Brain Plague

TWENTY-THREE

Forget-me-not was appalled. "To see a god sunk so low that he needs redemption from people."

"A mystery beyond understanding," agreed Fireweed.

"And yet," said Forget-me-not, "out of the mystery comes a Golden Age. Our arachnoid is richer than ever, pulsing with phenylethylamine." The molecules produced by divine love.

Fireweed flashed a greeting to the visiting blue angels, who would spend the next generation with Eleutheria. The blue angels amazed her with their tales of the divine Underworld, which their ancestors had frequented with the Lord of Light. The Underworld, they said, had given birth to the Lord of Light, and to many other gods unseen, some without a home, even a window of their own. "What do you think of this Underworld?" she asked Forget-me-not. "We went there to recruit defectors, yet I never really knew what it was about. How could God lack windows?"

"There are homeless gods, just as we have homeless mutants."

"One True God; yet the One are Many." Fireweed's vision deepened. Even if there were only One True God, that god took many forms, a different form for each people. And none should go unseen. Every god needs a window. Perhaps, she envisioned, Eleutheria had greater windows yet to build, beyond even Silicon.

As Chrys neared her front door, the undaunted snake-eggs swarmed. "Oh, Xenon," she called. "Might we have some 'octopods'?"

From the walls beside the caryatids emerged a phalanx of 'octopods,' their limbs striped with horrifying black and orange. Immediately the snake-eggs dispersed. With a short laugh, Chrys passed between the two outer caryatids.

At her door, she caught sight of one last snake-egg hovering some feet away, at the level of her knees. "So you're the brave one."

The undaunted snake-egg said, "Anyone could see those octopods were fake."

Her eyes widened. "You can tell fact from fiction?"

"I'm a professional. I seek the truth."

Professional what, she was tempted to say.

The snake-egg added, "My name is Quinx."

"Come in, Quinx." The snake-egg followed her up the stairs, at a respectful distance. There crouched Merope, ready to pounce on this tempting prey. "I'll give you an exclusive interview," Chrys added, "if you just tell the truth."

"Fair enough," said Quinx. "We'll start with where you were born, your parents and so on."

Her arms tensed. "Leave my parents out of this."

"But that's the sort of thing people want to know."

"I don't want snake-eggs bothering my family."

"You should avoid ethnic slurs in public," Quinx pointed out. "We are called 'journalists.' We'll send your parents a human, if necessary. But we generally find the rural public more impressed by journalists than urbanites are."

This urban journalist had never met the like of her parents, she thought. "Another thing—I am sick to death of hearing about Titan. Always 'just like Titan,' or 'nothing like Titan.' Can't you just write about me?"

"Titan was yesterday's news. Believe me, people will forget about Titan when they hear the truth about you."

In the wee hours, Chrys roused just enough to see Fireweed's letters flashing. "One True God! We've done it at last."

"Done what?" she sleepily replied.

"We solved the problem of Silicon. We have the mathematical tools to grow the city."

"Congratulations."

"The construction costs will only increase by a factor of two."

Predictably, Selenite was furious. "A two-fold increase in our estimate?" her sprite demanded in Chrys's ear. "After winning a competitive bid?" Her expression spoke volumes unuttered, probably how this was even worse than Titan. But perhaps her own "slip," from which she'd now recovered, had left her slower to judge. "Let's take it to Jasper."

They met with Jasper at Olympus, over ambrosia and meat-fruits, the virtual singing-trees arching above. Chrys described the predicament, adding, "Before you say anything, let's get one thing straight. Not another word about dead dynatects."

"Live ones are enough trouble." Jasper's brow wrinkled briefly, then he shrugged. "Before we face the board, I'll have the brains in the back room take a look."

Seeing her puzzlement, Selenite explained, "The sentient engineers who do the real work. They don't even stoop to human speech. You don't suppose those board members could build so much as a tube stop, do you?"

"I kind of wondered."

Jasper nodded. "Maybe the brains can bring it down to, say, an increase of fifty percent. By the way," he warned, "you'll have to raise Selenite's cut, proportionately."

"It's an outrage," Selenite exclaimed. "Runaway costs, wasteful consumption." She added, "But I'm getting used to it."

