Templum Veneris

by Jeremy L. Jones

  “Please put on the regulator before you come out. Please,” Althea touched his arm as she went by. No part of her tone suggested it was a request.

  Althea's medical regulators were a breakthrough. It was a whole body of invasive medical tests in one compact package. Many an overprotective woman has struggled with the inability to be everywhere at once; Althea was the only one smart enough to figure a way around that.

  Viekko took off his jacket and shirt, pulled a regulator from the rack and slid it over his left shoulder. As soon as it was in position, he felt pieces extend across his chest and to the small of his back, and he winced as it pinched, pulled, and rubbed against his skin. Once it was settled, he grabbed an EROS computer and slid it over his right forearm. He tapped the screen built into the inner side and heard a computerized woman's voice. “Hello, Viekko. Welcome back to the Body-Mod Consortium Version 8 Environmental Reorientation and Operations Suit. Your heart rate is normal. Blood pressure normal. Endorphin level is fifty-eight percent below normal. Thank you and be safe.”

  Viekko swore under his breath. Althea programmed that last bit for him. The effects of the Haze were bad enough without Althea looking over his shoulder via a machine she planted there herself. But... there wasn't much point in arguing. It would mean another fight and he'd end up wearing it anyway. He put his shirt and khaki jacket back on and went outside.

  Viekko noticed that the mood was more relaxed now, as he walked down the ramp. Isra spoke to the Cytherean representative in her language. “Isso e Althea. Isso e Cronus. Voce conheceu Viekko. Eu sinto muito...”

  She introduced Althea and Cronus then apologized for Viekko and... how did he know that? The words that Isra and the emissary traded back and forth were not ones that Viekko recognized. But, somehow, he knew what they meant.

  They weren't saying anything terribly interesting, just the pleasantries of diplomacy. Something along the lines of, ‘Our people look forward to the peaceful exchange of goods and ideas and love and probably horses as well. Our people want so very much to nestle within the bosom of your people and furiously motorboat…’ or whatever counted for diplomacy these days.

  As Isra and the emissary talked, Viekko's attention was drawn back to the high ranking military man. He kept watching Viekko, and the way he did it made it clear that he wasn't going to stop. Not until one of them was dead and, judging by the soldier’s glare, he had a preference as to whom it would be.

  Isra and Celia finished their conversation and the emissary stepped back. She opened her arms and in English exclaimed, “Welcome, friends, to City Cytherea!”

  Viekko glanced back at the high ranking soldier. He didn't feel particularly welcome.

  CHAPTER SIX

  And again, the absent president of Brazil was seen, by contemporary sources, as a joke. Proof that the Brazilian people, entranced by the irrational romance of Adriana’s story, could not be trusted with a democratic government.

  Meanwhile, nanotechnology had evolved to the point that recording devices smaller than a pin could be smuggled in and out of even the most secure corporate prisons. And their low price meant that thousands could make their way to and from the United States and Brazil.

  In that way, Adriana accomplished the impressive feat of ruling her country from inside a high security prison on foreign soil. Even more impressive, she managed to spearhead the first coordinated military action on United States soil since the World Wars of the mid-twentieth century.

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

  It was a kill zone, thought Viekko. The street leading into Cytherea was a kill zone, and they were walking right into the middle of it. For one, high walls built of white stone ran along either side of the road. From up there, the people walking below were as threatening as a target practice dummy, and they’d have a similar life span as well; there would be no getting away. The rough, cobblestone streets could cause a person in the grip of panic to lose their footing, and from there, they would be an easy target. There was no way to climb the walls. A routed army, stumbling and clawing at the sides would be at the mercy of the defenders. The streets would become a charnel house.

  Viekko pressed his hand against his jacket pocket and felt the gun in the holster against his ribs. It was a strange kind of comfort. They were all likely dead if the crowd turned ugly, but his weapons left a tiny but attractive window of uncertainty.

  And there was a crowd. By the look of it, their arrival was the biggest thing to happen in Cytherea since… well, ever. There was someone on every inch of the wall looking down at the procession. The noise was deafening. The emissary led the way dancing, shouting and clapping her hands like a flamboyant grand marshal in the weirdest parade the Universe had ever seen. Behind her, the Human Reconnection Project hesitantly waved at the crowd and, behind them, the Captain of the Guard and his troops marched in time. Upon the walls, the people cheered.

  It was a festive occasion, but Viekko couldn’t push fear out of his mind. Besides the high walls, archways leading to side-streets and stairs up to the city above had portcullises hanging above these potential exits; he imagined they could drop and make this thoroughfare into a one-way road in every sense of the phrase. On top of that, Viekko felt something sinister hidden behind those walls, although he couldn’t identify what.

  The Captain of the Guard must have been reading Viekko’s mind because he hurried to walk beside him. “This is the Via Maximilliano. Many invaders have attempted to sack the city of Cytherea. Only our greatest general was able to lead an army through this street. There is no escape from here. Consider it a fair warning, my friend.”

