Templum Veneris

by Jeremy L. Jones

  Viekko’s men got to their feet and charged. They used their barbed bayonets to stab into the line, they used the butt of their guns as bludgeoning weapons, those carrying flaming torches swung them at the shield wall, but it all was a meager attempt. Even with Viekko picking off a few soldiers when he could, his army couldn’t make a dent in the line. It was time to call a retreat.

  Viekko reloaded and gave the order. “Recua!” His men turned to run, and Viekko unloaded a spray of bullets to buy them a few precious seconds before charging back toward the wall with his men. He pulled the radio from his belt and yelled in it, “Group one calling a retreat.”

  Althea answered back. “Okay Viekko, get yourself out of there. Grupo dois, ataca!”

  Viekko ran until the wounds on his chest stung, and his legs felt like they were burning from the inside out. He scrambled over the wall and, for the first time since he gave the order, looked back. The Cytherean soldiers didn’t give chase but stayed in their line, moving toward the wall at the same slow, steady pace. As the last of his surviving force made it over, he smiled to himself. His division had taken heavy losses, but they had managed to draw a formidable enemy from the field. Gabriel might have been ready to deal with Viekko’s tactics, but there was no way he would be prepared for what was about to come.

  But as he watched the Cythereans move forward, unease crept over him. There was something wrong, something besides the fact that Gabriel seemed to know exactly when and how he would attack. He listened to the wind through the barley, and the footsteps of the Cythereans moving toward him and realized what it was. There were no alarm bells. No indication that Cytherea was moving any more divisions to deal with Viekko and his Corsario.

  He unclipped his radio and listened for the progress of the other divisions. Alexandre, the leader of the second group, called for a charge. Viekko risked another look over the wall. Gabriel still advanced at the same steady pace.

  And then, just a few minutes after Alexandre called for the attack, he ordered a retreat.

  “Grupo tres,” yelled Althea. “Ataca!”

  Viekko poked his head up again. The Cytherean line stopped a few hundred feet from the wall. They didn’t look interested in pursuing or ending the attack; they just stood and made it clear that they weren’t moving while Viekko’s force was nearby.

  The leader of the third group called for a retreat.

  Althea ordered the fourth group into the field.

  This wasn’t right, Viekko realized. Every division was running headlong into Cytherean forces and retreating far too quickly. By now, the over-extended and completely unprepared Cytherean army should be breaking. Corsario divisions should be marching into what would seem like a completely undefended city. They would encounter resistance eventually, but not this fast and not this hard. It was clear the Cythereans knew exactly where and how the raiders were going to attack.

  Viekko looked back at Gabriel’s men standing at attention in the field. The Captain of the Guard was in front of the line now, and he was close enough that Viekko made eye contact with him. He could see the serene, knowing smile on his face clearly. It was the look of a man who already knew the outcome of the battle but was just waiting for the defeat to make it official.

  The fourth group called for a retreat.

  “Grupo cinco,” Althea started, somewhat desperately.

  Viekko raised the radio. “Wait. Wait. Espera! Nao ataque. Althea, hold the attacks!”

  “What is it, Viekko? What’s wrong?” replied Althea, in a slightly panicked voice.

  “It’s a bust. Funcao termino! Recua! Pull back! They knew we were comin’!”

  ****

  Isra sat with her back to a damp stone wall, holding her hand out in front of her face. She brought it closer and farther away to get a sense of a world with no depth perception. She sighed and let her head rest against the wall. Not that it mattered. Best case scenario at this point, the Rainha would kill her quickly. Worst case, she imagined a life as just another slave in the brown robes; just another anonymous oculto. Even if she could escape, there was nowhere to go. On Venus, there was only Cytherea. She imagined, when word of this disaster got out, nobody from Earth would be in a hurry to return here.

  Stone walls formed three sides of her small cell with a barred wall and door forming the forth. After some length of time, another oculto approached her door and unlocked it. Isra pulled herself in tighter and pressed hard against the cool stonework. The oculto opened the door carrying a dull grey metal tray sitting on top of a folded brown robe. On top of that, there were several strips of white linen as well as an unidentified jar that Isra eyed with suspicion.

  The servant closed the door most of the way, although not enough to lock. He walked to Isra, knelt in front of her, and placed the robes and the tray on the ground next to him. Once he did, he pulled his hood off. For the briefest of moments, Isra felt a spark of hope. She recognized the same man that had passed her the note in the Sala before she went to see the Rainha. Then she remembered the truth about Cytherea. Nothing moved without the Rainha’s knowledge. Nobody acted without her permission.

  The oculto took the jar from the tray and reached out to touch her face. Isra turned her head away. “I’m not here to harm you. I must examine the wound,” he said in a soothing tone.

  Isra swallowed hard but let him undo the bandage around her head that covered her eye. He didn’t react to her injury in any way. There was no disgust or shock or even curiosity. Of course, he had suffered the same at the hands of the Rainha before, so it made sense.

