Brain Plague

FIVE

"When shall we build?" Poppy demanded of Fern. "We have all our plans, old and new, but we are out of practice. As elders die, we lose their experience."

In the Cisterna Magna, they had reestablished the Council of Thirty, the ancient governing body of Eleutheria. They organized trade in arsenic and palladium, and regulated the mining of vitamins from the blood. Now the Council wanted to resume building for the gods.

"We build when we are called," said Fern. "The gods seek their own dwellings. In the meantime, the god calls us to shape Truth and Beauty in the stars." The God of Mercy built creations out of light itself.

"Where are all the peoples from our history?" asked Aster. "The judges of the Thundergod, the wizards of Wisdom, the minions of the Deathlord?" Aster, and the others born here, had met only Eleutherians. They were isolated, cut off from the rest of civilization, from new ideas and fresh genes. "We need to meet all the people of other gods. We have made all kinds of tasty molecules to trade with them. We need to meet their children, and recruit the brightest for our work."

Poppy said, "This god always goes alone. What is wrong?" Fern wished she knew. History showed that even gods needed other gods. A god apart spelled trouble.

As always, Chrys was sure the Opening night would be a disaster— the Gallery would run short of power and refuse to display half the paintings, the cakes and lambfruits would be missing, the wine would be bitter, and no guests would show up. Nervously Chrys paced the exhibit halls, getting her first chance to see everything together. As she passed through the doorway to Topaz's portraits, her arm hit the edge, punching it in. "Damn," she muttered as the doorway reshaped itself, avoiding Pearl's curious stare. Her muscles had swelled noticeably, and she felt like she was bouncing on a low-gravity moon.

Topaz's portraits always drew a crowd, and this year she had some high-class commissions, including Lord Zoisite, the Palace minister of justice. In the full-size portrait, the minister wore his fur talar, its draped lines projecting verticality. Sparkling gems signaled his calling, his portfolio, his Great House, his wife's House, and several other affiliations. The back lighting framed his head like a halo, typical of Topaz. The haloes, as well as the subtly shortened noses and smoothed complexions, made all her subjects look like members of one family. What Plan Ten did for health, Topaz did for art.

"A god," flashed Aster, "placed among the stars."

A portrait in the stars. That's how it would look, to a micro peering out of her eye.

"Legend tells that someday our own people will be placed among the stars."

"How will that happen, Aster?"

Lady Moraeg was eyeing her oddly. "Chrys, are you okay?"

What if her irises lit up, and someone saw? "Stay dark," she warned the micros. "No more flashing today." She smiled at Moraeg, and at Lord Carnelian beside her, flaxen haired with fine gray nanotex and one crimson namestone, classic scion of a Great House. The most faithful patron of the Seven, Carnelian had advanced Chrys her rent the last time she went under. "Moraeg, your flowers are exquisite this year."

"You haven't seen the latest."

Moraeg's flowers were nearly real enough to touch, from vibrant peonies to delicate snapdragons. Yet her overall compositions were fantastic—Asters at a Neutron Star, scarcely plausible, but somehow, watching the asters climb toward the star, you could almost believe it. "There's your name," Chrys silently told Aster, pointing out the petals tinged with magenta. Turning, she searched the other pieces. "And there are poppies. But stay dark."

In Sunflower Galaxy, a seed grew into giant galactic-sized sunflowers. The time dimension was a new departure for Moraeg, and her execution appeared shaky. The next one, Campion Peak, showed a jagged ridge frosted with pink campion. Far in the distant haze rose the unmistakable straight, gentle slopes of a dormant volcano. "I like it," Chrys exclaimed.

Moraeg squeezed her hand. "We've so much in common. Now show me yours—I have a question."

The sound in the gallery had to be turned way down, but you could still feel the eruptions rumbling in your feet from the next hall; the lava fountain arching into butterflies, the spattercone spraying across the moon. Each piece had a five-minute time loop, the maximum her equipment could manage. Her infrared originals alternated with the versions reworked by her micros.

"Tell me, Chrys," Moraeg insisted. "How ever did you ever fix the colors?"

Chrys blinked and swallowed hard. An idiot, she should have foreseen this question. "Just had an idea," she muttered. She looked away, checking out the first visitors: young professionals in pulsing nanotex, ladies of the Great Houses in fur and silk, a couple made up fashionably as vampires, their skin bleached white with broken veins. So far no sign of an Elf.

Topaz stared at something, chin in hand. At last she pointed to the seven-atom molecule that hovered next to the cat's eye. "What does that mean?"

Chrys swallowed again. "Excuse me—I just remembered, I have to serve the cakes." She escaped out to the next hall. A single work filled the hall, Zircon's Ode to Inhumanity. Brilliant shafts of light reached for the sky, grandly monumental.

"Wait—Oh Great One, let us stay a while."