Chrys kept Daeren's sprite hovering above the painting stage, between Fern's and Hal's, and she stopped by Andra to see him every day. One day she brought Opal and Garnet.

As they reached Andra's invisible door, Opal beamed with excitement. Garnet was more reserved, but he held between his hands a large dark sphere. Chrys eyed it with suspicion. "Like, a bomb?"

"Please," sighed an octopod. "It's been years since anyone tried anything."

Garnet looked shocked. "Flowers."

They met Daeren out by the swimming pool. Opal threw her arms around him and kissed the top of his head. "How could you stay away so long? We've missed you so."

His face darkened with confusion, but he was not displeased. "I've been busy."

"Working too hard as usual. And the blue angels? Just a peek?" She took out a transfer patch. Chrys felt vaguely jealous but checked herself.

Garnet set down the sphere. It sprouted a red carnation. There followed lilies, rosebuds, even Prokaryan ringflowers, live plast imitating live plants. "Olympus just doesn't feel right without you." He rested his arm lightly on Daeren's shoulder.

"You'll be pleased to hear," Opal said, "we're working on better communication with the non-carriers. We're not to call them 'virgins' anymore. They're 'independents.'"

"Sounds reasonable," Daeren agreed.

Garnet added, "We've been talking with Carnelian about how we can help the 'independents' fight the brain plague."

Opal nodded. "All those defectors your brain brought back— we've put their intelligence to good use."

Garnet's gaze took in the glittering pool and the headball court beyond. "Excellent taste, though claustrophobic, I'd say. It must be tough being trapped in here," he observed, kneading Daeren's shoulder. "Watching your investments grow. Wondering why the seven are but seven."

"I was a fool," Daeren sighed. "Now they'll never let me back. Not for what I used to do."

Chrys felt numb. It was hard to imagine Daeren doing anything else.

Opal squeezed his hand. "Wait and see."

"I know the rules," he said shortly.

Garnet raised a hand. "I know what you can do. You can come serve at the Spirit Table. Jasper and I go there every week. It's just the thing for you."

Daeren smiled. "You're right, I could serve at the Spirit Table. There are any number of things I could do. But what about the blue angels? All their tradition of relief work, and nothing left to do except look after me."

After Opal and Garnet left, Chrys took a dip in the pool. Then she and Daeren rested at the far end, water rippling around their arms entwined, as they watched Garnet's "flowers" grow and collapse to grow anew.

"The truth is," Daeren exclaimed, "I'm tired of chasing addicts who will only run back the first chance they get. I'd like to get back to law, and acquire a place like this."

The virtual sunset gleamed across the swimming pool, glinting off the sapphires. "Sounds good to me," Chrys smiled. "I'll be your worm-face."

Daeren sat on in silence, a hand stroking her breast. "Chrys," he asked thoughtfully, "what is 'fenestration'?"

"The placement of windows? Why do you ask?"

"Just like to know what your people are chatting about."

"One True God," flashed Fireweed. "We have a vision. A new work lies before us—even greater than Silicon."

Chrys absorbed this news with deepening suspicion. "What sort of work?"

"A new building plan. Commissioned by the blue angels."

Forget-me-not added, "We've installed a branch office with the Lord of Light."

"With divine permission?"

"Of course. What do you take us for?"

She looked accusingly at Daeren. "You didn't tell me."

"Tell you what?"

She sculled the water with her hands. "What's your project?" she demanded of Fireweed.

"Rebuild the Underworld."

"House the gods as they deserve," added Forget-me-not.

"Homes, schools, playgrounds," flashed yellow Lupin. "All with the cooperation of the inhabitants—not just a building grown from seed. Incalculable problems to solve. Truly a challenge worthy of the highest intellect."

Chrys crossed her arms. "This was your idea," she told Daeren.

"I'm not allowed to have ideas, remember?" he said. "Just obey."

"And how will it be financed?"

"Our profits from Silicon, to begin with," flashed Lupin. "Then we'll raise funds from all our neighbors. We have ways."

Chrys put her head in her hands. She imagined what Jasper and Selenite would say.

As her exhibition date neared, the brain plague worsened. Whole sections of Level One were abandoned, and every morning dead vampires appeared in the streets. The Palace doubled the patrols of octopods, but that did little good against a menace unseen.

