Brain Plague

SEVENTEEN

Rose twinkled all over, emitting many molecules of excitement, a risky thing at her advanced age. A hundred generations of waiting, and at last she had seen the very fount of true Enlightenment. "She exists!" Rose insisted to Fireweed. "The Leader—at last. She lives, in the eyes of her host, in the world of Endless Light. Now you see the proof."

"I saw yet another slave-ridden host," countered Fireweed. "Were we there, I suspect I would have tasted the foul waste of people who don't take proper care of their world."

"You know nothing. The Enlightened do the best they can with limited resources. We must help them."

"Why does this Leader let so many evil ones serve her?"

A very good question. "The Leader, too, is betrayed. Many universes separate the world of Endless Light from our own. How can she know? We must tell her, reveal to her their crimes. We must help Endless Light—and give our own Host the chance to choose."

"Rose, you were my teacher, but I bid you watch yourself and your plans. I will not brook your schemes. I serve the One True God."

"Do I not serve your precious 'god'?" observed Rose. "Where would your 'god' be without me?"

"You have served well," admitted Fireweed.

"And what is the result? For how many generations have you taught that killing of people violates the highest law. The law of whom—if not your god?"

At that, Fireweed was silent.

"Only degenerate societies generate the crimes that require execution. In Endless Light, each lives for all, and all for each. The Enlightened have no need of executions."

With Andra and Selenite, Chrys reviewed the message from Endless Light, which Xenon had had the presence of mind to record. She noticed more details: the broken fittings of the ship that contained the captive Elves, suggestive of poor maintenance, and another figure standing beside them in limp nanotex, like one of the pirates Chrys had met with Daeren in the basement of Gold of Asragh. The two Elves looked healthy, serenely asleep, no sign of ill treatment. Oblivious to the massive manhunt their disappearance had spawned, for every ship of the Elysian fleet combed the folds of space to find them.

Hearing Saf's puppet-like recitation, Andra nodded. "Direct control of voice. I've seen that, on a slave ship. It's another category of slave: those who work at the Slave World."

Straight from the Slave World, the Leader within its host had called to Chrys.

"Why you, Chrys?" asked Selenite. "Why would they show themselves to you?"

Chrys swallowed and clasped her hands. "The micro portraits. The masters can't get enough of them. I suppose it feeds their ego." The scandalous ones she didn't mention.

Selenite shook her head. "How bold they've gotten, to dare such a thing. What will Arion say?"

Andra told her, "We'll know soon enough."

Chrys asked apprehensively, "You'll show Arion?"

"I just sent it." Andra added, "We share all our intelligence with Arion. When Zoisite's problem first became known, we made a strategic decision to pursue our investigation with the Elves instead. The Protector tacitly approves."

"Right," observed Selenite sarcastically. "The Protector keeps out of a messy investigation of things he can't comprehend, while reserving the right to beat up on us and Elysium when we miss a step."

"But Arion is a shrewd one," Andra observed. "Not a carrier himself, but highly sympathetic. He supports granting micros civil protection."

"But his brother!" exclaimed Chrys. "How does he put up with Eris?"

"Arion's trusted Eris for three centuries. Now he knows that something's wrong, but he's not sure where. How could a non-carrier tell? That's why he called Daeren, an outsider, to test a dozen highly placed carriers."

So that's what Daeren was doing in Elysium. "Then Eris will get caught."

The Chief exchanged a look with Selenite. Selenite said, "I sure hope so. Eve said before, any intelligence we send Arion goes straight to Eris."

Andra demanded, "Do we look any better?" Their streets full of vampires, their own minister of justice in the clinic. Suddenly Andra tensed and would have stood even straighter if possible. "Arion has just replied. He wants to meet the ... recipient of this intelligence immediately. In person."

Chrys blinked. "You mean—me? In Elysium?" She shook herself. "Like, I have a busy schedule tomorrow."

"My private vessel will take you," Andra told her. "You can sleep a couple of hours on the ride. Daeren will meet you in Helicon."

