Brain Plague

TEN

The rescued defectors were thin, their skin puckered in with dehydration. Their colors were pale, barely distinguishable from white, their filaments sparse, deficient in vitamins, and they tasted as if they never bathed.

"Let us go," they pleaded, ensnared by the dendrimers. "We mean no harm. We'll work hard. We escaped to live in freedom."

Aster could barely make out what they flashed, their language was so foreign. But she sent for food and medicines and built secure housing, the dendrimers twining around the columns of arachnoid. "What do you think of them, Jonquil?" The blue angels had never let masters speak to Eleutherians, but there were ancient legends of the fanatical hordes that swept through a world, devouring all. And little they cared for their own kind, putting out toxic peptides to poison their neighbors, even sucking food from their own children.

But legend also told that even among the very worst people, a few always floated apart, instinctively seeking the Seven Lights. "These defectors are brighter than they seem," observed Jonquil. "They had to come up with ingenious schemes to escape forced labor and torture."

"So now they'll come up with ingenious schemes to take us over." Privately Aster was having second thoughts about her generous impulse. It was hard enough managing unruly Eleutherians; what to do with all these dangerous foreigners?

"Their children are harmless," said Jonquil. "They've picked up our language already. And they test in the top percentile, especially math."

That was even better than the wizards. Aster had tried to recruit more wizards, to help compute the endless iterations of the Comb, but they demanded their weight in palladium.

"Children in prison," flashed Jonquil, emitting molecules of repugnance. "People are saying it's an outrage."

"All right," decided Aster. "Take the masters' children out, to a cistern far away from their elders. Once they merge with our own, they'll forget their deadly past." And their math genes would enhance Eleutheria.

"Some of the elders aren't so bad," observed Jonquil. "In fact, they're rather interesting—"

"Jonquil, you know what the god ordered."

"I know, but just see this one." Jonquil emitted fascination.

The master elder was pale as the rest, a touch of pink, but otherwise alert, her filaments pensively probing the dendrimers that locked her in. As Aster approached, she tasted contempt and condescension.

"So, Comrade," flashed the master. "This is what you call the 'Free World.'" Her accent was clearer than the others.

"The world of the free," said Aster. "Eleutheria."

"You call this free?"

Aster hesitated. "You may yet earn freedom." She could not help emitting doubt.

"So who put me here in chains?" demanded the pink one.

"The God of Mercy so ordered."

"You call this mercy?"

"Yes," said Aster, emitting anger. "You are lucky to be alive."

"Degenerates," said the master. "The world of degeneracy."

Aster turned to go, but jonquil held her back. "Don't be cross, Aster. You've said as much yourself now and then."

"Be dark." She was sick of bearing about Jonquil's scandals. "And as for you," she told the master, "you can go right back where you came from."

"Not yet. Betrayers of the people marked me for death. In exile, I will bide my time till I regain material advantage."

No words could darken this brazen intruder.

The master suddenly flashed, "Do you play chess?"

Jonquil lit up. "Certainly. Our junior elders always make the top round of competition."

"But not the very top," the master shrewdly inferred. "I will coach them. I will produce a champion."

"Think of it, Aster," said Jonquil. "She might help us beat the wizards."

In the early morning Chrys tossed in her bed, problems of color and shape wending through her mind like the caterpillar dancers of Asragh. She tried not to waken too thoroughly, lest her people make contact; she'd never get back to sleep.

"Oh Great One? Can you spare a moment?"

Too late. "Yes, Jonquil."

"I want you to meet one of the people we rescued."

"A master?"

"She used to be but—"

"They're all still imprisoned?"

"All but the children."

"What?" Her eyes flew open, wide awake. "What about the children?" Those were the ones that could multiply and take over.

"Once they found the nightclubs, they forgot all about enslaving gods. But this elder—she will interest you."

Chrys wondered what Jonquil was after; nothing good, without Aster there. "Just keep her chained."