"Let us admire this magnificent work. Austere, yet sensual—It inspires us."

"What!" She winced, hoping no one heard her speak aloud.

Zircon was standing right there, expounding at length on its many layers of meaning. "The visual iterations of form create a unity between the creator, the viewer, and ultimately all of humankind," he was telling several visitors in gold-studded furs. "Ultimately the form creates in our mind an apotheosis of the human tragedy...."

"We of course can build far greater," added Aster. "The greatest dwellings the gods have ever seen."

Saints and angels—these microbes had egos as big as Zircon's. Chrys closed her eyes.

"Wait—we need to study this work—"

A hand with glowing nails tugged her arm. "Chrys, wake up," exclaimed Pearl. "Ilia's here."

Ilia Papilishon, director of Gallery Elysium. Chrys hurried back with Pearl to the main entrance.

The two Elves were unmistakable, each in a plain white talar projecting a long train of light like a comet's tail. Luminous swallowtail butterflies flickered across the nanotex of visitors coming up behind.

Topaz nodded graciously. "Ilia Papilishon," she introduced to Chrys, "and Yyri Papilishon."

Yyri was Zircon's patron. Ilia and Yyri shared the shon name, both hatched and raised in the same shon. Yyri did not extend a hand, but smiled and touched a fold of Ilia's talar, the closest contact Elves allowed in public. "I've just been telling Ilia, I've heard so much about your work, Chrysoberyl."

"Thanks, my Lady." Chrys bit her tongue; she forgot that Elves were fanatically egalitarian, having no Lords or Ladies, only Citizens. But Yyri did not deign to notice. She and Ilia turned politely toward the portrait of Lord Zoisite. Overhead hovered two sentient reporters, silver ovoids just above the minimum size, "snake eggs."

Yyri raised a hand, and Ilia nodded, probably catching a transmitted comment. "Quaint," the gallery director observed, without altering her frozen smile. The snake eggs recorded this utterance, then bobbed up and down for a better angle. Anything Elves took notice of was more likely to make the news.

Yyri touched Ilia's talar and motioned her on. "So much raw talent in Iridis," she said aloud. "Don't you think we ought to do a show, 'Gems from the Primitive'?"

The pair moved politely through the portraits, Chrys and Moraeg and the other Seven Stars hovering about at a discreet distance. Only Topaz had the presence to venture a remark. "Zircon's latest work is truly pathbreaking," she told Yyri.

Yyri clasped her hands. "An urban shaman—he plumbs the depths of modern humanity, in ways the more refined artist cannot."

Director Ilia had moved on to Moraeg's flowers. At Asters at a Neutron Star, she nodded. "Charming."

"Who is this strange god? Our ancient history tells that we once visited—"

"Stay dark." No Elf would get infected by micros. Chrys's eyelids fluttered, exhausted from staying up the night before to put the last touches on the turquoise moon. If she could just get through this evening, it would all be over.

At last Ilia reached the pyroscapes.

"Chrys's vision is unique," offered Topaz.

Ilia watched the lava butterflies. Her eye widened. "Intriguing color." Then she stopped at the spattercone. She watched the infrared lava rise to spread across the sky like a web of arachnoid, while the moon sprouted filaments like a micro. The color scheme changed; Ilia waited till it cycled back. She watched, and everyone else quieted to watch her.

The director caught sight of the molecule next to the cat's eye, and she leaned forward for a closer look. "Indeed." She straightened, then turned slowly, her virtual train swirling behind her, the swallowtails dipping and swaying. She took a step toward Chrys, much closer than Chrys expected.

Rings flashed around each iris—like Daeren's, only these flickered gold and red.

"The God of Many Colors! Her people want to visit."

"Please, Oh Great One, let us visit. Our history tells—"

Chrys stared in shock.

"What's the matter?" Moraeg caught her hand. "Chrys, sit down a minute."

Ilia nodded. "I understand. Give my best to Andra." Turning, she moved on to the next hall.

Pearl brought a chair. "There, Chrys. You probably haven't slept for days." She leaned close and whispered. "We didn't know you had connections. Who is Andra?"

Something was wrong. If microbial "brain enhancers" were just a cheap alternative to Elysian genetics—why would an Elf carry micros?

When the last guests were gone, and the last crumbs cleared by the scurrying floor servos, Chrys left the Gallery with Topaz and Pearl. Past midnight, Center Way was dark and still, the sky misted over. As the damp air cooled her face, her head throbbed. At last she could drag herself home.

Pearl's fingernails lifted like fireflies. "It is our best show ever," she exclaimed, still high on the excitement.

"The best attended opening," agreed Topaz, nodding at early press reports in her window. "Ilia said the Gallery Elysium is planning a show on Valan art."

"She sure noticed your work, didn't she, Chrys?"

