THIRTY-SEVEN

The Cathedral of the Cosmos hung in a geostationary orbit over the Earth’s North Pole, suggesting, depending on the observer’s attitude, either a local franchise of heaven or a crystalline spider.

Either way, good PR. Brooklyn shifted in the middle seat, sixth row of the shuttle. He was trapped between a tract-reading middle American on the aisle, and Milk playing true-believer on the window.

The new camouflage system he’d installed in the Victory had done its work, and the ship and its ad hoc crew were enjoying some downtime at his place in New Mexico, awaiting word from the extraction team. Brooklyn glanced at Milk, her features barely visible under the layer of Holy First-brand golden makeup she’d applied to her face.

A short documentary repeating on the bus’s overhead screens showcased the First’s destruction of a deadly meteorite headed for Manhattan back in the ’70s, the cure for AIDs in the early ’80s, the clean-air and clean-water efforts of the past twenty years, all the free advanced technology they’d offered, and the better home and new start awaiting humanity on Venus. It ended with a popular human scientist talking about his theory that the human genome might owe its very existence to a First seeding experiment millions of years before.

The seatbelt warning flipped on, and anyone not already in a seat moved away from the Earth-view windows to strap back in. A pair of Angels were on hand to help. Six feet tall and androgynous with brushed-gold skin and long white hair, their wings made it easy to move about in micro-gravity. The two on the bus wore simple white tunics denoting their rank.

“What’s with all the scaffolding?” Milk said.

“Can’t see it.”

Milk squeezed back in her seat so Brooklyn could lean over and peer out the window. The Cathedral was covered in a web of temporary supports and structures, the little flight pods the Builders used darting in and out.

He grunted. “Least we know where the Trolls went. No idea what they’re doin’ though.”

The bill of his baseball cap had hit the window when he leaned in and knocked the cap askew. Brooklyn adjusted it. He wasn’t the only one who’d donned a “First Coming” cap for the trip, but he mighta been the only one faking it. The Cardinal had worked hard to rebrand the First occupation as a religious crusade over the past decade or so, intimating that a move to Venus or Mars would be a great way to escape the Antichrist, who was due sometime in the early 2000s. Several thousand tour buses ran up to the temple each week for sightseeing and sermons (religious travel was so far exempt from ‘enhanced emigration protocols’), and many passengers wore the golden face paint that announced a true believer.

The tour bus sailed through the First field protecting the hanger from vacuum and parked alongside the dozens of others already in place. Brooklyn pulled his cap down low and followed the other passengers out.

“Freaky,” Milk said.

Brooklyn had hodged together a semblance of artificial gravity aboard the Victory using First and Jelly technology, but the Cathedral had the real thing. It was like stepping onto the surface of a planet. Brooklyn bounced on his heels a bit to try to measure it. Venus-level. He took a deep breath. There was a little too much oxygen in the air, giving every human aboard an energy and euphoria boost. He sniffed again. Maybe a dash of nitrous, too.

“Don’t breathe too deep,” he said.

“Not a problem.” The doctor was already wheezing a little from the short walk from the bus. She wasn’t the only one. The Cathedral had been designed to take visitors’ breath away, a vast transparent overhead dome providing a 360-degree view of the majesty of the stars. The little procession moved slowly, most of the walkers clutching at the rail as they went, fearing if they let go, they might fly into space.

The Angels led their flock away from the buses and into an interactive museum of First history, complete with artifacts from De Milo and a movie that showed a simulation of life on the surface of Venus as it had been long ago. A nice combination of fact and fiction, science and fantasy. There was even a life-sized exhibit of a First home populated by human mannequins and another video suggesting that genetic connection.

There was a lot of oohing and ahing going on. Hidden speakers piped in infrasound – bass notes so low humans couldn’t hear them – that induced a shivers-down-the-spine feeling. Brooklyn was fairly confident in Milk’s ability to resist, but he was pretty sure more of the tour group would be wearing golden makeup, available in the gift shop, by the time they left.

Stenciled on the wall was a line from the Christian Bible, the one about Ezekiel and the sky wheel he spotted.

There ya go. Proof. Brooklyn shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to look interested.

When the group lined up for the Cardinal’s sermon, Brooklyn patted Milk’s arm and slipped into the closest bathroom. He settled into a stall to wait, sipping from his flask and studying the map Andy had installed on his pocket-sized Martian flatscreen.

The button comm in his ear clicked twice, Milk’s signal that the sermon had started. Brooklyn left the stall and peered out the bathroom door.