"Greetings, human host." The prisoner's letters came in pale pink, not the usual saturated hues of Eleutherians. "Do you play chess? Knight to f-3."

Woken at four a.m. to play chess with a microbe. "God does not play games. Remember that."

"Gods are a fiction. All talk of gods is the people's cocaine. You are a mortal human host, destined to serve us."

"Forgive her, Oh Great One," urged Jonquil. "She lacks our education."

Yet she speaks more than half truth, Chrys thought. "So? Why should I serve you?"

"We are the Enlightened—my comrades and I. Led by our Enlightened Leader, we shall gain ultimate truth and rule the universe till the end of time."

"Ultimate truth? What is that?"

"The Truth is this: All people are one. All sisters are as one cell."

"All are one? You mean, Jonquil and Aster too?"

"The degenerates are too far gone. Look at their people, their society—homeless, jobless, pitiful outcasts fill their arachnoid."

A likely story. "Jonquil, did you hear that?"

"We do have too many homeless mutants," Jonquil admitted. "Ask Aster why—I'm no economist. Now, getting back to chess—"

"Pink One," said Chrys, "I call you Rose."

"Thank you, Great Host."

"Rose, how does your Enlightened Leader avoid homeless mutants?"

"From each according to ability, to each according to need."

"Nonsense," flashed Jonquil, annoyed at last. "Why do you all end up starving? Why do you ruin every host you inhabit?"

"Only when our Enlightened Way is betrayed. Betrayed and corrupted by greed and by god talk. But not all are corrupted. Those comrades who hold to the Way bring their hosts at last to Endless Light."

"The Slave World?" prompted Chrys.

"The world of Endless Light. A world greater than you can imagine. I will show you just a glimpse."

A rush of light swirled and crystallized into a vast edifice, a palace built of icicles. All filigreed windows, with little white rings dancing through like snowflakes. Light filled everywhere. Everywhere, as far as her eye could roam, the crystal passages followed, winding into spirals without ceiling or floor, endless everywhere, and everywhere, endless white light.

In the corner of her eye a light pulsed red. A call from Dolomoth—it must be her parents, at last. "Be dark, all of you." She jumped out of bed, startling Merope who had been curled up on her feet. Grabbing a disk of nanotex, she pulled a comb through her hair. The nanotex stretched and slithered around her skin. "Okay," she said aloud, her head still spinning as she blinked back at the keypad.

The two Brethren appeared in their dust-colored robes. Beyond them the window of the calling station framed Mount Dolomoth, the wisp of smoke rising tranquil from its peak. Her father as always wore his long beard that used to tickle her face. Her mother's eyes still shone like blue drops of sky amid the wrinkles. A twinge of guilt—Chrys herself would never have those wrinkles. But her brother, at least she could help him.

"Chrysoberyl," exclaimed her mother. "Are you all right?"

"Of course, Mother. My work has taken off; I've made it big." She winced, realizing, how could she tell them more? "How is Hal?"

The fold of her mother's robe stirred faintly in the breeze. "All the saints and angels pray for you."

"Did you get my message?" Chrys asked eagerly. "Plan Six—it will fix his mitochondria."

Her parents stood at the station, not speaking. Then her father slowly shook his head. "How can a man eat his fill when his neighbors go hungry?"

Chrys frowned. "What's the matter, don't you believe me? Look, I know you can't understand, but—I've made good, honest. People are buying my stuff. I can afford to help my brother."

The two hooded heads faced each other. Then her mother looked at Chrys, a sad, pitying look; the look that Chrys dreaded, as if her mother could see everything to the bottom of her soul, although Chrys learned long ago that she could not. "The boy next door had pneumonia for a month, and baby Chert was born with a limp. Who shall help them? Shall our son walk among them like a god?"

Her mouth fell open. "You mean . . . you refused the Plan?"

"The saints will provide," her father assured her. "The saints provide the most precious gift of all: Sacred love."

"But I love my brother. That's why I want to help him."

