. But when the high was over, all that was left was the Haze. After being clean for a while, that’s all the world ever was. It was like being locked in a dark prison with only one small, grimy window looking outside.

  The worst part was once a week when they all shuffled into this basement for the group therapy meeting. If Viekko played along, they left him alone for another week. All he had to do was sit. If someone asked him to talk, he just had to say that everything was fine. It was tough right now, but he was getting through it. He was feeling again, and it felt good. He had no desire to use triple-T ever again.

  All lies, but the truth would put him into the 'high risk' category.

  Before they went into the meeting room, every person placed their arm on a kind of glass table, where a laser scanned it from the elbow to wrist and analyzed the chemical content. Viekko put his arm on the scanner. A female voice, so happy and chipper it made his teeth clench said, “Welcome, Viekko Spade. Trihydroxide thiosulfate tetraoxide levels at 0%. Endorphin level is 56% below normal. You are 186 days clean today. Congratulations.”

  The meeting room was a wider version of the hallway outside. Same sickening light. Same crumbling walls. Same video loops. Slightly different platitudes.

  “Embrace your new life.”

  “Every day, a new opportunity.”

  If they wanted posters that actually had anything to do with triple-T recovery, they'd have a picture of a person with a vacant stare and a string of drool running off their lip and the words underneath would say, “Cheer up. Today w
as bad, but tomorrow will be so much worse.”

  “You'd be better off dead. You're halfway there anyway.”

  “Just give up. The world is fantastic on the 'T', and nothing without it.”

  The people shuffled toward a set of chairs arranged in a circle in the middle of the room. Viekko took a seat between a spaced-out looking woman with ratty black hair, and a guy that looked like someone had taken the air out of an inflated gorilla suit.

  Once everyone was seated, the group moderator stood up. She took continuous notes on a small computer mounted on the inside of her left arm. She had stiff, artificial-looking blonde hair that shielded about half her face and she had a strange tendency to blink more often than was necessary. It was like talking to a malfunctioning machine.

  “Mr. Sheenan,” said Blinky abruptly. “Do you have anything to share with the group?”