Templum Veneris

by Jeremy L. Jones

  Joana watched Cronus work. Her eyes fluttered around the room, and her lips moved as she tried to work out what that meant. “When you were here earlier,” she said, finally, “you did find me attractive? You wanted to love me?”

  “But I didn’t know how.”

  Joana stepped close to Cronus as he worked and leaned just slightly on his shoulder. “Maybe then, if your people succeed, I will provide instruction.”

  ****

  Viekko arrived with Althea at the Corsario Sala. It seemed crowded when he left two or three hours ago, but now it was nothing but a solid mass of people. They were packed shoulder to shoulder, almost vibrating with contained excitement. He heard Daphne calling his name from the front of the room and managed, with some effort, to move to where she was standing on the platform.

  “I assume you were able to gather soldiers from the other Corsario villages,” said Viekko shouting at Daphne over the din of the crowd.

  Daphne beamed back at him. “We sent word out as soon as you left. People started arriving within an hour. There are representatives from nearly all the villages. They wait for your orders.”

  Viekko nodded with approval. “That’s good; we’ll need the extra force.” Viekko held up the rolled up paper. “We have targets.”

  Alexandre pushed his way through the crowd to Viekko. “We sent word to our supporter in Cytherea. They said they would contact you. Was this done?”

  Viekko unrolled the map. “It was. We have seven targets. All in different parts of the city.”

  Alexandre examined the paper with suspicion. “Is that enough?”

  “It will have to be,” said Viekko, rolling up the paper. “Unless you got more friends inside Cytherea.”

  Althea watched the crowd with wild-eyed wonder. “Who are all of these people, Viekko?”

  It took Viekko a moment to remember that Althea still didn’t completely understand Cytherean. He gestured to the entire assembly. “This is our army.”

  “These people?” Althea looked around. “They look malnourished, weak, a good many of them are injured. Viekko are you sure about this?”

  “I’m sure that we ain’t got a whole mess of options at this point,” Viekko raised his hands and waited for the general chatter in the room to quiet down. He estimated he was looking into the eyes of a thousand people. He didn’t know what was going to happen, but he was fairly sure that Cytherea hadn’t seen anything like it in quite some time.

  When the room was quiet enough, he spoke loudly in Cytherean. “Thank you for coming. I think you all know why you’re here today. The people I see in front of me have been forced down the biggest river of shit ever seen by mankind up to this point. The people I see have fought every moment of their lives and watched people they love die, so they can scrape out one more wretched day of life. You’re Cytherea’s trash as far as they are concerned; something that needs to be thrown away to rot and be forgotten. I think it’s time the wind kicks up and the trash blows back into the streets!” The crowd cheered.

  Viekko waited until the crowd settled down and continued. “We’re going on a raid again today, but we aren’t walking away with a few bags of grain, olives, or fruit. We’re walking away with Cytherea itself. We’ve got seven targets. Farms near the wall. Alexandre will pick a leader for each group and divide you up. The plan is simple.” Viekko held up one of the handheld radios. “Each group will get one of these. The first group attacks and draws the Cythereans to their position. They fight as long as they can then withdraw back to the wall. At that moment, the second group starts their attack on the other side of the city. Once they fall back, the third group starts, and it goes like that. Our target is the Sala Gran in the center of Cytherea. The first group to make it there will move inside, take the Rainha and barricade the Sala. The other groups will arrive shortly. Do not hurt Isabel; we will need her when the remains of Cytherea’s army arrive. Once we have the Rainha and the Sala Gran, Cytherea will have no choice but to surrender to us.” The crowd cheered one more time. Viekko stepped off the stage as the Corsario fighters dispersed to their assigned attack groups.

  “Did you pick up any of that?” Viekko asked Althea.

  She shook her head. “I lost you after ‘thank you’.”

  “Huh, shame. Some pretty good work if I do say so myself. Well, there ain’t much to it. We got seven groups. When one withdraws, the next attacks and so on. We’ll keep the orders simple, and Alexandre will help. You listen for the word ‘recua’, it means retreat. You hear that, you order the next group to ‘ataca’, okay?”

  Viekko handed her a radio. She took it and repeated the words to herself. “Recua, ataca. Recua ataca… I think I got it. Wait, why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I’m leadin’ the first strike team,” said Viekko. Before Althea could object, he called out in Cytherean, “Group number one. Meet me outside the Sala. Group one, outside. Let’s go!”

  Viekko started to move back through the crowd, but Althea quickly pulled him back. “Don’t you dare, Viekko! Don’t you dare go back out there to get yourself killed.”

  “Thanks for your overwhelmin’ flood of faith. I’ll be fine, you just worry about what you got to do back here,” said Viekko, shaking free of her grip.

  “You are injured! Did you forget that? You could barely stand when you got to the shuttle. Now you’re going to fight against a group of soldiers that literally spend every moment of every day training? You’ll likely rip the dermal replacement, aggravate the wound, and possibly make it worse.”