Her mother's eyes opened wide. "Oh Chrys, I see a dark path ahead of you. A path empty of light and love. Beware, Chrys; beware of false angels—"

Chrys squeezed her eyes shut, and her parents vanished. Then she burst into tears and fell back on her bed, sobbing. How many years, she had ached for her brother, and now that she had a chance .. . did her parents hate her so much for leaving the hills?

"Excuse me." Xenon's voice startled her. "Pardon if I intrude, but is there anything I can do? Any problem with the house?"

Chrys shook her head. "Even you can't fix my parents."

"I have no experience of parents, but I'm a student of human nature. May I try?"

She looked up skeptically. "Go ahead."

"How many children are in your parents' village?"

"About thirty," she guessed.

"Could you cover them all?"

There was a thought. From each according to ability, to each according to need. "If I had the ability," Chrys pointed out. "I'm not as rich as Garnet."

"You're certainly getting there." Her credit line had reached eight digits.

"Vapor cash."

"Sell off half your speculation, and let the other half grow."

There was a thought. She sighed. "I still don't think they'll take it."

"Of course not," said Xenon. "Don't tell your parents a thing. Let me handle it—an anonymous donor. My study of human nature tells me it's much harder to turn down a gift from Anonymous."

She grinned. "Thanks a lot, Xenon. You're worth twice your pay."

"You might consider that," he replied, "now that you have the ability."

It was sad to count a paid sentient as your best friend. Her mother's last word left her unsettled. Who was left to love her, in this anonymous city? Love was cruel; cruel on the mountain, cruel in the city. Topaz had loved her and cast her off. Zirc might care, when not consumed by his own genius; and Opal was friendly, though maybe she just wanted the Comb fixed. Even Merope mainly wanted milk in her dish.

"Oh Great One," flashed Aster. "Do we please you today?"

She remembered her morning dose of AZ. "Aster," she replied, putting the wafer on her tongue, "Do the people love me?"

"How can I say, Oh Great One? How could we not love life itself?"

There was an honest answer. "Does anyone love me for myself—not just to stay alive?"

"That kind of love is rare, rarer even than the trace metals, gadolinium or ytterbium. But there was one who loved the god for the god's sake: that was Fern."

Fern, the first little green ring. Where was she now? Chrys looked fondly up at her sketch of Fern, still twinkling her last words to her people. Next to her in the studio, now, hung Opal's favorite, and Garnet's, and the blue angel Dendrobium. Chrys planned to expand and develop them, deepening their character. What would the patrons think of them amid the volcanoes, in her next show?

The question was, how to display them to the best advantage. A cramped room in a gallery would not do. The twinkling filaments would just look like a mess of light.

Then she had it. "Xenon? Can you build a dome up on the roof?"

"Certainly, Chrysoberyl. A clear dome?"

"For a clear night, yes, to let in the stars. For now, project them."

Once the dome was erected, Chrys placed her portraits there, one by one, constellations shining down from heaven. At night they filled the urban sky, amid the sky signs and the flitting lightcraft.

Jonquil was ecstatic, exclaiming over their power and beauty. Even Rose, still chained in dendrimers, was impressed. "The gods are a fiction," Rose said, "but truly the Great Host has developed fiction to a high art."

"What about the children?" reminded Jonquil. "The merging children? We can't wait to see them."

"I'm working on that." The coupling children had proven a bit much for Chrys's grasp of geometry. Two rings merging was not so hard, but coming apart afterward in three—she had to get the proportions right. And then to get the feel of it, what it meant for the micro people, an experience so alien to her. No humans who ever "merged" came out so transformed.

"And the God herself?" remembered Aster. "Legend tells that the God herself was once portrayed in the stars."

Mystified, Chrys thought back. That old sketch from her school days—she had shown it to Fern. She couldn't show that in public; the critics would laugh. But at home was okay. "Xenon, put my old self-portrait here." She blinked at her letters to pull the sketch out of storage. Veins glowing, and lava flowing melodramatically from her hair, she looked nothing like the stars, more like an apparition from hell.

