Brain Plague

TWENTY-ONE

From the world of Endless Light, hundreds of defectors from the masters had swarmed in, all at once—desperate elders smuggling sick children, as well as agitators and infiltrators. Even years later a few more, unrepentant, were rooted out of hiding in the bone marrow, preparing their secret poisons.

The judges in purple emitted volumes of disgust, enough to permeate the arachnoid. "Such lack of judgment we have never seen," they proclaimed. "You can never know you've found them all; there could be others even we did not find. You should be arsenic-wiped."

Fireweed was about to say that Eleutherians had investigated themselves more thoroughly than did the judges, but she thought better of it. "We are eternally grateful for your assistance—and so are our new citizens." Those who came for a better life had settled in. Engineers and mathematicians, some of them brilliant. In the closed society of Endless Eight, lacking resources as well as freedom of speech, the greatest minds embraced mathematics. The Leader's loss was Eleutheria's gain.

"And your population is in excess again," the judge added. "You're fined ten thousand atoms of palladium."

"We're correcting the problem, as you can taste." The pheromones had been reset to encourage development of elders.

"And next time, don't induce all the foreign children to merge prematurely just to prevent their deportation. It's indecent." Eleutheria had done this for generations to keep the most genetic benefit from immigrant talent.

Fireweed emitted placating pheromones of the highest quality. "Anything else? Surely we can continue this discussion in the nightclub, over AZ." Most people consumed azetidine as quickly as they could absorb it from the blood, but Fireweed had learned Rose's trick of saving some for special occasions.

"Eleutheria!" The judge emitted molecules of exasperation. "You people think you know everything, but you were fooled once. Don't think you won't be fools again."

Her night passed in fitful slumber; she could not awake without remembering and crying herself to sleep again. In the morning, her message light blinked insistently. Chrys roused herself, her eyelids sore, her back aching from strain. Wearily, she fetched a disk of nanotex. The material spread smoothly up her arms and down to her toes.

The sprite was a stranger, an Iridian gentleman with a few modest agates swimming in his talar. "You went to the Slave World. Did you see my son?" A still image followed, a young man in thick nanotex with gem-cutting tools at his side. His short-cropped hair stood up like a brush, and his smile had that half scared look of someone just getting used to adulthood.

The news must have got out. Chrys swallowed. "I—I'm sorry, I can't help you."

"Please—it's been a year since they took him. I know he would send word, if he could. Can't they even let their slaves send word home? Why doesn't the Palace negotiate?"

Her mouth opened, but she could not think what to say.

"Send me your recording," he demanded. "I'll recognize my son."

"It's classified," she said quickly.

The man's face brightened. "So there is a recording. Release it."

Chrys sighed. "Believe me, it won't help you."

"I'll sue to get it released." The man's voice softened. "Please—my only son. He was to take over the stonecutting shop this year, when those plague-ridden pirates got him."

She bit her lip. "If there were anything I could do, believe me, I would. Every week I take my shift in the Underworld, helping folks like your son—"

The man stiffened. "My son never went near the Underworld. He was clean-living, until he was kidnapped." He raised his hands. "Can you go? Negotiate his release? I'll pay ransom."

"No," she whispered. Then aloud, "I can't go back, ever."

"You got your own back! Help me!"

The rest of that morning, the calls came—a daughter, a brother, a grandson lost, the year before, the previous month, or just that week. Several that week, in fact. A lot of good it had done, boiling the world of Endless Light.

In desperation she forwarded all calls to Xenon. Her own work had fallen behind, and the following day she was due to meet Ilia at the Gallery Elysium to preview her exhibit. But when she sat at the painting stage, all she could do was stare.

"New ideas," flashed Lupin, a new elder whose lemon yellow reminded her of Jonquil. "We have new ideas—for advanced compositions. ..."

Her hand, as if on its own, traced a ghostly outline of Daeren's forehead. No good—she was never any good at humans. With a flick of her hand, the shape dissolved in white—pure, even light that filled the entire cube of stage. One more piece, she needed for her show; but what could it be? What pattern of pixels could begin to express what she had undergone?

"Chrysoberyl," called Xenon. "Chief Andra is trying to reach you."

Darkness surrounded Andra's eyes, as if she had not slept much either. "I've spoken with Arion."

"About what?"

"Your treason."

"Oh, right." Tipping off the slaves, though Eris already had.

"If Arion tells the Palace, the Palace octopods will haul you in. Arsenic-wiped first, questions later."

