Brain Plague

THREE

The Eleutherians tumbled out of the microneedles into capillaries of an untouched world. Their rotary filaments propelled them swiftly to the brain, where they tunneled through the arterial walls into the arachnoid. For shelter, they strung dendrimers, long chainlike molecules, back and forth across the branches of fibroblast cells.

"Only the cross-branches," warned Fern. "Never touch the lining on either side." The arachnoid, with its cross-branches of fibroblast cells, stretched forever between the two outer linings of the brain. A breach of either lining would attract hungry white cells, or deadly microglia, the brain's special defenders. Microglia normally stayed within the central nervous tissue, their long arms tangled amongst the neurons; but the taste of suspicious molecules from the immigrants would activate them.

"We'll be careful," flashed Poppy, secreting the dendrimers and weaving them in expert patterns across the branches. Already she and other elders were laying out plans for homes and schools, and chambers for breeding. They tapped the capillaries to harvest vitamins and minerals. "We need to help the children feel at home, as soon as possible. If it doesn't taste right, they won't breed."

With the fifth wave of immigrants came the children and the young breeders; just three hundred precious vessels of the genes to seed their race and repopulate their world. Three hundred children for ten thousand adults, the most the gods allowed Eleutherians in their new world.

The Lord of Light's blue angels were a conventional lot; they mainly showed blue or violet. But the children of Eleutheria flashed anything from violet to red, and beyond. Poppy watched the precious little rings tumbling out of the silicon vessels that had carried them safely through the bloodstream, eager to taste the New World. "Our children come in colors that even the gods can't see," she flashed proudly.

"Watch yourself," warned Fern. "Our new god could see you well enough." The children worried her; their journey took too long. "They're getting depressed and philosophical. They'll all turn into elders before they breed."

"They'll soon feel better," flashed Poppy, "now that they're away from the blue angels." The blue angels secreted a developmental hormone that made a third of all children turn into elders without breeding; this had kept the Eleutherian numbers small. "We'll cheer them up with new things to taste. We'll build nightclubs."

The rest of the micros were transferred in the patch of microneedles, just like the first two. It took several passes to transfer them, ten thousand in all. Ten thousand microscopic rings that claimed to be people.

"Oh Great One," the letters flashed green. "Our growing children need arsenic."

"Arsenic?" Chrys looked up. "Isn't that what the slaves kill for?" On the street they called it "ace."

Doctor Sartorius extended an appendage. A claw snapped open, revealing a white pill. "Micros evolved on a planet full of arsenic. They need it as an essential mineral."

"But ace is poison."

"It's a controlled substance," the doctor admitted. "But our dietary supplement traps the arsenic in special cagelike molecules that keep it out of your own cells. Only the micros can extract it."

Chrys eyed the pill distastefully. "People will think I'm a slave."

Daeren shook his head. "Chrys, if people think that, they'll think it no matter what." His voice was low. "I told you, you'll face prejudice. We all do."

The worm face warned, "There's a black market in arsenic. Never, ever let your micros give up their arsenic, for any reason."

"The Plan supplies you once a month," said Daeren. "If ever you fall short, you could be accused of selling it. You'd end up in jail, and your people wiped out."

"Please, Great One—have mercy. Our children will starve without arsenic."

Reluctantly Chrys swallowed the pill.

The doctor's appendage retracted unnervingly into his cylindrical body. "Your nanoservos report no problems—no meningeal inflammation, no invasion of central nervous tissue. Daeren, can you stay? I'm on call." All his arms retracted and disappeared. Rearing backward, he twisted his body around and left.

Chrys sat back, and her hands sketched a moon in the air, itching to get back to her painting stage. "Where are the micros?" she asked. "They don't answer anymore."

"They're busy building their city," said Daeren.

"God of Mercy, is all well?" The green letters returned. "Such a beautiful, untouched wilderness for our children to settle."

"Fern's back." Untouched wilderness indeed.

"All right." Daeren came over and sat in front of her, his eyes level with hers. "May I check your eyes, just a minute?" Blue rings flashed again.

"Of course, we stayed out of the gray cortex," Fern insisted.

"Not a taste," added Poppy. "The blue angels are so strict. They never trust us."

"They sure talk fast," Chrys observed.

"A thousand times faster than humans. They're very social; when you meet another carrier, you'll always know."

"Well, I have no time to socialize. I have to put up my show. Can I go home now?"

"You signed an agreement to stay overnight, at least. Another day would be better, especially if you lack help at home."