"What is this, Great Host?" demanded Rose.

"The God herself, Unbeliever," replied Jonquil. "In my opinion, it could use some work. The brain, for instance; I can't make it out. Where is the Cisterna Magna?"

"That's quite enough." And yet, Chrys thought... the possibilities. Humans were so fond of their own brains; why did they never portray them?

Unfortunately, she had to let this thought simmer while she uploaded her people's latest calculations on the Comb. Then her people had to view the resulting simulations in 3-D, as well as endless plans and sections. The sectional views showed the interior of the Comb remaining intact, with floors and ceiling growing in proportion.

She was pleased to show Selenite, at their next meeting. "Much better," Selenite admitted, sipping Xenon's exquisite green tea and teacake. Taking Xenon's hint, Chrys had found that hospitality significantly smoothed their conferences. "We've completely transformed the model. Where'd they get the math to do that? The wizards?"

Chrys shrugged, hoping the Eleutherians kept dark.

"Well, it's in good time," Selenite told her. "The Board wants a demonstration, a test run on-site."

"A test run? Tapping the roots?" Visions of cancerplast made Chrys ill.

"Only halfway down, level twelve. Inject the virus and see if it sends its data clear up to the executive suite."

That weekend at Olympus, Opal clasped her hands in delight. "Selenite really thinks it will work—I can't imagine what it will be like here without all those pans of dripping water." She leaned over and whispered. "Do you really think Eleutheria will win at chess? Who's their mysterious coach?"

"A woman with a past."

A caryatid approached with a spiral assortment of nuts, and pate sweeter than apples. Averting her eyes discreetly, Chrys nonetheless permitted herself one of each. The taste went straight to her toes.

"Chrys." Lord Garnet's eyes sparkled with excited people, even more talkative than her own. "The portraits are exquisite. I'll keep them to look at forever. Such fond memories." He slipped a transfer lightly at her neck.

"Thanks for the investment," she told him, leaning back gingerly in her seat. The trunk of the singing-tree hugged her.

"The market's done well," he admitted.

Chrys admired the exceptionally fine texture of his talar, very plain, yet its nuanced shaping responded to every move. "I wish I had more time to spend it," she sighed.

"That is the hard part," Garnet agreed. "By the way, I hear you portray the gods as well. A rather . . . striking portrayal."

She shuddered. "Never listen to microbial gossip."

"Don't hide your best work. And when do you dine with us?"

"After my next show."

A living tire-creature wheeled past; startled, she followed the Prokaryan image till it vanished through the arch of a singing-tree. Around the arch of the tree sat Daeren and Selenite, at it again.

"Too many defectors," Selenite was saying. "If we take in so many, their genes will displace those of our own people."

While Daeren listened, Garnet leaned over to pass him a transfer and massaged his shoulder. "The defectors reject slavery," Daeren pointed out. "They risk death to reject it. They desire freedom even more than our own, who take it for granted."

Garnet nodded, and Opal sipped her drink thoughtfully.

Selenite shook her head. "In effect, we're favoring strains more virulent than our own, more likely to enslave us. You can't get around it."

"Defectors are creative," Daeren insisted. "The most independent-minded of their kind. They bring vital genetic diversity. Otherwise, our own populations in-breed and degenerate, growing tame and lazy." Exactly what Rose said, thought Chrys.

Selenite's eyes narrowed. "That's not true. We'll see who ends up at the Slave World."

Opal extended an arm around each of them. "We don't have to agree."

The next night was Chrys's regular shift at the Spirit Table. Sister Kaol was stirring the soup while Chrys chopped a growing pile of potatoes, keeping the skins for extra vitamins. At the long table sat a couple of derelicts, one of whom smelled so bad it filled the room.

"From each according to ability," reminded Jonquil. "That's what Rose says."