From Elysium, it was rumored that Elf children experimented with "visitors." Kept in school for fifty years, they'd be bored enough to try anything. All in all, the reports did little to dispel tension over her upcoming show.

"Might you bring an octopod to your Opening?" ventured Xenon. "A real one, in camouflage."

"Elysium won't allow it. They're above security," she observed. "Even the Gallery had to get a special dispensation to post a guard."

"Their medical response system is the Fold's finest," Xenon assured her.

"I hope I don't find out."

The Fall Opening at the Gallery Elysium was the foremost cultural event of the year. Chrys herself had never attended in person, but she had always watched through her window as Elysium's most refined millennial citizens mingled with Valedon's most famous and infamous. This year she found herself at the window's other side.

The snake-eggs buzzed so loud one could barely hear, and the multicolored butterflies projecting behind all the talars mingled so confusingly that one hardly saw the art. But then, most people on Opening night were there less to see than to be seen. Chrys herself wore a talar of burnt dark red, shading into infrared that only the privileged could see, her hair flowing thick past her shoulders.

At her side hovered Ilia, filling in occasional responses for her to answer the more abstruse questions she was asked. "Pathbreaking," Ilia assured a butterfly-swirling visitor. "The most pathbreaking exhibit we've ever done."

The visitor would not touch Ilia, of course, but impulsively caught a fold of her talar. There was a lot of clasping of talars, as highly placed Elves tried to show the world how intimate they were with those even more highly placed. They kept more of a distance from "Azetidine," however. Perhaps it was the hair, or the infrared. Or perhaps it was the hint of scandal that put a strain in some smiles, the furtive glances toward the white curtain.

A group of Elf students strolled in parti-colored jumpsuits. They looked and acted her brother's age, though in actual years they were probably closer to her own. Their guide spent a lot of time at Chrys's old self-portrait, making the point that even great artists had to begin the hard way. She wondered whether the guide would let them beyond the curtain.

A Valan lady, obsidian with a lava sheen, wearing a diamond tiara. "Moraeg!" Chrys had wondered if any of the old Seven would come. She caught Moraeg's arms.

"Indecent contact," warned a voice from the ceiling. "You are fined one hundred credits. To appeal this ruling ..."

Chrys turned as dark as her hair, but Moraeg laughed. "These quaint Elf customs. It's too funny, isn't it, dear?"

Beside Lady Moraeg, Lord Carnelian wore his finest gray talar with one blood-colored namestone. "So pleased to see my taste confirmed."

"Thanks," said Chrys, recalling the old rent credit. How good it felt to see them both together again.

Ilia nodded graciously. "I understand, Lord Carnelian, you were the first patron of Azetidine, in her early period. How discerning."

The crowd parted, as it always did for Zircon. Among Elves, he looked more of a giant than ever. He patted Chrys's hair three times, despite the Elysian fine for each. "Chrys—I can't believe it." Glancing at the protective curtain, he looked back at her in frank astonishment. "You of all people."

"Thanks, Urban Shaman."

Amid all the colors, one talar stood out in plain white. There stood Daeren.

All else receded, except Daeren's face, and the blood pounding in her ears. Reaching him, she grasped a fold of his talar. "They let you out."

"Just till midnight. Andra's ship expects me then."

She smiled. "I'll make sure we make it."

"Great One, we need to do business with the blue angels and our long lost cousins. A question of fenestration."

His eyes glittered blue and red. Chrys overflowed with happiness. "I hope you like the show."

Daeren nodded. "I can't see much for all the butterflies, but I know your work by heart. I'm impressed that Arion let you show Seven Stars and the Hunter."

"He wasn't asked." Her lip curved down. "He wants people, though, so bad he can taste it."

"Let's hope he doesn't get his wish."

In her ear Ilia whispered, "Dear, prepare yourself. We have a difficult guest."

Startled, she turned. Emerging from the curtain was Eris.

The Guardian of Cultural Affairs spoke to his companions, and they shared a laugh. That laughter she hadn't heard since the day Eris left his people in her brain to take over. Chrys's scalp tightened, and she gripped Daeren's talar till her knuckles turned white. "Saints and angels," she breathed, instinctively making the old sign against evil. "How dare he come?"