  The Captain spoke in the Cytherean language and, once again, Viekko found he could understand it. Viekko searched his brain for something to say but drew a blank. Whatever mechanism allowed him to understand Cytherean words didn’t work both ways.

  “Hey, Isra!” Viekko called over the cheering crowd. “That experimental language thing or whatever you did to my head?”

  “What about it?” Isra called back over her shoulder.

  “Somethin’s gone wrong. I can understand their language. I can listen to it and piece together words. Havin’ trouble speakin’ it, though.”

  “That is normal. The system is highly dependent on your language skills. Those that have a talent or developed the skill learn the language easier. You can understand it?”

  “Mostly, can’t speak it too good, though.”

  “I would count that as a miracle of science.”

  “So what’chu you sayin’? Are you fluent, Isra?”

  “More or less.”

  “Could you translate somethin’ to my friend here?” Viekko tilted his head to the Captain, still walking beside him.

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Kiss my ass.”

  Isra rolled her eyes and spoke to the Captain in Cytherean, “My friend, Viekko, says he means no harm to you or your people, and he remarks on the beauty of the city.”

  “That ain’t remotely close to what I said,” muttered Viekko.

  The Captain smiled, “It is well he says this. There is no fiercer soldier in the Universe than the Cytherean warrior defending his home. You would do well to keep this in mind during your visit.”

  “Okay, now can I tell him to kiss my ass?” Viekko asked.

  Althea, walking next to Isra, spoke over her shoulder. “What did he say?”

  Viekko paused. “You can’t understand ‘em?”

  Althea shot Isra a distressed look, but the group leader patted her on the shoulder. “Do not worry. The cerebral interface exploits connections already formed in the brain. Viekko learned a second language when he came to Earth, which created certain pathways that make it easier to learn another language. You will pick it up, just give it time.”

  Althea’s shoulders heaved as if taking a deep sigh, but that seemed to satisfy her for a time.

  Viekko’s attention turned back to th
e people watching them from the walls. They pointed, cheered and showered the procession with little bits of paper. Rocks and the arrows were probably within reach as well.

  Viekko took off his hat and wiped his forehead; it was the triple-T withdrawal, it had to be. There was no reason for him to feel this uncomfortable, this threatened. It was a celebration, after all. They were being brought into the city like conquering heroes, and the people came out to greet them. He locked eyes with a young woman hanging precariously from the wall. The wind waved through her jet black hair, and she gave him a smile that could shatter ice caps. He waved back and considered some of the upsides of this trip.

  There was another woman a few meters down. She wore a white dress similar to the emissary’s that also clung to her curves in a way that helped Viekko complete an enjoyable image in his own mind. She waved as the procession marched beneath her. Viekko waved his hat at her before replacing it.

  And another, and another. Viekko began to realize what was bothering him. It wasn’t just the emissary whose graceful dance ahead of the procession gave Viekko a slight limp in his step, or a few individuals waving at him from the walls. Every single one of them, every individual standing on the wall, could be a fashion model or make a fortune as a body-type in the Electric Bordello. Most of the people cheering the parade were women, but the few men he saw looked like they stepped right off the sculptor’s pedestal.

  “Cronus,” Viekko started, “have you noticed that every single woman here is absolutely smokin’…”

  Viekko didn’t bother to finish the sentence. Cronus, walking beside him, stared up at the walls like a starving man who has just been introduced to the concept of an all-you-can-eat buffet.

  Viekko refocused his attention on the soldiers marching in time behind him. Even behind their helmets, bronze breastplates, tunics and cloaks, there were faces and bodies that would have more than a few women on Earth indulging in fantasies involving Greek heroes. Even the Captain of the Guard with his older, rugged face complete with the scars of battle—and who still wouldn’t stop staring at Viekko out of the corner of his eye—wouldn’t be able to move on Earth without several women, and more than a few men, offering up accommodations for the night. Viekko looked back up at the walls. This concentration of beauty wasn’t natural. It was possible at the clubs in Rio where there were a lot of wealthy patrons and even more bouncers, but it wasn’t something that just happened. Viekko felt the unease creep back into his mind even as a stunning blonde winked at him from the top of the wall.

  The emissary turned mid-dance and yelled in her heavily accented English. “You are very popular. Many people come to see you arrive. You will have many friends in Cytherea!”

  ****

  The road passed under a magnificent stone archway and ended in the courtyard of a gleaming white castle on a hill. This wasn’t the crumbling mass of grey stone he occasionally saw during his travels in Old Europe; this was something out of a storybook. It sat at the base of a mountain with gentle slopes that rose into the clouds. A city of squat chalk-white buildings rose and fell on the hills that extended up the face of Maxwell Mons, almost to the top where the slope became too steep to build. The castle itself was constructed of the same stone but was so brightly polished that it was hard to look at it in the sunlight; a gleaming mass of spires, towers and high, white walls.