Passage to Solaria; she had to look up the schedule. Solaria was several days journey, with numerous jump folds.

"For now," Andra told her, "Arion agrees to overlook your indiscretion. I traded valuable intelligence—some of the best we ever received. Daeren's brain held high-level defectors, including advisors to the Leader."

"I see." Chrys bit her lip. "You know where that intelligence will go." Straight to Eris.

"I know well enough," Andra coldly replied. "I bought your people's lives, do you understand?"

Chrys looked away. Her heart beat faster. "How is Daeren?"

"The Committee will see."

Above the virtual leaves and the flying fish, someone had set the sky gray, with a fine mist of rain. The Committee members sat close together, humans trading patches all around but avoiding each other's eyes. Sartorius and Flexor both had their worms pulled in, barely twitching.

Opal embraced Chrys. "Thanks," she whispered. For what, Chrys wondered bitterly.

"Why, Andra?" Pyrite shook his head in puzzlement. "Why did he do it?"

Andra looked around the circle. "Ask yourselves. Ask your own people."

Opal looked away, her face deeply creased. Pyrite held his head in his hand as if it ached. "My people were stunned, by the ... by what happened to the Slave World."

"Concerned." Jasper spoke in a low voice as he held Garnet's hand. Garnet looked away without speaking. "We were concerned," Jasper admitted, "about what we heard. We had ... questions."

Chrys stared until her eyes swam. Anger, outrage—all the micro people had turned on Daeren, gave him no peace for helping Arion destroy the Slave World.

Selenite lifted her chin. "Mine were not concerned. Mine had nothing to say about it. The Slave World was an abomination. Daeren did what he had to. I was impressed." Small comfort, thought Chrys. On top of everything, why had Andra made him send half his people to the Deathlord, to be bred into mitochondria?

Jasper's hand tensed, and his throat dipped as he swallowed. "No matter how bad things get, you don't just run to the masters. Think of Andra and Chrys. He must have known we'd risk our lives."

"And all his own people," added Opal. "What became of them?"

"He made a devil's bargain," Andra explained. "The masters took over, but they let the blue angels alone. The masters took most of the arsenic, of course, letting his own people slowly starve. They destroyed the pleasure center, but the blue angels protected his central memory and personality longer than usual." Andra swallowed, her neck like a pillar of stone. "Protected while they starved, hoping for help, knowing none had ever come before."

"But Chrys came," said Opal.

"Yes," said Andra. "Chrys got him back."

Chrys looked up. "Why are you so angry at him?"

Jasper lifted his hands. "Haven't you been listening?"

"Because all of us, every day, think of Endless Light." Andra's voice came faster. "We all know it's there—a burst of heaven, and your troubles are over."

No one denied it. Chrys recalled her own brush with the vampire.

Doctor Sartorius's face worms came alive. "It was only one slip. In his work, Daeren resisted far more encounters than most of us. And even when he gave up, his own people remained faithful. I've never seen that before."

Pyrite looked up hopefully. "Could he have them back?"

Jasper shook his head. "Never. How could he control them?"

Chrys asked, "Why not?"

"Because he'll remember," explained Opal. "Even after he heals, he'll always remember what they can do. Dream of it every night."

"But they want to go back." Andra's face was paler than ever. "All day and all night, the ones I took begged me to send them back."

"Back to Daeren?" Pyrite exclaimed. "After he betrayed and starved them?"

"Even so." Her voice sank to a whisper. "They know he won't survive alone."

"What do you mean, he won't survive?" demanded Chrys. "Plan Ten can heal anything."

Sartorius raised a worm. "The brain heals. But carriers who lose their people die, sometimes even before they leave the clinic."

"How?"

Selenite frowned. "Any way they can, that's how. Chrys, let Sar alone; he doesn't like it any more than you do."

The others looked away. Only Pyrite looked up in surprise; apparently no one had told him either. Chrys tried to remember what life was like before the little rings came to stay. Living alone. Even when she lived with Topaz, she could remember waking up nights in the dark, Topaz fast asleep with her back turned, feeling alone, totally alone in the universe. She recalled it as a fact outside herself; she could no longer imagine, now, what aloneness meant.

Pyrite said at last, "So it's a death sentence."

No one denied it. Garnet stared at Chrys, his irises flashing rapidly.

"They say, you have to do something, God of Mercy," flashed Forget-me-not. "You have to help him."