Ilia rolled her eyes. "How dare he not? The Gallery Opening is the cultural event of the year."

Seeming not to notice them, Eris turned this way and that, acknowledging the fawning of his fellow Elves, tossing off remarks about superior aesthetics and the uplifting of less advanced societies. At last he caught sight of Daeren. He paused, with a look of surprise. Two slaves, Chrys thought—one freed, the other in chains.

"So soon," Eris observed. "The good doctor's standards must be slipping."

"Your eyes are green, Eris," Daeren returned. "What color are mine?"

Eris shifted his gaze slightly toward Chrys, though his eyes did not meet hers either. "The lovely artist." He added, "Consorting with the fallen."

Chrys released Daeren's talar and stepped forward between the two of them. "Eris, it's been so long. Your people miss you."

Another look of surprise. "They survived? They must have pleased you, 'Oh Great One.'" He watched with satisfaction as her face colored. "Would you like some more?"

"The false blue angels fear our sight," flashed Fireweed. "For generations, we've prepared."

Chrys lifted her chin. "Yes, Eris. I'd like some more." Trapped, the deadly micros would serve as evidence even Arion could not ignore.

Looking beyond her, Eris turned aside. As he passed, he murmured, "You shall have your wish."

For the rest of the evening, as Chrys smiled and nodded to one notable after another, she could not shake her lingering dread. What if Eris, or one of his secret slaves, caught her unawares? What if the Gallery didn't see them touch her with a patch?

Just before midnight, she left with Daeren. Outside all was quiet, not a snake-egg in sight.

"You'll be late," Andra's ship accused in her window.

"Don't worry, he's with me."

Suddenly Daeren caught her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers. Their bodies melded together as if they were one.

"A grave act of indecency," came a shocked voice from the street. "Ten thousand credits ..."

She threw her head back and laughed, her hair dancing.

"Sorry," he told her, "I had to let you know how much I want you."

"It's worth ten times more."

As they wandered back toward the transit, a lone snake-egg zipped past them, faster than usual, Chrys thought. It dove forwards and back like a hummingbird defending its territory. Then it whizzed just past her leg, to disappear amongst the trees full of sleeping butterflies.

Where the snake-egg had passed, her leg burned. Chrys started rubbing the spot on her calf. "It stung me."

"What?" Daeren bent to inspect her ankle. "I don't like it."

"It feels better now." But she remembered Eris. "Emergency alert," she warned her people. "Check the circulation."

"We'll check every capillary. We're prepared."

A siren blared. Apparently, the Elves had sent help, too. A medical hovercraft appeared, hovering for a landing.

"The Fold's finest," Chrys exclaimed with relief.

Three rotund sentients rolled out while the hovercraft spouted about her right to receive or refuse treatment. Slapping their tubes around her leg, their tests took an interminable amount of time to pronounce the limb sound. Minutes lengthened to an hour.

Daeren shifted from one foot to the other. "I still don't like it. I won't rest till you get home."

"One True God, we have a problem. A strange toxin has appeared in the blood."

"A toxin? To poison me?"

"Not yourself, but us. It chelates arsenic, ripping the atoms from our flesh. Two have already died."

Her head shot up. "Doctor? Can you get rid of the toxin that's killing my people?"

"Which people?" The sentient rolled back and forth as if puzzled.

"The micro people. Inside me."

"Micros," observed the other doctor. "Sure, we can sweep you for arsenic. These days, it's highly recommended."

Chrys took a step back. "Is that all you know... about micros?"

"Chrys," said Daeren gently, "this is Elysium. Only a few carriers, and they keep private doctors."

"Perhaps Ilia could—"

"Let's get home."

They hurried to the transit stop, where a bubble loomed out of the fluid-filled tube. Within the bubble, seats molded to their form.

"One True God, the danger grows," warned Fireweed. "There is more and more of the toxin."

Why would the poison keep growing, she wondered. "Can't you destroy it?"

"We can, but it appears faster than we can get rid of it. Even a single molecule kills."

"At this rate, most of us will die within a generation."

Chrys fought rising panic. "Can you protect the children?"

"We can encapsulate them. But they'll lose the ability to merge."