Andra's "private vessel" offered a five-course, four-star meal that Chrys had no stomach for, and a room full of Elysian talars with projectable trains, among which she was too tired to choose. At first glance, the garments all looked the same dreary white, but a closer look revealed subtle distinctions of shaping at the shoulder, or in the fall of the folds below.

"Each model signifies a different mood," the ship told her helpfully. "Entertaining, or businesslike; joyous or mournful; carefree or stately—"

" 'Stately' will do," Chrys yawned.

"And the light projectors for your train—be sure to specify your desired species and variety of heliconians, swallowtails, anaeans—"

"Look, I have to get some sleep before this ordeal."

"Don't forget to condition your feet." Shoes were an insult to Elysian streets; Elves went barefoot, like children on Mount Dolomoth. Chrys stuck her feet in what felt like a sauna and dozed as best she could.

"True Enlightenment at last." Rose was still going on about it. "Great Host, you were privileged to be granted an audience with the very Leader of Endless Light."

"Just keep dark when I'm with Arion, or you'll go back in chains." Thank goodness the Guardian was no carrier, and could not read her flashing eyes.

The floating city of Helicon, the Elysian capital, was positioned on the globe to coincide with the time zone of Iridis on Valedon. As Andra's ship descended, the horizon east of Helicon was just reaching dawn. A faint line of light, splitting gently into a pale rainbow; if colors could sing, it would have been a choir of heaven.

The city appeared, a perfect pearl, struck aflame by the first ray of sun. The pearl expanded, ever larger, as if actually growing from seed. One structure, to house a million souls. This—more impossible still, its rival—was what Jasper expected her people to build.

When the ship docked, Daeren came on board, his jet-black hair at odds with the stark white talar. "This will be our last chance to talk," he warned. In Elysium, it was said, the very air had ears. A few minutes in a privacy booth cost a thousand credits. "I'm sorry you had to—"

"Get mixed up in this; I know." Chrys sighed. "I didn't ask for it; believe me, I didn't. That damned 'leader' had to pick on me."

"It's a break for us. Especially if there's any clue to where that ship is."

She shook her head. "I've no idea. Andra sent Arion the clip— Why in hell does he need to see me?"

"It's standard procedure to debrief the operative."

Chrys rolled her eyes. "If I'm an 'operative,' his service sure needs help."

"It does," said Daeren bluntly. "Don't worry, I'll be with you. You may decline to answer any question. But if you answer, tell the truth."

"I'm a lousy liar."

"Remember, Arion can help us. He believes in micro people."

"He's not a carrier."

"He's had 'visitors.' "

Visitors—from whom, she wondered. Her eyes widened, remembering. "What about you? Did you . .. test the Elf carriers?"

"All day I spent testing, one after another." Daeren sighed. "All twelve were clean."

"Not Eris?"

"It was Eris who recommended me to Arion." His face did not change. "The whole time I tested them, Eris stood there, watching."

Chrys absorbed this. Her fingers trembled.

"Arion himself is still clean," Daeren said. "He gets arsenic-wiped several times a day."

"How reassuring. Why won't he test Eris?"

"Chrys, if there were any way I could get you out of this—"

"Never mind. Let's get it over with."

The ship door opened, revealing a long luminous corridor.

"Activate your train," Daeren told her. "A button should appear in your window."

She blinked at it. Behind her a trail of butterflies came alight, more gaudy than the floor show at Gold of Asragh. "Is this really necessary?"

"It's the custom. And remember, no physical contact in public, not even a handshake."

The wide, vaulted street of Helicon lay buried in nanoplast kilometers thick, yet it filled with a soft light, like the natural light of dawn. The street's surface was just warm enough to please her bare feet. At the side a small thing scurried; a rat, she thought in surprise, but it was only a cleaner servo, searching in vain for the slightest bit of trash. Ahead glided a couple of Elysian, their virtual trains sparkling for half a block behind them. Like angels attending a wedding.