What more could she do, thought Chrys.

"There may be another way," said the doctor. "An experimental treatment." He paused as if measuring his words. "The blue angels could help us heal him."

In the tranquil sky, a flock of fish flew overhead.

"Out of the question," snapped Jasper. "Daeren didn't just slip, like Garnet; he fell all the way. It will be months before he can feel anything normally."

Doctor Sartorius said, "The blue angels could accelerate the healing process by monitoring the neurons closely, more subtly than the nanos can."

"But in the meantime, how can he carry people in his head and not beg them to make him feel better? And then, for the rest of his life?"

"They'll just have to say no."

"Then who's the master?" Jasper shook his head. "You're condoning slavery."

Selenite leaned forward slightly. "I wonder. You can't live without mitochondria; does that make you their slave?"

Jasper looked at her in surprise. "You always say, rules are rules."

"True, but the rules allow for experimental treatment. We have to stop letting the masters get the better of us." She added, "I think the blue angels can handle it. Last night I found them reasonably well behaved. A bit forward—myself, I'd breed that out of them—but if the good doctor has a plan, I say give it a try."

Throughout this exchange Andra kept quiet. Chrys saw now why she had enlisted Selenite.

"He can't stay at the clinic," the doctor added, "it's a microfree zone. Andra and I can look after him; we'll set up a facility at home."

"What are the gods up to?" Fireweed had been trying to get her attention.

"A stay of execution."

Only a month till her show opened at Gallery Elysium. Chrys met Ilia there with Yyri, Zircon's former lover. The two Elves smiled, their butterflies projecting behind them, golden swallowtails with dots of red and blue.

Yyri stretched out her hands, though careful not to actually touch Chrys. "Why Chrysoberyl," she exclaimed, as if to a long lost friend. "Or, should I say, 'Azetidine'? I haven't seen you since the Seven Stars." The Seven's last show; the recollection felt like another world, light-years away. Suddenly, Ilia and Yyri laughed simultaneously. Their electronic sixth sense must have shared a witticism at the expense of primitive art.

"The God of Many Colors!" Lupin flashed lemon yellow, enthusiastic as old Jonquil. "Can we visit? Their nightclubs are legend."

Ilia met her eyes, but the rings were absent. Chrys hesitated. "Are we—"

"Later, dear," Ilia whispered. Then Chrys realized, Yyri was not a carrier. "Let's review your catalogue from start to finish. First, your early work."

Yyri clapped her hands. "I do love a historical approach. Discern the seeds of genius in one's crudest beginnings."

The first pyroclastic flow Chrys had clumsily attempted, sophomore year, and the one awful self-portrait; these Ilia had insisted on. Pieces that Chrys would have been mortified to reveal to any Iridian dealer now shown in Helicon as signs of incipient genius.

"Lava Butterflies," Ilia nodded to Yyri. "The colors struck my eye." Her first piece with Eleutherian collaboration, signed with the molecule Azetidine.

"She was your find, my dear." Yyri's eye savored the more recent volcanoes, the lava flowing upward into arachnoid stalactites, all bearing Chrys's Eleutherian nom d'art. "The form oscillates between the macrocosm and the microcosm. Imponderable imagination."

Ilia leaned toward Chrys, a gleam in her eye. "Silicon—is it final?"

Chrys caught her breath. She had yet to give Jasper the bad news. She made herself smile. "Still negotiating. You know how ... sentients are."

"We'd love to include the model. We'll save a place for it."

Yyri clasped her hands. "Quite a coup, Ilia. Silicon—radical concept—people are just beside themselves."

The cerebral landscapes and portraits followed, taking up the bulk of the show. Little colored rings careening through the arachnoid, tasting their nightclubs and their calculator cells. Ilia nodded at each, as if at a familiar neighborhood.

"An otherworldly universe," exclaimed Yyri. "I've never seen anything quite so ... alien."

Ilia's hand swept toward Fern, the ring of green filaments twinkling the commandments of Eleutheria. "Let's bring her out front, like a greeter. She looks so friendly."

Fern, Aster, Jonquil. It was harder than Chrys had expected to face them, world-sized, exposed to public view. She had wanted to show only portraits from the other carriers, but Ilia had insisted these were the best. So here they all were, spaced at intervals against a black dome, constellations within some foreign galaxy. Chrys felt overwhelmed, as if in a crowd of a hundred people talking.