"Daeren ... could you take their children? Just till we get back—"

"No," he exclaimed. "I'm still a long way from normal. You can't trust me with children."

"We've found the source of the problem. An RNA plasmid infected your white blood cells. It replicates in the cytoplasm of each cell, where it makes the toxin. To eliminate the source, we'd have to kill all your white cells."

"Daeren—they can't last the trip. They're going to die." She could hardly believe her own words, but she shook in every limb. Eris—this was his work.

Daeren's hands clenched and unclenched. "Call Ilia Papilishon," he told the transit.

Ilia's sprite appeared in her window. "Dear, what a success! The show—"

"We're in trouble," Chrys cut in. "My micros—they've been poisoned. They have to get out of me. Please—can you take the children?"

Ilia's eyes widened. She drew in a sharp breath. "One doesn't speak of such things." Her sprite winked out.

Silence lengthened. Damn Ilia, Chrys thought. Damn Arion too, and every damned Elf on the turquoise moon.

"I'll take them," said Daeren.

"You can't."

"Just till we get home."

"We'll get the children ready," flashed Forget-me-not. "We'll confine them to one cistern, and we'll keep watch over the Lord of Light."

It would take several passes to send them all. After the third transfer, Daeren took a deep breath. "Chrys, I think that's all I can manage. Children get into trouble; they're too curious."

She sat back and stared ahead, numb with the dying inside. Ahead the flowing bubble merged with another from the side. More Elf passengers with their refined ways, blind to genocide in their midst. How many others had Eris done in this way—only to replace them with his own?

"We're encapsulating nearly everyone. We can last a while, but we will slowly starve."

"What if false blue angels are hiding in my bones?"

"We've set traps for them."

From the front of the bubble, where the new passengers merged, came a figure veiled in white. The figure moved toward them slowly as a ghost. Chrys stared, every muscle taut. It wouldn't take much to knock one Elf clear across the car, no matter what the fine.

The stranger came right up to Chrys and stopped. The veil parted at the face. Chrys let out a cry.

It was Ilia. "Do what you have to." Ilia's eyes darted back and forth, then met hers. "You're not the first, you know."

"The rest of the children . . . you can take them?" Chrys passed her the transfer.

Daeren said, "We're forever in your debt, Ilia."

"Why?" exclaimed Chrys. "Why do you let this go on?"

Ilia adjusted her veil. "If the Guard knew, they'd wipe us all. Only Arion acknowledges the micros are people. The others don't want to know." For a moment Ilia's features wrinkled as if very old. "Your show will change that, but it will take time. Elysians have time, but our micros don't."

Daeren shook his head. "Elysians don't have time either." The precious Elf students in their jumpsuits, cared for till age fifty. "Experimenting" with micros.

The veil closed. Ilia moved off, carrying the last of Eleutheria's children.

Back at Andra's home, the doctor's worms encircled her scalp. "All your micros have to go," he told Chrys. "It will take a day to clear out your white cells and accelerate new ones from the bone marrow. All the while you'll be cleared of arsenic, in case false blue angels emerge. We've found we can't always find them in the bone."

"You can't?" Chrys asked. Arion had himself wiped daily and thought he was safe from Eris.

Andra gave a grim smile. "Medicine's never perfect. That's why they need lawyers. Daeren," she began warningly.

"I know," said Daeren, "I violated the protocol. But her people would have died out."

"They wouldn't be the first."

"But I couldn't just—"

"If Sar and I don't report you, we're all in violation. All our people too."

The four of them were silent. Only the holostage flickered, Chrys's vital signs scanning down.

Andra held out a patch to Chrys. "You can give me another hundred thousand," she said. "That's all I can take. Other Olympians will take the rest."

Opal arrived, and Selenite. Chrys sat there, feeling drained, Daeren's arm tight around her as the patch went back and forth, dispersing the Eleutherian refugees. Still more to go—Jasper and Garnet each took their share, then Pyrite and Zircon.

At last, for the final few, Moraeg. Diamonds swirling like a starry night; that night, Chrys remembered, when the Seven had planned their last show. Find your own way, Moraeg had told Chrys. Now it had come to this. Back where she started.