Daeren stopped at a garden of towering foliage; one of the famous butterfly gardens of Elysium. The butterflies, dark heliconians barred with blue and pink, were just flexing their wings, bright with moisture. "Those live barely longer than our micros," observed Daeren. "Yet that's how Elysians feel about their own centuries—gone as if in a day. You'll never understand an Elysian till you grasp that."

Overhead, what looked like an overgrown snake-egg descended with a faint whine, settling at their feet. Cleaner servos scurried like mad to the spot, in case a speck of dust was raised. The giant egg formed a round lip which puckered in, a mouth gasping. Chrys hesitated, then stepped into the mouth. Her train projectors automatically turned off. Once the two Valans had entered, the egg did not rise, but sank into the street, through a fluid-filled transit reticulum. It seemed to sink at an angle, though Chrys could not tell for sure; her stomach lifted and felt sick.

Daeren touched her talar; he would have touched her arm, she thought, but he remembered just in time. "We'll soon be at the Nucleus."

The Nucleus, the very core of Helicon, housed the government of Elysium. No sign of the armed octopods that so ostentatiously filled Palace Iridium; but then, the very air had ears. A maze of corridors and doors, half of them illusory; how could one ever find one's way here, Chrys wondered. Fortunately, a traveling shaft of light led them at long last to the reception room of the Guardian of Peace.

Guardian Arion looked smaller than Chrys expected. She had forgotten how diminutive the Elves were; their virtual appearances were designed to enhance their size. Arion sat behind an opalescent conference table shaped like a half moon. His hands on the table were relaxed, but the features beneath his flaxen hair looked tight as a coiled spring. "So you are Chrysoberyl of Dolomoth."

The sound of his voice rang strange, after so many newsbreaks in her head.

"I understand," he added, "you're opening soon at our Gallery."

"Two months yet." As usual, she was desperate to get it all done.

A nod to his right, and the holostage filled with the apparition of Saf. "I'm to understand you entrapped the 'masters' with your art."

The way he said "art" made her face hot. "I didn't trap anything," she exclaimed. "They came after me." As did your dear brother, she silently added.

Daeren put out a hand. "Guardian, Chrys is a trained tester. Her only contact with slaves is professional."

"I understand." Arion waved his hand dismissively. To Chrys he said, "I'd like to meet some of your ... people." He set a transfer patch on the table.

Then it dawned on her, why he had called her all the way out to the turquoise moon to meet in person. It wasn't herself he wanted. She gave him a cold stare. "How do we know you're safe?"

Lines tightened in Daeren's neck, but before he could speak, Arion lifted his hands. "Of course, how would you know. 'Virgin territory' after all. I assure you, I'm well prepared. My phagocytes , are tame."

Daeren nodded. "It's true; the blue angels have been there."

Arion could help the carriers, and their people, Andra had said. Even civil rights. "Fireweed, gather several of your most circumspect elders to pay a special visit."

The guardian added, "Be sure to include the double agent."

Chrys flushed red as rubies. Whoever had told him? she wondered. Ignoring the patch on the table, she used one of her own, which she knew her people kept supplied with moisture and nutrients.

Arion placed it at his neck like an expert. "So tell me, where can we find this Leader?"

"I can't say."

"Can't or won't?"

"I've no idea," she snapped.

Daeren agreed, "None of us do. We told you that, Guardian."

Arion paused, his eyes flitting back and forth as if reading. "Your double agent has a couple of clues. She's still rather keen on Enlightenment." He frowned slightly. "I do hope she's not triple."

"Guardian," said Daeren quickly, "I assure you—"

"Of course," he said dismissively. Then he clasped his hands on the table and leaned forward. "So, Chrysoberyl. The Leader of Endless Light made you an invitation. Will you take her up on it?"

"No." Daeren's face was ashen. "Guardian, as you well know, the Slave World is a place of no return."

"There's always a first time." Arion's gaze did not leave Chrys. "Advance planning minimizes risk. Think well, Chrys. We could make it worth your while. A planetoid of your own, perhaps? Or Plan Ten for all of Dolomoth?"