"Saints and angels," she whispered. "When will I get to my work?" The turquoise moon was barely begun.

Daeren leaned closer. "You'd better pay attention to what's going on beneath your skull. Besides building a whole new city overnight, the ten thousand of them want to expand their population as soon as possible. At first, they have only three hundred juveniles to breed; the rest, all elders, cannot produce offspring."

"All elders? What is this, a retirement community?"

"A common population structure, for microbes," he said. "Only a few reproduce, while the others stay active enough to maintain the environment—'viable but non-culturable.' "

"These sound like they have plenty of culture."

"Like medieval monks, they store all the history of their people. They 'write' it in their chromosomes."

Monks—even worse than priests.

"Most of the time," Daeren said, "they keep just a few breeders to gradually replace those who die. But to found a new colony, they need to increase their number a thousand-fold, as quickly as possible." Above the stage appeared an S-shaped curve.

"The population will rise steeply for the next two weeks, then taper off by the end of the month at about a million. But at two weeks, you reach a critical point where nearly half the population are children."

Chrys looked up. "What's wrong with that?"

Daeren leaned back, chin in his hand. "It's like a feudal society before the plagues set in. Too many youngsters, lacking in judgment; they can get into trouble."

Microbial juvenile delinquents. "Like, they start gang wars?"

"They could invade the central brain tissue. That's how plague micros take over the dopamine center."

The holostage whined. Above the stage flashed a molecule, a hexagon of atoms with two claws and a tail. "Dopamine," repeated Daeren with emphasis. "The central molecule of reward. Dopamine enters the neurons to create pleasure. Everything humans do—loving, dying, killing—they do for dopamine."

Chrys regarded the molecule curiously. "Even enjoying art?"

"Even art," he said. "But the plague micros trap the dopamine in your synapses, until you're good for nothing else. Like cocaine— smart cocaine."

Chrys stared again at the molecule; it looked like a scorpion. A normal part of the brain; and yet.... "These micros could turn into plague."

"Your elders will keep things in hand," he assured her. " Once you get past the second week, elders outnumber children again, and the population stabilizes at a million. Then they have nothing to do but help your work."

Chrys shuddered. "Well, let's hope Fern keeps the kids in line."

The poppy-colored letters returned. "Oh Great One, do our people please you?"

"Yes, I am ... pleased."

"Then please, send us a sign of your mercy."

Chrys looked up. "They want a 'sign.' What do I do, raise the dead?"

Daeren took a look at the medical monitor. "The nanos say they're doing okay, keeping their kids out of the cortex. They deserve a reward." Daeren took out a packet of small blue wafers. He handed one to Chrys. "Here, take this. Hold it on your tongue for a moment, then swallow it."

Chrys eyed the blue wafer suspiciously. "What's in it?"

"Azetidine acid." The holostage showed a new molecule: a simpler structure, only seven atoms. A group of four with a tail of three, like the seven stars.

"A—what?"

"Azetidine, AZ for short. An amino acid, common in plants. It does for micros what dopamine does for us."

Microbial cocaine? "It doesn't sound right. Why should I drug them?"

"If you don't rule them, they'll rule you." Daeren smiled. "It's just a low concentration. It gives them a buzz, like champagne with chocolates."

"I don't drink. You made a big point of it."

"They're different. They live fast."

Chrys put the wafer in her mouth. It tasted like a potato chip.

"Thanks for your blessing, Oh Great One! We will make wise use of your world, and sing your praises forever." A starburst of red and lava.

Fern added, "It is good to please our God of Mercy, for we live or die at your pleasure."

Chrys thought, even priests like good food and drink.

As the micros multiplied, the holostage listed their growing population. On the first day the total did not increase much, but the 'children' doubled, and none became elders. Every hour or so the elders asked for a "sign." It always sent them into raptures, like catnip. Then Fern hurried off to keep the kids out of trouble, but Poppy at least could be persuaded to stay a bit and play with colors. Colors of mountains, sky, and ocean; at Chrys's suggestion, Poppy sprayed them out, from the green gold of meadows to the gray violet of distant hills. Familiar vistas turned strange, as if by the light of a foreign sun.

The hourly newsbreak jarred her teeth. Titan's corpse, for the hundredth time—still no leads. If micros were people, then Titan's murder was more than a hate crime; it was genocide. Meanwhile, slaves had snatched another ship, in Elysian space. No Elves were ever taken, though, only a "mortal" Valan.