  Viekko pulled a gun from the holster he wore over the Ministry Green shirt and checked to make sure it was loaded. “Fighting professional soldiers armed with swords and shields to be specific. They don’t even allow their warriors bows and arrows.”

  “But still…”

  Althea tried to continue her protest, but Viekko cut her off. “No use arguin’, okay? If that first group don’t hold or don’t hold long enough, the whole plan breaks down. I need to be there to make sure we draw as many of those Cytherean novsh to us as possible. Besides, it’s probably not me we should be worried about.”

  “Really? Who should we be worried about then?”

  “We need that transmitter on top of Maxwell Mons tuned to the right frequency for this to work and we are relying on the romantic skills of Cronus to accomplish that. I don’t know what state he and that Joana girl are in, but last I checked, it was on the rocks.”

  Viekko pulled a radio from his belt and hit the switch. “Cronus. Are we ready?”

  Viekko and Althea waited for a few seconds before Viekko tried again. “Cronus, are you there?”

  “What happens if he can’t get a relay working?” Concern crept into Althea’s voice.

  “We’ll have to learn to shout pretty loud, I think. Cronus!”

  The radio hissed, crackled and Cronus’ voice said, “The system is operational. We are ready!”

  “Good to hear. Standby.” Smiling, Viekko replaced the radio on his belt. “Well, if that ain't evidence of divine favor, I don’t know what is. I best get to my group.”

  He started to walk to the Sala exit when Althea called to him. “Viekko!” He turned around, and Althea stammered, “It’s just… I want you to know that...”

  Viekko smiled. “I know. Me, too.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  When the bombardment ended, Corporation troops swept across the nation. They encountered, according to reports, little to no resistance. That was not unexpected as the goal of the bombardment in the first place was to crush the Brazilian resistance that had stymied troops since the American war.

  Documents from the time suggest that the generals expected a wounded, starving population ready to be embraced by the newly formed Global Corporation. What they found, as one soldier described, was altogether different:

  “We entered Londrina today. Like every other city, there is nothing here but ruins and corpses. We are told that there is danger around every corner, lurki
ng in every dark space and hiding in every dense patch of foliage. But there is nothing alive here. The survivors, if there were any, long ago left this place for the scavengers and the spirits of the dead.”

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

  Viekko walked at the head of a division of Corsario up the steep mountain path to Cytherea’s Modesto Wall. He had commanded few poorly trained, ragtag militias in his lifetime, but nothing like this. Only about half of his men carried the lanca fogo and less than half of the remaining carried flaming torches. That left more than a quarter without any weapon besides their hands and teeth. The only armor they had were strips of cloth worn around the waist; the only equipment, small bags of metal balls and powder to reload their proto-guns. When they first set out, Viekko briefly tried to organize them into a military formation, but his charges resisted the notion. They weren’t marching into battle as much as arriving; under-equipped and untrained no less. It was amazing they fared as well as they did against the Cytherean army.

  Still, the mood among them was pure excitement. Viekko had, of course, never been on a Corsario raid, but he imagined them to be grim affairs. Going up against a nearly unstoppable enemy just to get enough food to survive didn’t seem like a cause worth celebrating. Now, they walked with a confident and purposeful gait and looked at the path ahead with the self-assured intensity of a warrior ready to fight a righteous battle. And maybe, for the first time in their lives, victory appeared to be a possibility.

  Viekko smiled to himself. Things were going to change for these people now and, by the fire in their eyes, they knew it.

  Once Viekko spied the ragged heaps of the Modesto Wall through the perpetual haze, he raised his hand to halt his troops. He pulled the radio transmitter that he clipped to his belt. “Althea, group one in position.”

  Althea radioed back. “Roger, Viekko. The last of the other groups just checked in. Attack whenever you are ready and be careful.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” he replied. “We’ll be drinking the last of the Rainha’s hydromel before the sun sets.”

  Viekko replaced the radio on his belt and ordered his men to advance.

  The Corsario moved forward at a speed somewhere between a jog and a full sprint and cleared the distance to the crumbling wall in a matter of minutes. Viekko called for a halt and climbed to the top to survey the area, expecting a wide open field of barley with workers tending to the crops. Instead, there was a division of Cytherean soldiers on patrol through the waist-high grass. It was only about half the men that normally went on patrol with Gabriel, but there wasn’t supposed to be any at all.

  Viekko fell back behind the wall and cursed. He had hoped to get close to the city and catch a patrol off guard. Still, this situation had an advantage as well. One division would be tied up in battle, and more would soon be on their way.