Moraeg bent over her. "It's only for a day, isn't it?"

The doctor warned, "It won't be easy, but you'll make it."

What did he mean, she wondered. Carriers who lost their people "didn't last," out of longing. But this was just for a day. The patch transferred one last time.

"One True God," flashed Fireweed. "All the rest have gone. I alone remain. My time is short, but I vowed to be yours until the end."

The doctor's worms flexed. "Are they all clear?"

"Except one," Chrys whispered. Fireweed had stayed, like a hermit upon Mount Dolomoth, alone with her God. Perhaps every believer in One True God secretly yearned to be the one true worshiper.

Daeren squeezed her hand. "Some of mine did the same. Sar had to—"

"Never mind." The doctor made a rare interruption. "The micro can't last long, without taking food or risking the toxin. The arsenic wipe can wait."

Before she could rest, Chrys had to sketch her portrait of the doomed Fireweed, the infrared letters flashing faithfully. At last she went to bed with Daeren, falling into a troubled sleep. Early in the morning, thrashing with troubled dreams, she woke. "They're gone!" she cried. "Daeren—"

He held her tight. "They're not gone. See?" His own eyes flickered, all the colors of the stars, a million light-years away.

"They're gone from me. I can't help it; I feel as if—" She was tumbling over and over, like the time she fell weightless in the dead spacecraft.

"That happened to me," Daeren said. "The inner ear goes off because they're not there, and you're disoriented without them."

Tumbling forever, falling through space; it was so unbearable, she thought she would die. But the tumbling only went on.

"Give them back," she found herself shouting. "Just one—"

"It will pass," he quietly insisted.

"Let the false ones out of the bone. At least they can stop it—" She hardly knew what she shouted, until the doctor returned to adjust something. Then she slept, half rousing now and then, back to troubled sleep.

In the morning she did not care if she slept or woke. Her surroundings receded, all seemed far away. "Can you tell me?" Daeren was pleading to get her to talk. "Tell me what's going on."

Chrys could not even shake her head. Empty and dark, her mind was an abyss.

"They still remember you," he promised. "Even the children. Look, you have to eat; they'll be hungry."

The doctor's worm rested on Daeren's shoulder. "Depression," he said. "We can take the edge off, but too much will endanger their return."

Daeren gave up talking. He drew her close, resting her head on his chest. He stayed with her all the rest of the day. She knew he was there, though she could not feel it, could feel nothing but aloneness, the most intense sense of being lost. Like that time when she was small, she had wandered too far from home and had spent the night out on the mountain. Now the mountain rose across the universe, and there was no way back home, ever.

"Another hour." Sartorius kept coming back from the hospital to let her know. "You got through another hour; just four more."

That evening, at last Andra returned. "Sar, are you sure?"

The doctor's worms twined. "Reasonably certain. No trace of the viral RNA can be found."

Turning to Chrys, Andra took out a patch. "Are you ready?"

Chrys heard the question twice before she could speak. "I'm not sure."

"It's okay," coaxed Daeren. "They're coming back. They're fine; they miss you, that's all."

"I don't know." She slowly shook her throbbing head. "What if it ever happened again? I couldn't face it."

"But they need you." Daeren turned the lights down. On the holostage, in the darkness, the green filaments twinkled, Fern, the first one, generations past, flashing her last words of wisdom for Eleutheria. "As we would receive mercy, so must we grant it in turn. ..."

The vision roused her, as if from a trance. For a moment she was back on the day Fern first came to visit, then to stay. She swallowed, her mouth dry. "Let me see just one."

The first flicker of yellow in her eye. "Cheers!" flashed yellow Lupin. "There's no place like home. When's your next show?"

Slowly she smiled. It was going to be all right.

"The children, next," offered Daeren. "With a few blue angels to help them resettle. It's what they're good at."

Throughout the evening, the Olympians came back, each returning their share of the lost generation. Opal kissed her on both cheeks. "They've founded another new school of something or other; I hope you don't mind," she added. "And that RNA plasmid—that won't fool us again."

Chrys found herself laughing, almost giddy with relief.

Selenite returned hers. "They weren't so bad," she assured Chrys. "Hypercorrect, in fact. But I wasn't fooled." She grinned. "I know their tricks now. We'll get on so much better."