In her window the Protector pounded his fist, demanding the Elves help locate the Slave World. The Elf Prime Guardian did not deign to reply, but his Guardian of Peace, Guardian Arion, appeared in his butterfly train. Guardian Arion stood straight as a caryatid, his face marble white. "The brain plague and other addictions need not trouble our advanced society," the Elf purred. His bearing and diction underlined the superiority of a world without crime. As opposed to inferior Valedon.

Chrys lay back in the hospital bed. "Poppy, no more news for me. I'm closing the window."

"But what if we need you, Oh Great One?"

"If I see that corpse once more, I'll go mad."

"Change the setting."

That took her by surprise. "What setting?"

"Advanced Options, function nine; Social Setting, alternate six; Alert Status, key three...."

Following each step, Chrys focused on the hovering keypad. The Plan One clinic never told her about this.

"The gods are not omniscient," Poppy observed. "They can learn from us."

Chrys smiled. "Yes, we can learn from you."

That evening Daeren stopped in. For a moment he froze; his brows wrinkled and his eyes scanned, as if reading bad news in the window. Then he looked at her and smiled. "Time for an eye check."

Chrys had been sketching a shield cone on a windless day, a wisp of smoke rising. She blinked it away and focused on the agent's eyes as they flashed blue. A minute or so passed before her own flashed in response.

"They should always keep someone on watch," he told her. "Remind them. And remember to set your alarm at night, every two hours."

"What for?"

"While you sleep, eight years will pass. The young won't know you, and the old may forget. Plan Ten would wake you if anything went wrong, but prevention is better."

She stretched, missing her workout with Zircon. Yet oddly she felt exhausted, as if she had traveled a thousand years. "I can use a good night's sleep."

"Remember to keep your window open."

Poppy had turned off the news and ads. That alone was nearly worth the hospital stay.

That night, she woke every two hours to give the micros their "sign" of AZ. Each time they responded with rapturous pyrotechnics. By morning, she tossed in her sheets, unable quite to sleep, too tired to waken.

"Fern? Are you there?"

"I am here, Oh Great One."

In the dark she felt as if she were one of them; she could almost reach out and touch the whiskers of the little ring. "Fern, I need sleep."

"So do I. But at last we've built our first city."

"Your city?"

"In the arachnoid, in the great Cisterna Magna."

Out of the darkness grew columns of light. Fibroblast cells connected floor to ceiling, a vast colonnade extending in all directions like a scaffold across the firmament of the brain. Between two arachnoid columns hovered Fern. Her green projections twinkled as they rotated, propelling her forward. Chrys's view followed her.

"Our arachnoid is largely wilderness, as yet uninhabited. But now we approach the Cisterna Magna, where the brain linings diverge, creating a great space for our city."

The floor fell away sickeningly, while the ceiling soared out of sight. Across the cellular columns stretched struts and braces of all different colors, in complex pulsating structures. The struts built fantastic stellated dwellings, with micro rings tumbling in and out of hidden portals. This was the city they had built in their New World.

Her mind floated upward, toward the ceiling where the columns stretched to meet the outer lining of the brain. An opening appeared, flanked by micros of various twinkling colors, sentinels on guard. The opening extended into a tunnel, smooth and white.

"Our bridge to the bloodstream," said Fern. "Only the eldest of the elders may cross into the blood and travel with the nanos. We will serve you better than any nanoservo built by the gods, patrolling your veins forever."

When at last she came awake, Chrys felt as if she herself had explored an eighth world of the Fold. Her vision was transformed.

How would she paint again—and how would anyone ever understand?

As she reached for the disk of nanotex by her bedside, she bounced out of bed faster than she intended. Despite her poor sleep, she felt as if her body could float away; as if the planet had lost half its gravity overnight. She started to comb her hair, a long, painstaking process, but the feel of her flexing arms puzzled her. As usual, the nanotex adhered to her chest, then spread itself in a black film around her body, automatically cleansing her skin. The film of artificial cells took on the contours of her body; a landscape familiar, yet now subtly estranged.

Doctor Sartorius came back to check her out. "Your Plan Ten nanoservos have started shaping you up, Chrysoberyl." Their transmissions sent a stream of colored squiggles and blinking text flowing across the holostage. In Chrys's eye, a new call button had appeared; in an emergency, a blink at that spot would bring Plan Ten.

"The plan representative will present your advanced options, during one of your daily checkups."

Checkups every day—she would never get that spattercone done.

Daeren came in to flash his irises one last time. "How do you feel?" he asked. "Anything I need to know?"