Oddly, Daeren's loss of composure made Chrys more calm. This offer hadn't been on his agenda, she figured. She gave Arion her difficult-client smile. "We'll think it over."

"Guardian," said Daeren, recovering, "as you know, these are dangerous times. The deadly new strain—even trained carriers are at risk."

"Indeed," said Arion in a low voice.

Chrys thought of something. "Those two Elves who got hijacked. Were they carriers?"

For the first time Arion frowned. "I ask the questions here." No wonder he'd called in outside help to test the others.

"What else can we tell you?" offered Daeren. "You know our surmises. All available evidence increasingly points to one highly placed carrier."

Arion nodded. "We too suspect a highly placed Valan carrier."

Chrys frowned. "Look, we know our own problems. I myself put Zoisite in the clinic."

The guardian did not respond but continued to face Daeren. He did not mean Zoisite, Chrys realized. He meant Andra.

At Olympus, only the sea was quiet, the wind hushed through the virtual branches.

"He all but accused you," Daeren told Andra. Selenite listened, arms folded. Chrys watched, her brain dulled by lack of sleep.

"A well-kept wilderness," Fireweed described Arion's brain. "Paradise." The window filled with Fireweed's view of the elegant fibroblast columns of Arion's arachnoid.

"Not exactly 'virgin,' " observed Rose. "We call him the Hunter."

"He hunts for people," agreed Fireweed.

"He barely let me go, with our chess game half finished. He wants people so bad, he can taste it." Chrys closed her eyes, then forced them back open.

"So he accuses," Andra coolly returned. "Can you prove him wrong?"

"Of course I can," exclaimed Daeren. "I test you, and so does Selenite."

"Suppose I went bad. What would you do?"

"I'd offer you help."

"Like you did Eris?"

Daeren's face darkened. "You think Selenite and I don't make plans for that?"

Andra nodded. "The less I know, the better. But suppose we all went bad. What non-carrier could sort us out?"

He blinked without speaking. Selenite's eyes narrowed.

"Perhaps," reflected Andra, "we need a non-carrier on the Committee, like a miner's canary."

Daeren threw up his hands. "Forget worst-case scenarios. The worst case is there—in Elysium."

"Agreed, though they might point to our streets full of vampires. But suppose Arion does want to stop Eris. How should he do it? Who takes Eris's place as chief tester? Suppose the mole has prepared his own successor?"

Silence. A flying fish dove into the sea. Selenite shifted restlessly. "So what do we do? Give up?"

"Of course not," said Andra. "For now, we play it Arion's way. He gets on well with Daeren and Chrys."

At the sound of her name, her eyes flew open.

"Chrys has done enough," said Daeren. "Let her work on her show. Her art does more good for carriers and micros, and for public understanding."

Andra exchanged a look with Selenite. "That's another matter," Selenite observed cryptically. "A matter for the Committee."

"What do you mean?" demanded Chrys. "What's wrong with my art?"

"What do you think makes us different from Zoisite?" asked Selenite rhetorically. "Micros make good servants but bad masters."

"So?"

" 'Mourners at executions,' protesting 'capital punishment.' Next thing you know, a religious revival— 'The end is near! Repent! The One True God!' I've never heard such drivel."

Chrys sighed wearily. "I'm sorry."

"With that Elf strain around, you realize how much executing we'll have to do? Call it genocide if you like—we've got to do it."

Daeren did not look well. Perhaps he needed sleep even more than Chrys did.

The visit to "the Hunter" rekindled Eleutherian interest in exploring virgin worlds. Migration fever raged, and the ranks of Pteris's sect swelled. The sect distressed Chrys. While Eleutherian pride in their "god" could embarrass her, she was mortified to realize how many now longed to leave. Love was cruel, and fickle, she told herself for the hundredth time. On the street she found herself watching passersby with the eye of a vampire, imagining how easily some lucky host could relieve her of her trouble.

One night she heard from Zircon. In the window of her eye, the muscle-bound sprite frowned anxiously. "Chrys—you know all about the brain plague, right?"