  He opened the jar and dipped his fingers in the greenish paste and reached out to spread it on her injured eye. She flinched and winced when he made contact but the balm, whatever it was, had a numbing, cooling effect that brought some measure of relief.

  “I am sorry,” he whispered.

  Isra couldn’t stop a tear forming in her good eye. Especially now that she realized she had a good eye. “Are you part of the Rainha’s plan too?” she whispered back.

  The man took another bit of balm from the jar and reached out to apply it to Isra’s eye. “Would you believe me if I said no?”

  “I would not. Not anymore.”

  “Many years ago,” the man said, spreading more medicine over the burn, “myself and a few other soldiers gathered together. Among them was a squad leader who spoke of a time when weak leaders were overthrown and replaced. He convinced us that the Rainha’s time was ending and that it was time for another. One who would stop the Corsario raids and bring new life to Cytherea. Those of us that joined him would live as kings in a new golden age. It was only later, after my eye was taken and I wore the brown, that I learned that the Rainha had sent the man to discover traitors inside her army.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” whispered Isra.

  The oculto replaced the lid on the jar and took a fresh bandage from the tray. “It was the first time the Rainha resorted to such an act. The first time she saw fit to remove a warrior’s ability by taking his eye. There were five of us that day. She set the same trap some years later and found fifteen. When she attempted the ploy once more, she found thirty-six.

  “The Rainha is losing control,” she whispered. She flinched as he applied the bandage. “Fear can only do so much.”

  “It can accomplish more than you think,” whispered the oculto, tying the bandage securely to Isra’s head. “Those who would consider major acts of rebellion are found and punished. This discourages others who would do the same. It is why Isabel remains the Rainha.”

  He picked up the metal tray and exited the cell, pulling the barred door closed behind him until it shut and locked with a loud metallic clunk.

  He whispered one more time at Isra through the bars. “But those who would commit small acts of rebellion are not deterred. They are emboldened. Especially when they have nothing left to take.”

  With that, he turned and rushed away. Isra thought about the man’s cryptic message. After a while, s
he crept forward to the brown robe that he had left behind in the cell. It was, as she assumed, one of the brown oculto robes. One that she would presumably be forced to wear for the rest of her time on Venus.

  Which, thankfully, would not be much longer, Isra noted. Before any passing guard or prisoner caught a glimpse of what the man left for her, she reached forward and snatched the key from the ground.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  On September 19th, 2107, the Brazilian wars ended with the surrender of Brasilia. The once proud capital of Brazil was now surrounded by miles of refugee camps where a starving, demoralized population threw down their arms and agreed to submit to Corporate rule.

  Inside the city, the presidential palace had long been deserted. Diana Adriana was never seen again. The date of her death is unknown, as is her final resting place. Perhaps not since Genghis Khan, has such a singular figure in world history disappeared without a clue as to their fate.

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

  The shuttle parked outside the Cytherean city gates became a convenient rally point for the remains of the Corsario forces. As the soldiers streamed in, it appeared that all life had been drained from them. They trudged forward as if each step required all of their remaining strength. When they arrived at the shuttle, many just collapsed. Others stood and stared into the middle distance. They had all given everything they had in that raid and it was clear to Viekko that there was nothing left.

  Althea moved among them, doing what she could for the injured; sewing up gaping wounds, applying antibiotics and painkillers, but no matter how fast she worked, she couldn’t keep up with the influx of human misery making its way to the shuttle.

  Those that still stood on their feet milled around like animated corpses. Viekko knew that this was his fault. He’d given them hope for the first time in… well, probably ever. Hope was a strong drug and its crash made triple-T look like the end of a sugar rush. Walking among the growing group of warriors, he thanked them in their native language, tried to tell them that the fight was not over, to be strong, and ready themselves for the next battle. A few looked up at him and smiled, but most just glared; their expressions said all that was needed.

  “We trusted you.”

  “You betrayed us.”

  “You led us to die.”

  His eyes scanned the crowd for Daphne’s hard-lined face and gentle eyes but she was nowhere to be seen. After that disaster, who could blame her? A disturbance in the crowd, which parted, revealed Alexandre marching toward him, fist raised, his face flushed red with rage. Viekko didn’t raise a hand to defend himself. He just closed his eyes and braced himself for what he knew was coming. The crack across his jaw hurt, but not nearly as much Alexandre probably meant it to. Looking at his fragile frame, Viekko wondered if he should have staggered back or fallen to the ground just to make the man feel better. As it was, he just stared into Alexandre’s eyes that were red with rage, hatred, and betrayal.

  Alexandre spat at Viekko’s feet. “They knew we were coming. People died for nothing.”

  “I didn’t know,” said Viekko plainly.