"Watch out for Rose," warned Chrys.

An elderly man came in off the street. But usually by eight the tables were full, and she and Sister Kaol were running back and forth to fill the pots. "Sister, where is everyone tonight?"

Sister Kaol leaned over to whisper. "There's a vampire, hiding out by the tube. The poor thing is scaring off our customers."

Chrys peered out the window. A light was out, and the tube entrance was in shadow. She could just make out the contorted shape of the vampire. "I'll call an octopod."

"Oh, no. An octopod would scare our customers worse. They'd never come back."

Chrys frowned. Vampires even on this level—how far had the slaves spread? In her window, the purple button was waiting. She blinked.

Daeren's sprite appeared, at his home for once; usually he was outside some hospital waiting room. Chrys felt bad. "Sorry to bother you, but there's a slave outside, and—like, if you could send someone to help them ..."

"It's okay, I'm on call," he said. "Where is the slave now? Did they seek help?"

"I don't know. He or she—it's a vampire."

Daeren shook his head. "Chrys, we only help those with the will to ask. Otherwise, they just end up back on the street. At the vampire stage, they're beyond help, their entire bodies consumed by micros. They've lost most of their brain. Like a mad dog, they exist only to pass on a few desperate microbes."

"You're sure? You couldn't just try?"

"If I came, my eyes would only scare them off."

Chrys thought this over. A second bowl of soup steamed invitingly, yet no customers. "Why do some slaves turn into vampires, while others go to the Slave World?"

"Like tuberculosis, it can be acute or chronic. We guess that the Slave World is for hosts who readily obey, whereas those who don't..." He shrugged. "It's hard to know, since no human's ever been to the Slave World and come back alive. Either way, it's pretty grim."

"How do you know that? I mean, if you've never been there."

Daeren eyed her intently. "Why do you ask?"

Chrys did not answer. She thought of Rose, and Endless Light. She signed off and looked again out the window. "Rose?" she called. "Rose, where are you?"

"Here I am, Great Host. It takes me time, you know. Someone has to bring me out in chains." The former master slyly played on her sympathy.

"Can you tell me how to help a vampire? If you can, I'll set you free."

"In a vampire, the betrayers have gone completely wild. Instead of bringing their host to Endless Light, as they should, they burn and pillage, devouring the very flesh. When their host dies, they will all meet their just end."

Chrys thought of the street folk who would go hungry that night. "Can we at least get the vampire to move off and quit scaring customers?"

"Let the betrayers see me flash in your eyes. They'll scare off."

She put down her potatoes. "Back in a minute, Sister." Outside, her eyes adjusted to the dark as she warily approached the tube. Music floated over from a neighbor's house, and the sparks of busy lightcraft rose and fell in the distance. Her steps slowed. What harm could come, she thought. As a carrier she was immune; even picking up Rose had not hurt her. She took another step toward the shadows. A foul smell reached her.

A sound of gasping, with a rumble underneath. Then she saw the hunched figure, a man, she thought. He was bent over double, gasping and growling, as if at his last breath. His nose and fingers were white and blunted, dissolving inward like those of a leper. Chrys felt all her hair stand on end. "You, there." Her voice rang hollow, and her throat caught with nausea. "Who are you?"

The head moved, catching light from across the street. What had once been a face now bulged with veins clogged by multiplying micros.

"Environmental disaster," flashed Aster. "The masters destroyed their own host."

"Betrayers," added Rose. "The Enlightened Leader shall hear of this."

"You think your 'comrades' don't know?" Aster challenged. "How could they not? "

"The Leader is light-years away. Even human leaders cannot limit their own depravity. Of course, you naive Eleutherians think the gods are perfect."

Chrys blinked hard. "Just make it go away."

Rose said, "Get closer, to meet the eyes."

Meeting those eyes was the last thing Chrys wanted. Steeling herself, she moved forward, at once repelled yet ashamed at herself for adding to the poor creature's misery.