  The road led to a set of wooden doors that were lacquered and polished to the point that they gleamed almost as much as the castle itself. She stopped a few meters from the door and gestured at the white stone building looming in front of them, “This is the Sala Gran de Cytherea. The center of government and public life in our city. Our Rainha lives here. She is eager to meet with you. She will meet you in the garden. Follow me.”

  Celia beckoned them onto a gravel path that led around the side of the castle, where they passed under an arch of trained vines and into a world of color. Plants, trees, and shrubs of every conceivable size and type grew in this lush little corner of the world. There were flowers in vibrant reds and deep violets, as large as the bell of a trumpet; flowering trees showered the gravel paths with petals. The air was heavy with the scent of sweet fruit, nectar, and blossoms. Among the bright, green foliage, rows of stone statues carved of the same white rock dotted this little park. Viekko walked carefully, afraid to touch anything and spoil the cultivated perfection of this place.

  Celia stood underneath the arch and spoke in Cytherean. “I will summon the Rainha. Very happy to meet you all. Please,” she said, making an expansive gesture with her arms. “Enjoy the heroes of Cytherea.”

  The emissary turned and hurried away. Isra, Althea, Cronus, and Viekko each wandered in separate directions to examine this place. Viekko strolled down one path to get a good look at a particular statue. It was of a man who, at the time of carving, had been extremely angry about something; possibly something said about his mother. He wielded an axe over his head as if he was about to turn whatever had angered him into two much smaller problems. Viekko stopped circling the piece and just stared at the face carved in stone. The man’s mouth was open, baring his teeth. In some part of his brain, Viekko could hear the man’s cry as he charged into battle. Even in stone, the eyes reflected passion, drive, triumph, and other emotions that Viekko only recognized by rough description anymore.

  “Johano,” said a woman who appeared behind him without his noticing. She continued in the Cytherean language. “One of the greatest heroes of Cytherean lore. It is said that Johano was the first to unite the warring city-states of Cytherea against Corsario from beyond the walls.”

  Damn the Haze again. It was killing him. How long had he been just standing there, staring at the statue’s face?

  The woman smiled and continued, this time in English. “I am sorry. Did I startle you?” The woman spoke the language slower, as if not as familiar with the words but with less of an accent than the emissary.

  “Nah…” said Viekko. “Not… not really.”

  He had trouble even being that eloquent. If the emissary and women looking down at Viekko from the wall were beautiful, then this woman was nothing short of a goddess. She was clearly an older woman from the subtle lines in her face but, far from being flaws, they added to an air of confidence and strength that made Viekko a little unsteady on his legs. She had copper-colored hair that hung down past the small of her back, and she was dressed in a dark crimson tunic that added an ethereal grace to her every movement.

  “This is one of my favorites,” the woman continued in her own language. “Come with me. I will show you another.”

  Viekko followed. He doubted he could summon the physical will to disobey even if he wanted to.

  “This is Matheus and Alicia.” The woman stopped in front of a statue that featured a man and woman armed with long, curved swords. “I loved this couple’s story as a little girl. Alicia was the daughter of a tyrant king who held her against her will. She saw Matheus outside the walls of the Sala during the second Cytherean war, and they fell deeply in love.”

  “What happened?” Viekko asked.

  “He decapitated the tyrant king and presented his head to Alicia as a wedding present. It is a romantic story, I suppose.”

  “I’m gettin’ positively choked up,” said Viekko.

  The woman smiled. “Come. I have one more to show you.”

  By this time, Viekko noticed that the others had joined them as well. By the look on their faces, they seemed as perplexed by the woman as he was. And yet, they all followed her; caught in some kind of wake that they could neither define nor resist. She led them to a statue in the center of the courtyard depicting an older man who had a strange, serene look on his face, given the context. The other sculptures featured men and women who looked like they had to remind themselves to pillage before they burned, but this one had hints of wisdom. However, his hands rested on the handle of a sword, suggesting that he had other options if wisdom failed.

  “The founder of my house,” she said,
gesturing to the statue. “Maximilliano. He is the man who made Cytherean society what it is today. He was Captain of the Guard when the people rebelled against Rainha Jovita Matheus, and he showed the people that true freedom lies in obedience, loyalty, honor, and duty.”

  “How did he do that?” said Viekko.

  The woman turned and gave Isra a meaningful smile. “He went to the lands beyond the city and led the Corsario. Once he did that, he gave the people a choice. They could honor their duty to their Rainha and their city, or they could watch it burn around them.”

  “You must be the current Rainha,” said Isra. “Rainha Isabel?”

  “Rainha Isabel Maximilliano,” replied the woman, raising her hand with her elbow bent at a ninety-degree angle.