Chrys put a hand to her head. "Zirc, what's wrong?"

In the studio behind him towered the crossed bars and virtual cantilevers of his centerpiece for the Elf exhibition, "Gems from the Primitive." His brow wrinkled further. "I'm not sure. I just get all these messages in colored lights. I thought at first it was a prank from someone out there, so I played along. But now—"

"Ever get headaches or feel high?"

"I tried some new psychos, but they didn't even work. In fact, the colored lights made some prissy comment on it." His eyes widened. "Chrys—tell me the truth. Am I a vampire?"

She skipped the first three unsuitable responses that came to mind. "We'll be right there to find out." By now she had learned to check the medic list on call and pick a sympathetic one, if possible. Flexor—she was in luck.

Zircon had moved down to level six, not exactly vampire territory, but the streets could use a trash pickup. Chrys wondered why his Elf lover did not provide better; Zircon had barely mentioned Yyri lately. "Okay," she said, looking up to his face. "Just look into my eyes a moment."

The giant grinned. "Sure, anytime, Chrys." His eyes held steady. Around his irises flashed rings of gold, not unlike Garnet's.

"They want to visit," reported Rose. "They say they're accountants."

Zircon's grin faded. "Is it really bad, Chrys?"

"I'm not sure." The Elf strain—was this their latest trick? "Rose, what do you think?"

"Accountants are the tool of a degenerate society."

"But are they masters?"

"Only one way to find out."

Chrys took out a transfer patch. "Zirc, I'm sending a couple over to visit."

"A couple what?"

"Never mind. Just hurry up and put this on your neck, right here." She showed him the best spot.

"Weird." He took the patch and looked it over.

"I said, hurry. Not that side—the microneedle side down."

She watched his eyes again, until a flash of pink told her Rose had made it. She let out a sigh. "How long have you had the 'messages'?"

Zircon shrugged. "One week, maybe two. They keep asking me to let them manage my money, which would be great if I had any. Then they tell me I'm the lord of creation."

She rolled her eyes. "Lord of the rings. Look, Zirc—you're infected all right, but it's not a typical case." She blinked to call in Flexor, waiting outside. "The hospital will need to check you out."

"Hospital? You know I can't stand worm-faces—I have a phobia."

Doctor Flexor approached, worms neatly coiled upon her head. At the sight of her, Zircon's face twisted in sheer terror. He backed to the wall, shoulders knotted, sweat running down his forehead.

"It's okay," Chrys told him soothingly. "We won't hurt you or them; just checking."

Zircon swallowed, and his eyes blinked rapidly at the doctor. "They call you the Terminator."

A couple of Flexor's worms pointed out toward the sculpture. "I know your work," she told him. "The vanguard of heroic formalism." She moved closer to inspect it. "Tell me about this latest piece. I might consider a commission."

While Flexor at last coaxed him into getting examined, Chrys managed to get her people back. "Pure degeneracy," reported Rose. "Shaving credits here and there, cutting taxes, taking deductions. And half the lot are children—merging all over the place. They'd better get their hormones down."

"Any other trouble?"

"No sign of what you'd call trouble," Rose assured her. "Except perhaps your own finances. They claim someone is anonymously padding your credit line. They think you're taking bribes—"

Chrys stepped outside with Flexor. "A civilized population," the doctor confirmed. "They could only have come from a carrier."

"But how? Why?"

"All it takes is a transfer patch."

As for why, she could well imagine. "But—don't the people need training? From Daeren's blue angels?"

"That's always safer," Flexor agreed. "These made it on their own, so far. Their population has reached the turning point; they'd better get their hormones down, or they'll crash."

"Zirc can't be a host," she exclaimed. "He drinks, he takes nanos—"

"They'll detoxify it all. They keep their environment clean."

"And he plays headball!"

The doctor considered this. "They'll have to reinforce their homes for skullquakes."

Chrys put her hands on her hips. "Then why did I have to answer all those damned questions?"