"The blue angels again," the infrared letters sped across her window. "Tell them we're busy."

"We're okay," Chrys said, puzzled by his question.

A quick smile crossed his lips. "You're talking plural already." Daeren placed a transfer patch on his neck. "The blue angels need to 'visit.' Yours can visit, too." He held out the patch.

"The blue angels say we can visit!" announced Fern. "Is it permitted, Oh Great One?"

She took the patch from Daeren and placed it on her neck, then returned it with her own visitors. "If I'm carrying ten thousand of them," Chrys wondered, "why do I always see the same two?"

"Only two have been called to be priests," he explained. "You may call others, as you wish."

She shook her head. "Two are enough."

"Greetings, God of Mercy." These letters were blue.

Chris blinked twice. "Who are you?"

"We are called the blue angels," the visitor said. "Your new people are growing well, though they need to curb their lifestyle. They are rather frivolous, I'm afraid, but they'll mature." Maybe this one was a bishop.

Behind the doctor, the wall puckered in. It seemed to change its mind, then went ahead and opened. As its edges gathered back, there came a sound of scuffling, then a shout.

In the corridor outside struggled a stranger, held between two black-limbed octopods. The man was tossing his head one way then the other, his eyes bright with terror. His nanotex hung loose, as if its power had run down. Extending from the wall, ropelike appendages caught the man's wrists and ankles. His arm was gripped by a woman in gray, a tall Sardish blonde.

The woman in gray turned her piercing eyes toward the doctor. "Sar, the clinic's full. We need to extend." Her voice had a tone of finality, expecting obedience.

"Excuse me." The doctor glided out to join them.

Chrys stared until the door resealed.

Daeren still watched where the door had closed in, his expression grim. "A slave, he turned himself in. His masters objected. Sorry, it's been a long night at the clinic."

Master microbes. Chrys frowned. "That could happen to me."

"Not if you stick to the rules, and get tested twice a month."

"What? Like some addict?"

"We all do, even the chief of security."

She eyed him coldly. "You said these micros would keep me safe."

"Safer than you were before."

"But—" That vampire up on level one, the night before. More slaves every year, turning into vampires, or hauling captives to the Slave World for its microbial Enlightened Leader. "It's a cancer," she realized. "Like the building root cancers. It threatens all the city."

"Not just the city. It's reached—" He stopped, hesitant.

"How can it go on? Why can't the Palace just round up all the vampires?"

Daeren shook his head. "The vampires are the least of it. The problem already reaches too far up."

"Far up? What do you mean?"

"Sar runs run a private clinic for the Great Houses."

Smart cocaine. Chrys felt a chill down to her toes. Then she frowned and shook herself. "Well, I want no part of it one way or another. I just want to make art."

"Of course you do," said Daeren. "Nobody says, 'I'll grow up to be a slave.'" He looked her closely in the eye, blue rings flashing. "Your people pass. You can have them back now, and return mine."

"Nothing but insulting questions, interminable," complained Poppy.

"Before you leave," Daeren added, "the chief has to certify."

The wall parted smartly. A woman entered, the Sardish blonde who had brought in the plague victim. Her skin was exceptionally fair; Chrys could see every vein, like ivy on her arms and face. She carried herself stiff as a Palace guard. Her mouth was small, as if she would only release her words on good behavior. "I am Andradite of Sardis, Chief of Security."

"Our ancient history tells of the god among gods," said Fern. "The Thundergod."

Nodding to Daeren, Andradite put a transfer patch at her neck, then immediately pressed to his. He did the same for her, swiftly, as if it were something they had done many times. Chrys felt her scalp prickle.

Then the chief's eyes faced Chrys. Her irises flashed bluish violet, a shade deeper than Daeren's.

"The judges," announced Poppy. "Throughout history, they brought trouble."

"We have nothing to hide," insisted Fern.

Chrys tried to look unconcerned.

"You've done well, so far." Andradite offered her a patch.

"Much better than some of us expected." The chief had expected her to fail, Chrys realized. Both agents were hiding something. Why?

"Once you're home, you will hear from us," the chief told her. "You will join the community of controlled carriers—a highly exclusive group."

Chrys doubted that. How exclusive could a group be, to take her?

In her window, next to Plan Ten, appeared another call button, with no label, just the color purple that the chief's eyes flashed. "If you're ever in trouble," the chief told her, "the kind of trouble even Plan Ten can't help, call us. Forget your own name, but remember that."