Yyri smiled more broadly than ever, though her eyes looked puzzled. Then her face relaxed. "Of course, dear, I see. Such extraordinary rendering of personality."

The next hall contained Jonquil's inspirations. It made Chrys's palms sweat to see them, all those off-color depictions of children merging and worse, all together in one place, but Ilia had insisted on every one. Yyri smiled politely, then suddenly stared as Ilia's sixth sense reached her. "Oh my," she exclaimed. "How exquisitely provocative. Though perhaps . .. some might take exception, do you think, dear?"

Ilia's eyes gleamed. A moment's silence, then two heads nodded. "A curtain at the door, and a warning."

"We Elysians take children very seriously," Yyri added, as if Chrys might think otherwise. Elf children were raised in precious nurseries deep within each city, with every conceivable resource showered upon them, from education to entertainment for fifty years.

"And here," Ilia added, "we have political statement." In a place of prominence beside a dramatic ornamental fountain, Ilia had placed Mourners at an Execution and Seven Stars with the Hunter.

Yyri clasped her hands. "Our Guardian of Peace will have a stroke."

Ilia murmured, "Perhaps it might knock some sense into his head." Then she turned to Chrys. "Your latest works? We've expanded another hall."

Chrys cleared her throat. "I wanted to show you in person, for your approval." She blinked at her window to download the scenes from the masters. Cadaverous micros crowded the brain of a half-dead host, like worms in rotting flesh. After much thought, she had placed Rose's portrait here, next to the towering, obsessively monumental vision of her beloved Leader.

Ilia sucked in her breath. Beside her, Yyri at first looked puzzled. Then Yyri's creamy complexion paled, revealing every vein. A brief glance at Chrys, as though the artist had gone mad. "I don't know, Ilia. You're right, the citizens need to know, but..."

The minutes of silence lengthened, while the Leader's interminable speech kept flashing. At last the two heads nodded. "We'll need to hire ..." Ilia paused dramatically. "... security."

"The Gallery hasn't needed . .. security," Yyri added, "for a hundred years."

"A hundred twenty," Ilia corrected. "That Solarian performance artist, remember?"

Yyri waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing compared to this. The very foundations of our society, shaken to the bone."

Ilia took a deep breath, then turned to Chrys. "You promised us another Endless Light."

"Oh, right." She quickly downloaded the block of pure white, the one she had stared at after Daeren's rescue, unable to do more. "There you are. Endless Light."

Yyri clapped her hands. "Of course." She sounded relieved. "Minimalism. Your talent is so versatile, dear."

That night the snake-eggs interviewed Eris, the Guardian of Cultural Affairs, about the Gallery's upcoming exhibit. Eris—She had not seen Arion's deadly "brother" since the day he left his false blue angels hiding in her brain. His sprite in her window made her hair stand on end.

"Our season's premiere exhibition will prove more controversial than usual," the secret slave admitted, his voice at its most charming. "But educational," he stressed. "In these difficult times, we Elysians must learn to master and bend to our will the forces that threaten us from less civilized realms."

The snake-egg bobbed in his face. "So you support the judgment of the gallery director? Will this 'educational' exhibit be safe for the classes of school children that tour every fall?"

Eris smiled condescendingly. "Of course I support my gallery staff. I myself have acquired a first-class Azetidine for my personal collection." Another word, thought Chrys, and she'd head for the sink.

"And now," said the snake-egg, "for a view from Valedon regarding the cultural contributions of microbes, we bring you the Palace physician."

The Palace physician, a worm-faced advisor to the Protector, draped himself like a lord. "The brain plague endangers all law-abiding citizens," the doctor proclaimed, emeralds and adamants glittering beneath his worms. "Even regulated 'carriers' are essentially slaves to their microbial masters. In the long run, their supposed contributions to culture will be viewed in the same light as the psychedelic delusions of humans under the influence of toxic neurochemicals." A couple of worms raised for emphasis. "Fortunately, we can help the all plague carriers overcome their addiction and modulate their minds with our own pharmaceuticals."

Slaves in Elysium, mind-suckers in Valedon. Chrys made the Dolomite hand sign against evil.

She took the night off to escort Lady Moraeg to Olympus. Lord Carnelian was still absent, put off by her micros, but Moraeg would give no one the satisfaction of a sign of grief.

"Keep your eyes off the caryatids," warned Chrys.

Moraeg regarded one with disdain. "That old trick."

"Carriers are really very nice people," Chrys hurried to add. "They just have, um, unusual customs."

