They called themselves the Sons of Man. Their new religion called for the perfection of life through genetic engineering. With wings, high intelligence, and other enhancements, they made their home above the clouds of Venus. While the Earth stagnated, they advanced. While humanity slept, they plotted domination. Would the Earth see peace, or would they see the cleansing light coming from above?
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Prologue
The surface of Venus, called Gehenna, was a fuming furnace capable of melting lead. Yet, the atmosphere being hospitable, the colonists lived above the clouds in a floating city, where the temperature and pressure were earthlike…
Its distance from the Sun was ideal for harvesting solar energy—not too hot and not too cold. The colony developed as a control center for solar relays built in orbit around Venus. These relays provided fifteen percent of Earth’s electricity by beaming energy to Earth…
With genetic engineering, they gave their progeny wings, smaller size, higher intelligence, and other enhancements…
– Malcolm Smith. A History of Venus.
Water poured from the crown of the nude marble likeness of the goddess, and the statue was clothed in a thin stream of water. The water pooled under her feet, into the shell she stood from, and lights from the pool cast patterns of rippling shadows on the nearby wall. Orchids filled the dining hall; white, yellow, and green, they matched the tricolor seal of Star’s Perch. Henry walked towards Prime Minister Gabriel Cygnus, who sat alone at the head of a great banquet table. Gold velvet hung from the ceiling behind him, attached to the sides of his seat, and the prime minister’s wings rested inside the cups of the cloth, such that his wingtips would never touch the ground.
It was inconceivable luxury for a space colony, Henry thought. Yet, the luxury of this parliamentary palace was surpassed by the Temple of Light, in the center of the city, public for all to enjoy, a place of stained glass windows and Renaissance artwork—heavy, fragile, useless things that had no business being transported in a spaceship. Gabriel Cygnus paid for it all himself. Bribery was lucrative, and so were solar relays.
“Come, Henry, let’s eat,” said Cygnus.
Henriker Erik was the defense minister and the older of the two, yet the prime minister spoke to him like a child. Only his mother ought to call him Henry, he thought, and only when no one else was around. Of course, he said nothing—safer to keep silent. He sat where the prime minister’s right hand gestured.
The socket implanted into the prime minister’s skull was connected by a cord to a computer. Not even Antonin Aploxy, the deputy prime minister, knew of this device. Besides making him super-intelligent, it could permanently damage his brain. Fortunately, the prime minister was not irreplaceable. In fact, Henry planned to replace him, preferably before the “elections” next year.
With just a few more years of research, Cygnus could live forever. His mind could be restored into a clone of himself after being uploaded to the computer. It was too bad, Henry thought, that the prime minister would not live long enough to see that. It would be one of those young, tragic deaths—how unfortunate! And unavoidable—if Henry’s ambitions were to be fulfilled.
Servants brought the first course. Henry had seen food like this before—in simulations. There was a decorative cracker interlaced with mint, a slice of white cheese full of holes, and a small flank of marbled ham. There was a highly viscous pasty substance in a small glass canister. A “spread,” no doubt. He should take his knife and spread the viscous pasty substance onto the cracker and then put the ham and cheese on top of that. But then what? Should he eat with his hands?
The prime minister caught his eye and then stabbed his own cracker with his fork and sliced it with his knife. Henry attempted the same, but his cracker crumbled into pieces. The prime minister burst into a high-pitched laugh—a distinct noise that began with a screech comparable to metal scraping against rails, followed by rhythmic chortles that sounded more akin to a computer’s bleeping than to any human or Venusian laughter.
“Enjoying the meal, Henry?”
Stop calling me that, Henry thought.
“Of course—it’s delicious, Mr. Prime Minister,” Henry said.
Henry looked up, and the prime minister was staring into his eyes. A lusty stare—deep, unmoving, unblinking, with a crooked smile. It was almost sexual.
Still connected to the prime minister’s brain, the mind-machine interface calculated things in a way no living being could. He was reading Henry—reading every tick of his face, every contraction of his muscles. Gabriel Cygnus knew. He knew everything.
“You don’t like me calling you Henry, do you, Henry?”
“What do you mean, Mr. Prime Minister?”
“I should call you Judas! Because I know you plan to betray me.”
Henry was too stunned to say anything at first.
“Do you think I’ll have you arrested, Judas? No, I’ll not even try to stop you.”
It took all of Henry’s concentration to keep his nerves steady and his mood cool.
“I’ve no such plans.”
Cygnus burst into a maniacal laugh.
“After you betray me, everything should be blamed on me. Are we clear?”
“Are you talking about—”
“Yes,” Cygnus interrupted. “The son of man must be crucified. Forsake me. Denounce me. Pretend like you were opposed to everything.”
It did make a certain amount of sense, when Henry considered the atrocities they would soon commit. They would need a sacrificial lamb, someone to give to the masses as penance for their crimes, so they could maintain power. The prime minister himself would be the only offering that would be accepted.
“You’re wrong about me,” Henry lied, “but if you wish me to play along with this charade—”
“I already know of the assassin you plan for me. One of the palace guards.”
“Who?”
The piercing stare returned; Cygnus leaned forward. But this time, Henry was telling the truth. He knew of no assassin; he only had vague plans.
“That must be someone else’s,” said Cygnus. “In any case, are the designs ready?”
Cygnus returned to eating his food as if they had been talking about nothing. Henry felt a chilly wave of relief flow over his whole body. For a moment, he even forgot the prime minister had asked him a question.
“The designs?”
“The attack plans.”
Henry cleared his throat. “The imperations are finished. You need only to give the command, and the computers will take care of the rest. The sequence of destruction needs only to be set in motion.”
“Good. Good.”
Henry picked around his food with his fork. He could hardly stomach it, despite the small fortune it had cost to bring over.
“It speaks to me, Henry. The Final Form.”
How could the Final Form possibly speak? It doesn’t exist yet…
“How?” asked Henry.
“Through the machine. It speaks to me through the machine.”
Nate's Science Fiction 