The Atlantis World (The Origin Mystery, Book 3) (29 page)

In truth, Isis had found Janus’ proposal fascinating. It was the opportunity of a lifetime; that much was true. But turning her back on the equality debate that raged on their world was unconscionable to her.

She thought about her speech the next day—the research she would present that she hoped would turn the tide in the great debate, altering the course of their society. The stakes were high, and she could already feel her nerves as she exited the building onto the skyway. She loved moving between the buildings at night. The glass corridors gave the sense of flying over the city, and sometimes she couldn’t help but stare out as she walked.

In the distance, a plume of fire rose, and a split-second later, a building sank, then another. Skyways in the distance released, and the web of walkways seemed to ripple as the cascade of explosions rolled toward her like a wave. The ground loomed over a thousand feet below her.

She glanced between the entrance and exit. She was closer to the end, and she bound toward it, her feet pounding the floor. The building ahead shook, and the walkway swayed, the floor cracked, and tiles from the ceiling rained down.

She held her arms up, covering her head as she cleared the skyway. The building’s lifts were inoperable, and Isis crammed into the stairwells, flowing with the masses trying desperately to escape.

At the bottom floor, masked, armed troops corralled them into a dark holding area, occasionally shouting for them to move faster and pushing anyone who got out of line.

When the trickle of people ended, one of their captors stepped forward and said, “You are no longer citizens. You are no longer members of the elite who perpetuate the intellectual feudalism that has oppressed us for thousands of years. You are instruments; tools of the revolution. You will be given a number. You are now a hostage of the equality movement.”

C
HAPTER
40

For the last three hours, Ares had been touring the hospital, talking with the citizens undergoing treatment for burns, broken bones, and shrapnel wounds. The small facility was overwhelmed. The halls were chaotic, with people darting in all directions. Ares was a beacon of calm in the storm. Seeing the carnage readied him for what he had to do, confirmed he was making the right choice.

A staffer led him out of the main hospital into an adjacent building, which had been used as office space but now served as a makeshift psychological hospital.

The citizens in every room looked the same to Ares: vegetables.

“They’re suffering from resurrection syndrome,” the doctor said.

Ares had never heard of the condition. His tour guide read his expression.

“It was never diagnosed in your time. Possibly never even seen. Mentally, the patient is unable to cope with life after resurrection, or more specifically, their brains are unable to integrate certain memories, in this case, those of their violent death. The syndrome has become more prevalent as our lifestyle has changed. We think the shifting emotional range of our citizenry is partly to blame. Repeated resurrection is also a risk factor. Some of these patients died in the first wave of terror attacks with no symptoms or a very mild case of resurrection syndrome. This time around, they’ve been reborn in almost a catatonic state. Either way, this could become a pandemic in itself.”

Ares nodded, wondering if, in another few thousand years, any of his people would be able to survive resurrection.

Ares’ ear piece activated, and his second in command said, “Sir, we have a new development. The terrorists have taken hostages.”

Ares smiled.
Now we’re getting somewhere.

Isis was scared, but not nearly as frightened as the people around her.
This will turn the whole world against the labor faction
, she thought. This would truly be the end of the revolt, the last straw that steeled the citizenry to take drastic action. Isis could only imagine what that action would be. She pushed the scenarios out of her mind as she stepped forward in the line.

“Your number is 29383,” the man said. “What is your number?”

“29383,” Isis answered.

Beyond the line, two men were arguing.

“You’ve dug our grave.”

“I’ve saved us, Lykos. I’ve done what you didn’t have the guts to do.”

The other man, Lykos, caught Isis’ eye. He stopped, as if he had recognized her.

The masked man issuing numbers motioned for the next person in line and said to Isis, “Move on, 29383.”

Isis shuffled forward, joining the group in front of her, but Lykos stopped her, pulling her over to join the other man he’d been arguing with. “This is what I’m talking about,” he said, pointing to her. “Do you know who this is?”

“Of course. A hostage. What’s your number, hostage?”

Isis opened her mouth, but Lykos cut her off. “Don’t answer that. Her name is Dr. Triteia Isis. She’s an evolutionary geneticist—”

Lykos’ adversary raised his hands. “Forgive me, I don’t know too many evolutionary geneticists—”

“She’s created a genetic therapy that would enable our people to do anything the intellectuals can.”

The rebel leader paused, and Lykos continued. “She’s presenting her research to the full forum tomorrow, or she had planned to before we took her hostage. She was a supporter of our cause.” Lykos focused on her. “And I hope she still will be, and that she accepts our apology for the barbaric methods of some members of our cause.” He waited for her response.

“I… am. I do.”

“Now we’re going to release you,” Lykos said. “And I hope you’ll still give that speech tomorrow.”

Isis nodded. “I will.”

Lykos led her away.

The other man called to them, “If they listen, it’s because of what we did here.”

Lykos led her through the corridors, not speaking to the guards who simply nodded and let him pass. When they were alone outside the building, past the last checkpoint, he said, “I’m very sorry for what happened to you. We’ve lost control of the situation. Please tell them that, whether you give your presentation or not. Something has to be done. These methods only represent a minority of our people. We’re ready to make whatever sacrifices we need to.”