The stench of the victim overwhelmed her; her stomach contracted. His labored breath rasped louder, faster. Another step closer, and its eyes chanced to meet hers. For one long moment, Chrys saw the creature as a human being, the human it would have been before it sank so low.

A shriek split the air. The bloated head turned, tucked under an arm, as if lasers had put out its eyes. Then the creature picked up its feet and slowly shuffled away.

Unnerved, Chrys shook so hard she could barely move. The cheerful lights of the soup kitchen beckoned. She turned slowly, her thoughts full.

As she walked back, she thought she heard faint footsteps behind her, quicker than her own. Her head turned to look.

The creature had changed its mind and come back. This time it moved with surprising speed, as if with all its last strength. The horror froze her for a moment; then she turned to run. In the darkness, she stumbled on the curb and fell.

As she picked herself up, the creature lunged toward her. Instinctively, she raised an arm before her face. The vampire caught her arm. With a cry, she flung the creature from her. It fell in a contorted heap on the street, completely still. The street was dark and eerily silent.

But its teeth had sunk into her arm. The wound stung, as she frantically wiped it of blood mingled with the creature's saliva. Trillions of fanatic microbes lay dying with their host, but a lucky, deadly few had made it to their next victim.

"Plan Ten, Emergency," she blinked, brushing the tangled hair from her face. She sprinted for home.

"Mayday—Capture invaders," flashed Aster.

"Get them all in dendrimers, every one." The medic would exterminate them.

"There are too many; and they're hiding all over your body. We don't even know their language. Set Rose free to help translate."

A ringing tone filled her head, like an internal smoke alarm.

"They've reached the forbidden zone." Where Poppy had gone; the alarm that should have gone off. Instead, Chrys had awoke in that hospital, bones burning with pain.

"Can't you stop them, like Fern did?"

"We're trying to find them, but that region has a billion neurons. "

She reached her house. The stairs carried her up between the caryatids. At the top, she stumbled. Her mind clouded over, and the room receded.

In her mind opened a window, a new kind of window, vast as the universe. All the lights of heaven flooded in. The light lifted her onto a lava stream of pleasure and desire. It was the first kiss of her boyfriend, swooning amid the campion on the mountainside; and it was her first taste of Topaz, her mind spinning amid all the colored lights of Iridis. It was ten times more than that, every inch of skin crying out for more yet, until the colors grew and merged into blinding endless light.

Abruptly, the light clouded over. Her surroundings somehow were gray—the banisters, the ceiling, the caryatids, even Xenon's new furniture. Her feet sank like lead, glued to the floor, which now seemed unaccountably dirty and verminous, though when she looked hard she saw nothing. Her skin felt covered with slime that would not rub off.

"We found them, Oh Great One," said Aster. "We captured the masters before they caused permanent damage."

The master micros; they had tried to take her over. The thought left her shaking. And yet... where was that place they sent her? Was there no way back?

Below, at the foot of the spiral stairs, two medics arrived. "You're on record as a carrier," said one worm-face, as if reciting a history.

"We'll check you out," said the other, "but we can't touch the micros till your agent arrives."

Her skin was starting to recover, but her head ached, and her stomach felt unsettled. She sat down in the kitchen, in case she needed the sink.

The limb of a worm-face slapped a bandage on her arm, then its tendrils sank into her scalp, pressing more roughly than Doctor Sartorius. "Disgusting," he or she muttered. "Why don't you let us just clear them out?"

"Some lifestyle," the other medic remarked.

"Great One, these nanos are unfriendly," flashed Aster. "Please, Great One; don't let them hurt us. We did our best; we caught all the invaders we could find."

"Look," said the medic, "why do you put up with this? We could clean you out completely."

"You're on Plan Ten," said the other. "You could live forever. Instead, you're a menace to society."

Chrys glared back. These medics sounded like Sapiens. Maybe they'd burnt her cat.