  Viekko ordered his men to climb over the wall and form a line on the other side. Seeing the raiders encroaching on their land, the Cytherean warriors formed a wall with their shields, ready to deflect the first volley of projectiles. Viekko almost laughed as the last raiders got into position. The way both sides moved, it was as if the battle had been choreographed ahead of time. It reminded Viekko of childhood games where one group of boys always got to be the ‘good guys’ and win against the ‘bad guys'. Those boys hated it when Viekko played. The bad guys always won.

  The raiders lined up and aimed their lanca fogo.

  Viekko shouted, “Dispa!” and the air filled with the boom of exploding powder followed by the metallic clang as the bullets impacted shields and armor. A few soldiers fell to the ground, but most shrugged it off and started to advance.

  It was time for the new element. Viekko pulled his guns from their holsters and aimed at the advancing line of Cythereans. His first shot hit a soldier right in the head, and he fell in a cloud of pink mist. The second shot hit another Cytherean just below his breastplate who fell screaming until a third bullet just below the neck silenced him.

  Viekko’s surprise attack had its desired effect almost instantaneously. Some of the Cytherean soldiers stopped charging and raised their shields in defense. Others, either absorbed in the rush of battle or sheer idiot bravery, continued to charge forward. Viekko picked these off with ease, contributing to the panic rising in the enemy ranks. By the time Viekko emptied his last clip, the Cytherean line was in complete disarray, and the raiders were reloaded and ready to fire.

  Viekko ducked behind the line and, again, shouted “Dispa!”

  This time, without the combined protection of a shield wall, over half the Cytherean soldiers fell. Viekko dropped the clips from his guns, slammed two more in their place and called for a charge. The Corsario ran with the barbed tips of their lanca fogo raised. They yelled battle cries as they slammed into the remains of the small Cytherean division.

  Viekko hung back, picking off a few soldiers with his guns, but he only got a few shots off before the battle was over. The Cythereans, now outnumbered and scattered, turned to retreat after a few short seconds. The Corsario raised a cheer as the last of the survivors ran away, tripping through the high stalks of barley.

  And that was it. It was not the end of the war, far from it. It was the measly first blow in a fight that was going to last several rounds, but it was a blow that had bloodied the nose of their enemy. The raider army was already beginning their jubilant celebration, waving their weapons in the air and shouting taunts to the last of the retreating soldiers. Viekko’s first instinct was to bring the men to attention and restore discipline, but as he got close to the celebrations, he decided to let them continue. These men had probably never seen a military victory from this side. Besides, if the cheers of triumph brought more Cythereans down on them, they could tie them up in battle while the other Corsario groups took the city. He would let them have their celebration for a little while.

  Viekko made his way through the crowd clasping a few on the shoulder as he walked. Here, in the middle of the celebration, he felt that same sense of belonging he previously felt at the Cytherean Sala. It was a welcome comfort after the rush of battle, but it didn’t last long. Something on a nearby hill caught his eye, and he moved back out of the crowd for a better look. A lone Cytherean, holding his crusted helmet under his arm, watched the celebration. It took a moment to recognize Gabriel. He was too far away to be sure, but Viekko swore he saw a smile on his face.

  He started to wonder how long Gabriel had been there and if he had seen the battle. Before he could come to any kind of conclusion, Gabriel’s order, ‘Avancar!’ echoed across the fields and a platoon of soldiers started cresting the hill.

  Just once, Viekko thought to himself, loading his weapons again. Just once why can’t something that seems easy actually be easy? He turned back to his men and yelled. “More of them! Form up! Form up!”

  The Corsario scattered and formed a line facing the oncoming Cytherean army. They raised their lanca fogo and waited for the soldiers to march into range. Viekko drew his guns. It was like a damn script.

  Once the Cythereans were close enough, Viekko ordered his warriors to fire. Again, there was an ear-splitting explosion and a volley of shots. And, again, the attack had almost no effect. Viekko popped up and got ready to hold the Cytherean charge while the Corsario reloaded.

  Except the charge didn’t come. The Cythereans advanced with their shields up and spears forward like a moving spiked wall. Viekko aimed at a soldier’s head and fired.

  It was a kill shot but, as soon as the soldier fell, another stepped forward to take his place in the shield wall. Viekko fired again with his other gun. The shot was poorly aimed, and it ricocheted off a soldier’s shield. He fired again, wounding one above the hip. That soldier disappeared into the line and was replaced with another.

  Viekko fired again, and again, each shot getting more erratic and desperate, but even the few that he killed or wounded didn’t have any effect. They weren’t bre
aking like they did before. He remembered Gabriel watching from the hill with that sly little smile. He had been watching the entire time and instructed his troops. In the time it took for Viekko to rewrite the script for Cytherean warfare, Gabriel had already added his own edits.

  The Cytherean line crept forward slowly enough that the Corsario were able to reload for another shot, but this attack, like the last, did almost nothing to the advancing line. A couple fell, but the holes filled in without a single misstep. It was like firing guns into a tidal wave of molasses. Before the Corsario could reload, the Cythereans were close enough for the melee to begin.