The council was in full panic now, and that pleased Ares greatly. He had them right where he wanted them.

Nomos was speaking, and Ares sat at the head of the table, barely listening.

“The revolutionaries are running all over that army of yours.”

“They can’t fight,” another councilman said.

“Quite right,” Ares answered, standing.

“What’s your solution, General?” a woman asked.

“You’ll hear it tomorrow in the forum.”

Another council member slammed his fist into the conference table. “I want to hear it now. We might not make it to tomorrow. All options, ladies and gentlemen. Can we create a pathogen that would only target labor? Cut our losses and have the sentinels bombard the occupied zones?”

The room erupted in shouting. Ares slipped out the door. Strangely, the night before he knew the battle would begin, he slept well.

C
HAPTER
41

In the forum the following day, Ares sat in the chairman’s box and watched silently as speaker after speaker took the central stage and shouted at the three thousand attendees in the auditorium and the tens of billions around the world watching. This was the moment every politician had always dreamed of: the issue that would shape generations to come. A single vote that would ensure that they were remembered, that their pitiful name and face would be put down in the history logs, immortalized. They scrambled for the spotlight, practically tripping over each other, grasping desperately for every second of fame. Half the time was spent arguing about time itself—how much the current speaker had left, how much the previous speaker had run over, and how much would be allotted to the current time-waster. The spectacle left no doubt about why compromise had broken down.

But the urgency of the situation had inspired attention on all sides, and from many, radical solutions.

The debate raged all day, and still Ares stayed silent. He wanted his solution to be the last presented. It would be the final solution.

At the opening of the evening session, a scientist took the podium. She had been scheduled for earlier in the day but had never shown. The council had counted her among the many labor advocates who had backed out in light of yesterday’s escalation of violence, but the scientist, Isis, had apparently had a change of heart. Several representatives had yielded their time to her, and she used that time to describe a global research project, which had sequenced the genomes of every Atlantean. Isis detailed how she had isolated the genes that powered evolution, setting the Atlantean species apart from the other hominid genome samples that had been collected by Ares’ own expeditionary fleet during what had become known as the age of exploration, before the fall of their first homeworld.

Isis insisted that this basic Atlantis Gene could be manipulated to bring all Atlanteans to a state of cognitive equality. Her proposal came down to a simple genetic therapy, and to Ares’ dismay, the representatives in the forum began rallying around it.

Ares rose and approached the lectern in his box. All the other voices faded, and the light on his microphone turned green. It felt as though the lights had dimmed, that it was only him and Isis below, standing on the stage. The DNA diagram filled the massive screen behind her, and seeing it steeled Ares, convinced him he was right.

“What you’re describing would be a cataclysm,” Ares said. “A singularity. We know of only one world, one race who ever pursued such an endeavor. All that’s left of them is a great serpent that seeks to circle the universe and strangle every last human life to death.”

“We can control this. We’re talking about a slight modification,” Isis said.

“Then what? Even if you succeed, there will always be some people who are smarter than others. There will always be some who can run faster than others. Some more attractive than their neighbors. To whom will you deny genetic equality? Who will decide it? Who will make the final decision about whether I’m genetically inferior and need to be fixed? Perhaps when I wake up in another ten thousand years, I will require an update, but I want to remain the way I am. What are my genetic rights?”

“My solution is voluntary.”

The auditorium erupted, and Ares smiled. He had cornered her. These people wanted the issue dealt with permanently. A voluntary solution for some people felt like kicking the can down the road, delaying the inevitable.

“My solution is not voluntary,” Ares said.

Shouts went up from boxes and balconies across the hall, people yelling in unison into disabled microphones, “What is your solution?”

“I brought our people to this world. With the other founders of the exodus, I set forth our dream of one people on one world, stretching into eternity. The anti-Serpentine laws were written to protect us from ourselves, and they cannot be broken. Must not.” Ares ignored the smattering of voices. “But our dream of one people on one world cannot be realized in peace. And I refuse to see a war within our own people. I won’t fight it, and it’s clear to me that no one else can. Ours will become a tale of two worlds. We have the means to solve our strife tomorrow, to give equality and opportunity to every citizen. The fleet of ships we built in the years after the exodus still exists. They are science ships and transports and mining vessels. As you know, we mapped every world within the new sentinel line. There are many that can become the new home of the labor class. They can create their own world there, so long as they adhere to the Serpentine Restrictions. We cannot allow them to become a danger to themselves or us.”

Questions came quickly and so did Ares’ answers. The mining ships could be configured for terraforming, transforming the new world into a haven, free of natural disasters and safe from cosmic dangers. The transport ships that carried the staff and parts to the sentinel assembly line would take the colonists to their new world. The debate quickly devolved into how to label the exiting Atlanteans, with one contingent insisting that “exiles” was the correct term since it was a forced removal. The term separatists was entertained but deemed too confrontational. Finally colonists was ratified, though the rules made it clear that one of the conditions the colonists adhere to would be the Serpentine Restriction of never leaving their world for exploration or colonization.