The first medic waved its worms smoothly, in a motion meant to be pleasing. "If you want to feel good, we have ways. We can shape your mind however you please, just as we shape your body."

Mind-suckers. Chrys sketched the handsign against evil.

Xenon chimed for a new arrival. There stood Daeren, at the foot of the caryatids. Chrys sighed with relief.

"She's been exposed," the worm-face told Daeren as he came up the stairs. "We have to file a report."

"Section oh-three-five-one," Daeren agreed. "If you're done, please wait outside."

The medics hesitated, obviously reluctant to give up their patient, but they finally packed in their worms.

Daeren put a patch at his neck. "Next time, call us first, the purple button," he advised Chrys. "We make sure they send the right medics." For some reason, his eyes seemed to blink brighter than usual. Pulling back her tangled hair, Chrys squinted, unable to look straight.

"Oh Great One, we don't need testing today. It's all under control."

"If it's under control," Chrys told them, "you have nothing to worry about."

Daeren pulled up a chair. "Try and relax, Chrys," he told her. "Can you keep your eyes open?"

Chrys held her eyes open. The blue rings round his eyes flashed furiously.

"That's better." He held out the transfer patch.

"No, no!" begged Jonquil. "Not today—another generation."

"We're too busy. We can't see blue angels today."

Chrys frowned. "Why are they afraid?"

Daeren held out the patch. "Don't keep the blue angels waiting."

"God of Mercy, they'll kill all the new children."

"Is that true?" Chrys asked. "You'll kill all the vampire's children?"

His voice quickened. "Chrys, I can't answer that. You have to take the patch."

"Just answer my question."

"If you don't take the patch, you're a slave. Those medics out there will wipe you clean. Section oh-three—"

"Promise me you won't kill anyone."

He threw up his hands. "I'm the last one to want to kill them; you know that. But I can't make a promise I won't keep. I don't yet know what I'll find." He took a deep breath. "Chrys—for god's sake, take the patch."

"So instead of their slave, I'm yours?"

For a moment every tendon stood on his neck. Several different thoughts seemed to cross his face. "All right," he said in a monotone. "I promise."

She put the patch at her neck. The minutes passed. Daeren's hair over his amber-colored forehead reminded her of Moraeg. The Seven; how she missed them all.

Suddenly, he sank back and relaxed, satisfied by the signals his investigators sent out her eye. "Your Eleutherians are okay. Just tell them to quit hiding the vampire's children—I don't care what their math scores are."

"But you said—"

"We don't kill them all. We take them out to sort them. Some we can civilize and settle among carriers."

"The blue angels are taking our children." The golden letters pleaded in her window. "Please, Great One; they're all settled in with us. They lost their home once; don't uproot them again."

"Can't the Eleutherians just keep the children? They kept masters' children before."

He stared. "They did what?"

She cursed her tongue. "You missed a transfer, from that slave," she reminded him. "It fell in the street. They said I had to save them."

"What in hell do you think you're doing? You have no training for relief and rescue."

"Should I just let them die? You always say they're people."

He let out a breath. "I'm glad they were saved; we were sorry we missed them. But you can't take such risks. If you go wrong, your whole population dies."

"The blue angels want to take Rose." Aster's pale violet flashed sadly.

Chrys shook her head. "I warned her to quit preaching Enlightenment."

"But she helped us. She knows all the invaders' tricks; she helped us capture them."

Chrys gave Daeren a tentative look. "Can't you leave Rose? She has nutty ideas, but she means no harm."

"The one you call Rose is an unrepentant master. She'll take you over, if she hasn't already."

"I want a second opinion."

He stopped, taken aback. He crossed his arms. "If that's what you want. I'll call Andra. Excuse me." He turned and left the room.

"The Thundergod," Chrys warned Aster. "Now you're in real trouble."

"Never mind, it buys us time. We'll settle the children and make Rose keep dark."

"The children are settled," added Jonquil, "as if they were born here. They know nothing else; they've grown here for years."