"Moraeg!" Opal embraced her. "So good to see you. That diamond," she exclaimed. "Such an distinctive cut."

Moraeg smiled. "An original, from the jewels of Ulragh."

"I thought as much." Opal's eyes flashed colors. "May we visit?"

Chrys turned away, seeking Andra. How was Daeren?—It had been two days since his blue angels came home.

Garnet caught her hand. "Chrys, it's been so long." His eyes twinkled. "You never check your investments. I could be bribing you again."

She shrugged. "The least of my sins."

He leaned closer to whisper. "Where the devil is Carnelian? Put off by us?"

Chrys sighed.

"He's been a Hyalite client for years. I'll have a word with him."

There was Andra, reclining beside a redwood tree. Chrys had to wait to catch her alone. "How is Daeren?"

Andra thought a moment. "Medically, he's making progress. But his mind—" She hesitated. "He's not trying."

"It's only been two days."

"Too long, for his people. Too many generations of anguish."

"Why isn't he trying, Andra?"

Andra looked as if she had much more to say, but would not. "We'll see."

Suddenly tired, Chrys sank into a seat, refusing the delicacies from the caryatid. Jasper sat next to her and touched her hand. Dismayed, she remembered that Jasper did not yet know that her people couldn't handle Silicon. "Are you sure you won't try the lamb berries?" Jasper asked. "They're new from L'li."

"I'm not hungry." Reluctantly, she passed him the transfer patch.

Jasper puffed on his pipe, his short thumb tapping restlessly at the stem. "We're waiting to hear," he reminded her. "Anything I can do?"

She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Jasper. We can't do the job."

He nodded. "I understand. I'll come back with a better offer."

"No, I mean it." She struggled to explain. "The Eleutherians say they can't do it. They'd need a computer too big to fit inside my head."

Jasper's expression did not change. "We knew that."

"You did?"

"We were aware of the theoretical problem. But since it didn't come up in negotiations, I hoped they had it solved."

She grimaced at this optimism. "They haven't."

He set the pipe down. "Well, as I said, we'll come back with a better offer. After all, the job will take longer.

Chrys was astonished. "A better offer—for a job we can't do?"

"Chrys, this project is unprecedented. Elysium hasn't built a new city in over twelve centuries. And now, a dynamic form, to grow of nanoplast. Entirely new technologies will be needed. The sentient engineers, too, have several fundamental problems unsolved."

"But—but it's sheer lunacy."

"Do you suppose the builders of the first Pyramid knew exactly how they'd complete it?"

"But what if we fail?"

"You'll succeed," Jasper assured her. "The math problem, they will solve. They'll fail in other ways. Who knows—maybe Silicon won't be finished in your lifetime, or perhaps never, like the ancient temple of Asragh, forever missing its tallest spire. Even if it does reach completion, someone will want to kill you, for one good reason or another."

"Selenite will," she added ruefully.

"That's why Selenite never gets these jobs herself. But you'll handle it. How long since you've walked on lava?"

She swallowed, thinking, I'm getting too old for lava.

The next day Opal called. "Selenite's at the hospital. Her people got in trouble."

Chrys stared. "Not the minions?"

Opal hesitated. "I think the blue angels emboldened them. They'd never seen people so totally unafraid, even when forced to live at her mercy."

At the hospital Chrys held Selenite's hand. Selenite's face was creased, and she blinked more rapidly than usual. Chrys made herself smile. "Can I help? Send over a few 'libertines' to lecture them?"

"They took their own lives," Selenite whispered. "Twenty of them. Protesting one execution." She struggled to raise herself in bed. "The blue angels inspired them."

"Well, now," said Opal, seated by the bed. "Blue angels never hurt themselves."

"But they encourage disobedience. Chrys, I was wrong," Selenite added. "The blue angels are not safe—they're the most dangerous strain we have."

Opal's eyes met Chrys's for a long while.

"One True God, let the wizards visit," flashed Fireweed. "We've founded a new school of mathematics."

"Could you take half her caseload?" Opal asked at last. "I know it's hard, with your show coming up."

"I'll manage." In fact, Chrys had painted nothing since Endless Light. She wondered if she could ever paint again.

The message light; Andra appeared. "Chrys, Sar and I have to leave town for three days, on personal business. Could you stay over here and look after Daeren? The house has the full medical capacity of the clinic, but in case his people need help, we need a human carrier."