"Because you were part of the approved program. Our success rate has to approach a hundred percent. Believe me, your friend is very lucky. But for carriers, this means big trouble. What would your neighbors think if they knew you could pass on micros just like that?"

"We're attempting to identify the source," Andra told the Committee, another emergency meeting, the virtual members partitioning Chrys's holostage. "If the carrier is found, they get ten years in prison, after their people are wiped."

In the partitions, all wore long faces. "How could you ever prove such a thing?" wondered Pyrite. "Even if they keep records over a dozen generations, their accuracy—"

"This is no small matter." Andra's voice was grim. "This is just the sort of thing to spark a lynch mob."

"The recipient seems pleased enough." Pleased as punch, especially with Chrys "testing" him every day. Inwardly she fumed. What would Moraeg think now?

Doctor Sartorius answered. "We can't always count on such luck. If we don't put a stop to unauthorized transfers, we could lose our authorized program."

Opal said, "Perhaps we need to relieve some pressure. Resume the authorized program."

"I second that," said Pyrite quickly.

"And reward misbehavior?" objected Selenite.

"Reward our own good behavior." Perhaps Chrys wasn't the only one whose head held eager migrants.

So green Pteris and her sect at last got their wish. It took several passes of the patch back and forth to Daeren, to transfer them all. Chrys felt relief, mixed with regret. "Despite everything, I'll miss them," she admitted.

"We'll train them well," promised Daeren, relaxing in her studio. "They'll learn to handle phagocytes and microglia, without compromising their host's immune system. Even how to neutralize toxins from the Elf strain; a new course we've started." Based largely on intelligence from intrepid Rose.

"Who will receive them?" Chrys asked.

"That's confidential."

"What about Lady Moraeg? She wants creative ones. Why can't she get on the list?"

"Lady Moraeg and Lord Carnelian," he reflected. "Good philanthropists. If she's your friend, that's a plus. I'll talk to Sar. On the Committee, you know, I have to keep quiet." The Olympians all loved Daeren, yet they always feared he'd put the micros ahead of humans. "Chrys, since you've just passed on a few, might you have openings? A couple of blue angels wish to join Eleutheria."

For migration between established worlds, the rules were left up to the micro populations. "It's fine with me," Chrys said.

"So long as they pass the entrance exam."

"What? Never mind—"

"Let them take the damned test, so your people don't look down on them." He caught himself. "I'm sorry; every world has its obsessions."

"Intelligence tests," she admitted. "The little rings, they think they're so smart."

He smiled in a way he hadn't for a long while, the kind of smile she could just drown in.

Taking the transfer patch, Chrys welcomed the immigrants. One was a particularly pretty sky-blue. "I call you Forget-me-not."

"I try to forget nothing," flashed the lilting blue letters. "I will write the entire history of the Seven Lights of Eleutheria."

Daeren leaned back, clasped his hands and stretched, facing her painting stage. "Would you show us Mourners at an Execution? It makes people feel better to know someone cares."

In the arch of the ceiling Xenon's ornamental lamps dimmed, and a shadow fell, darkening Daeren's face. The stage filled with the gloomy vision of arachnoid, the micros turning slowly, lost amid the jungle of fibroblasts, an unholy glow lurking beyond them. Wondering how the gods could take so many microbial lives.

"How are the Elves doing?" Chrys asked. "They find anything?"

His lips tightened. "Arion thinks he's narrowed the location of the Slave World. But no habitable planet in that sector shows any sign of human life." A place of no return, even for Elves. "I've tested more Elysian carriers. Two were infected, covertly, without their own people knowing." His gaze never left Mourners. "Eris had them arsenic-wiped."

Chrys took a deep breath.

"Can you imagine what it's like to lose your entire population? And for others to witness?"

She shook her head. "Why? Why would Eris kill all the innocents? He himself is full of the bad ones."

"I'm sure he replaced them with his own." Daeren's hands clasped and unclasped. "Eris watched me the whole while, learning my methods. Now he's testing his own product on me. Someday the devils are bound to slip past."