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.
When the major questions were answered, and the debate descended into small details, like which districts would be evacuated first and what each person would be allowed to bring, Ares slipped away.
“I’ll leave the vote to you,” he said to Nomos.
They awoke him in the middle of the night, which Ares felt was ironic for someone they let sleep through a ten-thousand-year period in which they had thoroughly ruined his planet.
“We’re close on the vote,” Nomos said. “We need a compromise. A large voting bloc wants to ease the exploration restrictions. They request use of some of the science ships for deep space exploration.”
“To what end?”
“They’re calling it The Origin Project. Just a simple study of primitive hominids.”
Ares turned the idea over. It could be problematic. “Okay. Two conditions. One: there are military beacons orbiting some worlds. They can’t go near them. They perish if they do. Second: they only get one ship. We can’t risk having hundreds of ships parading around the galaxy.”
They again woke Ares several hours later. The second exodus, what was called the Atlantean Equality Act, had been formally approved by a narrow margin.
CHAPTER 42
The day the Exile Order was signed was the worst in Isis’ thirty five years. In her mind, she debated how she might have been more persuasive, presented the data differently, how she might have bested Ares in the forum.
Around her, the world changed and not for the better. In the aftermath of the vote, the greatest fear had been retribution from the labor population, but none had come, at least not against the intellectuals. Ares’ strategy had been sound. The leaders of the labor revolution promptly released their hostages and actually turned their focus inward, persecuting any laborers who protested the forced relocation. Their methods were brutal and the news coverage relentless. Political leaders ignored it. A small group of intellectuals continued their protests, holding out hope for a single society. The voices mostly came from citizens in cities that hadn’t been touched by the riots or terrorists blasts. The victims who had lived through the carnage counted the days until the exile in silence.
A week after the vote, Lykos had visited Isis at her lab, and to her surprise, thanked her. They had seen each other regularly after that, and each time, she looked forward to it a little more.
She always provided an update from her side. The restrictions on automated technology had been relaxed a bit, easing the post-exile transition for the intellectuals.
With every visit, there was less to talk about, but Isis still looked forward to the meetings. She dreaded the day when the ships would come, load the laborers, and leave forever.
It was during one of their conversations, when Lykos was describing how the labor leaders were codifying the criteria of a laborer, that Isis formed her plan.
“They’re using income, job type, and even what your parents do,” Lykos said.
“Are they considering a genetic definition?”
“No.”
“Have they identified the relocation world?”
“Yes. General Ares and the teams are already terraforming it. But I don’t know where it is,” Lykos replied.
“Can you find out?”
“Maybe.”
Isis shared her plan, and when she was finished, Lykos was silent for a long time.
“Just think about it,” Isis said.
The following day, she visited Janus.
“I’ve reconsidered. I’d love to join The Origin Project.”
She felt slightly guilty that the enthusiasm she shared with him was for different motivations, but that was something to work out later.
Ares stared out the window of his survey ship at the blue, green, and red planet below. Massive machines crawled across the surface, turning dirt and sending plumes of red dust into the atmosphere. The terraforming machines were moving mountains, creating a paradise for the Atlantean Exiles.
“The geological survey is in, General Ares. The tectonic plates in the northern hemisphere won’t be a problem for four thousand years. Should we leave them?”
“No. They may not be able to fix them in four thousand years. Make accommodations now.” The struggle of a global disaster could ignite their evolution. That would be dangerous. Ares wanted life to be easy for them here. That was essential to his plan.
On relocation day, Ares watched the fleet of transport ships from the lunar observation deck. The ships reached to the burning white star beyond, and the sight of the full fleet took his breath away. He felt the hair on his arms stand on end. A single thought dominated his mind: I have won.
The Origin Project launched a week