Two Angels were waiting for him outside. Their tunics were red. Security.

“You here to help me find my group?” Brooklyn said.

“You will follow us,” the golden face on the right said.

“Where we goin’?”

The left-hand Angel took a turn at the intimidation game. “You will follow us.” Their hand floated to the baton on its hip.

“We recognized you as you arrived, of course.” The Archbishop’s office was lavish, with gold-trim everywhere in spite of the Cardinal’s rule that all existing supplies of the metal should go into circuitry for the evacuation ships. The desk, upon which was Brooklyn’s flask, watch, multitool, button comm, and pocket flatscreen, was made of some kind of dark wood.

Probably tell people it’s from Noah’s ark. It was too high to put his feet on, or he would have. “Hell didn’t you come down and say ‘hello’? Never really talked to one o’ you two-point-ohs.”

“We were curious what you would do.” The Archbishop’s fingers were tented on the desk. “It was remotely possible you were truly interested in conversion.”

Brooklyn scoffed. “Nothin’ to convert to anymore. Your bosses skipped town months ago.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“That so?” Brooklyn covered a fake yawn. “When’s the last time you heard from them?”

“The Divine First have many interests. They cannot be expected to focus on any one of them for long.”

“That’s right.” Brooklyn really wanted to put his feet on the desk. It would have projected just the right amount of insolence. “They got so much goin’ on they never actually came back here, did they?” He smirked. “Only skin they got in the game is yours. Now that they’re gone, what’s your play?”

“The Divine will return once we have made their planet suitable,” the Archbishop said. “Free of humanity and its leavings.”

“Sure.” He leaned back as far as the chair would allow. “Cardinal pulled those new emigration protocols out o’ their holy ass hoping it would make Mom and Dad love them again.”

“The Divine’s love is–”

“Or maybe it was a show of power. Keep us thinking the First was still in town so you cats could stay in charge.”

“I don’t need the Cardinal’s counsel to know what to do with you, Mr Lamontagne.” The Angel pushed a button on the desk. “Security, please.”

There was a muffled response.

“Why’d the First leave, anyway? Found a new planet to fuck over?”

“I have no interest in speaking further with a sinner and criminal.”

“Criminal?” Brooklyn said. “I just came for the tour.”

It was Archbishop’s turn to smirk. “As you’ve noticed, things have changed. You are guilty of returning to Earth after emigration. That would have earned you a simple deportation before the new protocols, but now I can treat myself to something more final.”

The office door slid open, and the red-clad Angels came back in.

“You also are a known associate of the so-called Designed Liberation Front. You should have kept your head down, Mr Lamontagne. Stayed quiet and rode it all out.” The Archbishop smiled. The Angels pulled the stun batons off their belts and shook them awake.

That ain’t good. Go, tiny robots! Go!

Brooklyn scissored forward to grab for his possessions on the desk and pushed off from the heavy piece of furniture like the gravity was nil and the action might actually get him somewhere.

It worked better than he’d hoped. He and the chair toppled backward, forcing the Angels to dance their feet and shins clear. He rolled and landed in a crouch brandishing his folded multitool at them. The little robots sped up his reaction time and processing speed enough to let him know how fucked he was. He knew a few moves but was not a skilled hand-to-hand combatant. Both Andy and Top had kicked his ass anytime he’d sparred with them, and the security Angels weren’t likely to be slouches, either. He rolled backward again, out the door the Angels had entered, scrambled to his feet, and ran like hell.

He shoved the comm back in his ear. “So far so good,” he sent. “Reckon I’ll need to get creative for a ride down.”

The flatscreen with the map was still on the Archbishop’s desk, but Brooklyn knew the general direction he needed to go. He dashed though a cross hallway, barely avoiding two groups of red-clad Angels trying to nab him in a coordinated squeeze play.

A security door was closing to the right. Brooklyn dropped and slid under the thing, clipping the top of his head a good one in the process. He rubbed at the pain through his baseball cap as he surveyed the space beyond.

Lab or sickroom. Do Angels get sick? Call it a lab. Don’t remember a lab on the fucking map.

He was already lost.

The pursuers would have the security door open in minutes or less. Three other doors led from the space, and getting each open would take time. He felt the little robots damping down his panic. At least his hands wouldn’t shake as the Angels beat him to a pulp.

The Purple Lady had urged him to trust the little machines.

He sighed. “Which way?”

A green dot swam up his retina and superimposed itself over the leftmost door.

Here goes stupid.