  Alexandre raised his fist as if to hit him again and then he stopped. Viekko watched all the energy drain from his body at once and he looked at him with his sunken eyes. “What now, Viekko?”

  Viekko swallowed hard. There was only one thing to do. He couldn’t lead this army against the Cythereans. At least a quarter were dead and another quarter wounded. The rest would never follow him again. With Isra and Cronus still in the city, there was really only one question left. How much longer could he fight? How many times could he personally put his own life at risk? He looked back at Althea. How many times could he put her life at risk?

  He opened his mouth to mutter some useless platitude but stopped when he noticed a lone figure approaching from the direction of the city gates. Viekko left Alexandre hanging and pushed through the crowd, keeping a grip on one of his guns, as he watched the oculto draw nearer.

  Viekko gritted his teeth, drew his gun and marched forward across the hard, cracked rock. His own rage reached a breaking point. He had not betrayed these men. He had been betrayed and the person responsible, or their lackey, was dumb enough to return. Viekko raised his gun and yelled in Cytherean, “The Rainha knew about our plan all along! She knew we were coming. She knew where we intended to attack and how!”

  The oculto brushed off her hood and Viekko nearly choked as his rage changed to shock and fear. He stood with his mouth open for several seconds before he even had the presence of mind to lower his weapon.

  “Of course she knew, you idiot,” said Isra flatly.

  Althea came running from somewhere within the crowd. “Oh, Jayzus, Isra! What happened?” She reached for the bandage that covered her eye. “What did they…”

  Isra brushed her hand away. “It is nothing.”

  Althea reached for the bandage again. “You need to let me see it. There might be…”

  Isra brushed her hand away again. “There is nothing you can do about it now.” As she walked into the crowd of soldiers, they parted in front of her. They looked at the bandage that covered half her face and they knew the horrors she had witnessed. In a way, Viekko sensed a certain reverence from these people for it. It was a show of unity and camaraderie that only those who had peered into the darkest depths of human cruelty, and lived to tell about it, could know or understand.

  “They look like hell,” said Isra.

  Viekko looked around at the Corsario watching them. “Well, they saw it pretty close up.”

  “I was hoping that you would not have failed so spectacularly,” she said, examining exhausted remains of the raider forces. “That will make taking the city now more difficult.”

  “Taking the…” Viekko started. “Isra, there’s no gettin’ into the city with this army, never mind takin it. They’ve got patrols everywhere and they knew…”

  “Cronus is still there,” Isra said, without a trace of irony. “Do you intend to leave him?”

  They reached a spot near the shuttle and Viekko turned to look at the remains of the Corsario army again. “Well, no. To be honest, I figured gettin' at Cronus would be pretty easy, all things considered. It was you I was worried about. But now that you got out…”

  “What about the Rainha?” she interrupted. “Do you intend to leave her in power? Let her continue to kill, maim or enslave whoever she sees fit?”

  Viekko ran his hand down the length of his queue. “Well, yeah, actually. I figured that’s what you would want…”

  Whatever he was about to say died in his mouth as Isra looked at him with her one remaining eye. It somehow still had the same ability to cut through him as it did when there were two of them. Maybe even more so.

  Althea spoke up, “We thought that it was time to abandon the mission and get away from this horrid place while we still have the means and ability to do so.”

  “We are abandoning the mission, Althea,” Isra replied, “but we are not leaving.”

  “What exactly are you wantin’ to do?” Viekko watched as the crowd of raiders assembled into an audience standing in a half-circle, all focused on Isra. “You wanna lead another charge against the Cytherean lines? Even if we got all these folk to attack at once, we might break one division. But more would come. We can’t get inside the city.”

  “And even if we could,” Althea added, looking desperately at a group of wounded lying on the ground by the shuttle. “What would be the point of that? The Cythereans would overrun them in a matter of minutes.”

  Isra stepped forward and touched her on the shoulder. “Tend to the wounded, Althea. And please trust me.”

  Althea made a motion like she wanted to look at Isra’s eye under the bandage again but stopped, “If you’re sure…”

  “It is fine,” Isra’s voice was as dense as iron. “Tend to them,” she nodded at the group of injured.

  Viekko watched her give Isr
a one more pleading look and then she went to do what she could for the wounded.

  “What exactly is your plan then?” asked Viekko, watching her go.

  “We will enter through the Via Maximilliano,” said Isra.

  “The main street into the city! Isra, whoever designed that road had one thing in mind. Kill a lot of soldiers before they get anywhere close to the Sala. They can stand up on those walls and…”

  “What exactly?” she snapped. “Have you ever seen a Cytherean soldier use a gun like the Corsario? Or a bow and arrow or any projectile weapon? Anything besides the slings they use to simulate Corsario attacks?”

  Viekko remembered Gabriel at the Modesto Wall. He touched one of his guns remembering what he had told him. “Nah, they don’t believe in ‘em. Takes away from the honor of battle.”