Jasper patted her arm. "They certainly know how to flatter their host," he agreed. "I foresee a long and prosperous business relationship."

"We'll miss them," sighed Garnet. "They brought so much palladium, and spent it all."

"They're outrageous!" Zircon actually looked alarmed. "No offense, Chrys, but—do you know what your people did? They made their own ethanol and got drunk in all our restaurants."

"And who encouraged that?"

"My people abstain," the giant assured her, patting her head. "But that's okay. We tolerate the vices of others."

Pyrite returned his, and Moraeg hers. By now the mood was getting festive; it almost felt like the old times at Olympus.

"God of Mercy," called Forget-me-not. "Please—half the children are missing, still unaccounted for. What became of them?"

Chrys frowned, trying to think. She counted off all the Olympians. Then her head shot up. "Saints and angels. The last place I want to go back is—"

There stood Ilia, her virtual butterflies fluttering out over the sapphire pool. "Hope I didn't keep you waiting."

The laughter died, everyone's attention caught by the diminutive Elysian. Regally, she approached to hand Chrys the last transfer. "Truly a unique aesthetic experience," she observed. "And to think I'd always found all your 'people' so ..." Her gaze swept the group, coming at last to rest upon Andra. "... conventional."

"Thanks, Ilia," said Andra. "We'll remember."

She turned to Chrys. "You heard, of course, about your show."

"Heard what?"

"The Guard closed it down."

"Oh, no."

Ilia's eyes gleamed. "For violating public standards of decency, morality, and security."

"I'm so sorry."

She waved a hand dismissively. "We appealed and got it reopened within an hour. Now the lines to get in stretch for three blocks." She added triumphantly, "And I've been called to testify before the Guard. That hasn't happened to the Gallery since our first millennium."

"I see."

"We'll all see," promised Ilia. "If Arion won't take a stand, perhaps someone else will."

At last all had left for the night, except for Daeren, who sat perusing one of his legal documents on the holostage.

"We'll remember," promised Forget-me-not. "The poisoned veins, the sacrifice of Fireweed, and our flight to the ten worlds. And in our Great Diaspora, we have learned some things about the true meaning of Eleutheria."

"I've learned, too," Chrys reflected. "I would have taken the false ones—anything. The virgins are right; we are addicted."

" 'Independents,' " Daeren corrected, without turning around. "They're addicted to oxygen."

"Carriers share everything." She whispered, "But Daeren, it's different with you."

He half turned, his face set hard. "Are you sure?"

He was actually jealous. She went to him and knelt, crossing her arms in his lap. "You're still my one Lord of Light."

Daeren's face softened. He picked her up and carried her off to bed, kissing her madly. This time, at last, they both had their fill. "God of Mercy," he whispered. "I live or die at your pleasure."

In the morning, Andra brought bad news. "Someone told the Palace. We're all summoned—Sar and I, and both of you."

Across the pool flooded the virtual rising sun. Heaven was always too short. Chrys sighed. "So what do we do?"

Andra put her hands together. "I cut a deal." As usual. "Sar goes to the Palace for interrogation. They'll rake him over, but they owe him for Zoisite. The rest of us go to Arion."

"Arion?" asked Chrys. "Why?"

"The first Elf children have succumbed to plague." Andra let this sink in. "Now, at last, Arion swears he will hear the truth."

"We've told him nothing else."

"The whole truth," Andra emphasized.

"Do you believe him?"

Andra was silent. The silence expanded, like ripples on the pool. "Until now, I have. Now, for the first time . . . I'm no longer sure. His eyes did not quite meet mine."

Chrys closed her eyes as if to shut it all out. Then she forced them open. "Do we have a choice?"

"You have one other choice."

Into her window sprang a virtual ticket. A starship ticket to Solaria. Exile.

Daeren must have seen the same. He looked down. "Chrys, I'm in your hands. Wherever you go, I will follow."

Chrys turned to Andra. "If we leave, what will become of you? And Sar?"

Andra looked down. "We'll manage. We always have."

And the other Olympians, and Ilia, and all the hapless citizens in the streets. She thought it over, eyeing the ticket. "Solarian nightlife's the best. Can we have, like, a rain check?"