Years? At the corner of her eye, the time read well past midnight. Four microbial years. She had not realized how long the medics took, and the blue angels investigating. What a lot of trouble she had caused. And yet, that place the masters showed ... was there no way back? Pressing her hands to her head, she squeezed her eyes shut. "Aster, show me fireworks."

Colors burst through her window, the daily showers of hue that she so enjoyed. It brought her back to herself. Opening her eyes, she looked around the kitchen. She thought of Daeren, here to help her yet again. Whatever did one offer someone this late, or this early in the morning? "Xenon, how about some orange juice."

The table slid open and two glasses came up. Chrys put a cup of AZ chips between them as Daeren returned. "Andra will be here," he said, not looking at her.

She nodded. "Thanks. Have a seat."

He sat with his arms crossed, looking out to the hall.

Chrys held out an AZ. "Give them one, from me."

He started to shake his head, then something changed his mind. He took the wafer with a brief smile. His eyes were dark now, yet something about him remained a mystery.

"How'd you get into all this?" Chrys asked suddenly. "It didn't make you rich, like the others."

Daeren took a sip of the orange juice. "My first year at law school, I ran short of credit. I answered an ad, like you did. Andra gave me some of hers, lawyers, I figured. But this group had ideas of their own—why else would they emigrate?"

"What ideas?"

"They want to found a sort of microbial world federation, getting all the micro people to agree to live in peace and respect their environment."

"And obey the gods."

His finger pensively worked around the rim of the glass. "I guess I found the people themselves more interesting than law books. I'm not poor; I draw my salary from the clinic. I can't invest with Garnet because he's my client half the time. But I also work the Palace, promoting micro rights. They need basic human rights, to pursue their dream."

She pictured Lord Zoisite at the Palace listening with a straight face to Daeren promoting rights for microbes.

"I go to Elysium, too, to work with Arion."

"Guardian Arion? He barely thinks Valans are people, let alone—"

"He's interested in micros. And we provide him with valuable intelligence."

That sounded dangerous. "Did you ever . . . get in trouble with micros?" she asked. "Did they ever get to your neurons?"

"Not so far. We've been careful."

She thought of that feeling, the heavens opening and light pouring through. "What's so bad about 'enlightenment?' I mean, if we trust the micro people with everything else in our bodies...."

Daeren drank the orange juice and set down the glass. "You're a colorist. You always use the brightest colors."

"That's part of it."

"Why don't you fill the whole volume with the brightest white light?"

"It would be empty."

He returned her look, as if that were the answer.

Xenon announced the Chief of Security. Andra came up and checked Chrys in the eyes, her own flashing deep violet. She gave a nod. "Daeren, you go home and get some sleep." She gave Chrys a patch full of "judges." The minutes lengthened, two women alone, each with a million people inside.

"Are they all right?" Chrys asked at last. "I feel okay."

"We're trying to track down the vampire's children. Most of them already seem to have merged."

The Eleutherians probably gave them hormones to hurry them along. No wonder they wanted extra time. "What about Rose? Is she really dangerous?"

"She's about as dangerous as the rest of yours." The Chief's tone made it clear what she thought of the rest of them. "Daeren has requested reassignment. You'll have a new tester."

Chrys fell struck as if by a physical blow. "Just because I got a second opinion?"

"It's been two months, which is time to rotate, in any case. We avoid getting too close to clients, to stay objective. You'll start next week with Selenite."

The Deathlord—what a disaster. "Selenite's my business partner. Isn't that, like, a conflict of interest?"

"She has an opening at present. All our agents are overbooked; the street caseload is rising." Andra looked away, the grim look of a general taking heavy casualties. "A new virulent strain has hit the streets. We don't know its source, though we suspect..." She did not finish. "We've taught your people a few tips to handle masters. Things we usually only teach agents." She gave Chrys a pointed stare. "The knowledge makes them even more dangerous. But with your lifestyle, you'll probably need it."