The encounter had left Chrys shaken. But then, if even the Elf gallery director carried micros, just like Chief Andra, how bad could they be?

Topaz sidled closer. "How'd you do it?" she quietly asked. "How'd you fix those colors?"

"Did this Andra help?" asked Pearl. "Who is Andra? You got an Elf patron, like Zirc?"

"Certainly not." After Topaz, Chrys had had girlfriends, and boyfriends, but like Topaz they each managed to leave her just when she needed them most. The last thing she needed now was another one. Her steps slowed. "You know, that gallery director ... she's got brain enhancers."

"Well sure, she's an Elf."

"No, I mean our kind of brain enhancers. The same kind as Titan."

Topaz frowned. "How would you know?"

"Because I have them too."

Pearl's eyes widened, and she sucked in her breath. "You have micros? Like a vampire? Chrys—how could you?"

"Pearl, it's not like you think—"

"You're contagious!"

"I am not contagious. I mean, I'd have to—"

"Those plague micros—Topaz, I can't believe it." Pearl fell back, trying to pull Topaz away.

"Pearl, just cool it." Catching Pearl's arm, Topaz glared at Chrys. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"I did tell you. Look, even Ilia has them—"

Topaz shook her head violently. "Elves are different. Look, Chrys, you're in trouble. You're provincial; you don't understand these things."

Pearl exclaimed, "Topaz, don't let her touch you."

"Oh hush." Topaz blinked, calling at her eye windows. In the street a ruddy bubble rose and expanded, gliding toward her. "Come on, let's get home."

The two of them hurried off, leaving Chrys alone in the deserted street. Alone, and stunned. Would she lose every friend and acquaintance she had, for what lived in her brain?

"So many stars this year. We are inspired, especially by the work of the god Zircon."

"Inspired to begin our own work, the dwellings of the gods. But where are the gods to call for us? "

No lack of "friends" inside, in colors of green, poppy, and everything inbetween; even if they did like Zircon's work better. But Chrys slowly shook her head.

She had answered all the doctor's questions at the hospital, but she had not told the whole truth. She was addicted to one thing: people. She loved people, longed for them, good or bad, friend or stranger; she could probably fall for anyone except a sentient. The city surrounded her with a blanket of people, and that was good. But to lose Topaz and Pearl, and the rest of the Seven— it was like losing her right arm and leg.

"Find the Thundergod," urged Fern. "The Thundergod will help you."

Chief Andra's purple button would not help. But Chrys knew one place where she could always find human people.

Blinking for a bubble car, she entered the liquid street. The bubble closed her in, and the street flowed forward to the end, where it plunged down the tube. Down past the fashion district, down past the bank level, and the food market within the bank's root. Down past the homes of chic young professionals, down past the working-class sims on their way up. Down past her own level, the cheapest decent housing you could get, to the last level at bedrock. The Underworld.

No sign of the Sapiens' rampage; Palace octopods kept the entertainment district intact. Spice and decay, stale wine and costly perfume, breathed through the streets. Vendors from Urulan laid stacks of nanotex and gameplast upon roots of nanoplast that glowed suspiciously. Chrys spied one blob just starting to crawl away from its root. She held out her wand and fried it. The plast sizzled and shattered, but two little energized blobs glided off into the dark, just missing a couple of simian pre-teens tossing stickplast up at a broken street light.

Weaving in among the locals, Palace notables made their way to the shows; Lord Zoisite was a regular. They generally had an armed octopod in tow. Chrys spotted one and strolled discreetly behind it, an old trick when she came alone.

The octopod and its bejeweled lord entered Gold of Asragh, her favorite, one of the tonier clubs with the slave bar hidden in back. They must have remodeled, for the bar was now right up front by the entrance, a plague-ridden slave hawking ace in plain sight. So much for the Protector's war on the brain plague.

Behind the bar, the woman lifted a hand. "Char," she called in a low, hollow voice. "That you, Char?"

You could tell the voice of a mid-stage slave, flat and toneless, like a sentient gone wrong. Not yet a vampire, and not quite ready for the Slave World. Chrys nodded. "Hi, Saf." Sapphire, her name might have been once; slaves forgot all but the initial sound of human names. They gradually sold all they had for arsenic to serve their microbial masters; what they paid built the mysterious Slave World. Saf's eyes were bloodshot and always looked just to the side, never to look you in the eye. Chrys had first met Saf the month before. Now, by the looks of her, she had little time left before she sank, one way or the other.

Saf extended a hand. It held a transfer patch, bold as you please. "Char .. . you can't imagine." She said in a hoarse whisper. "Just try it. Enlightenment."

Chrys stared at the patch in the slave's hand. Like watching lava congeal, peering into those poppy-colored holes deep within the still liquid rock. What was the Slave World, she wondered; what did it look like? She sketched the sign against evil. "Saf, why don't you try this?" Chrys held out a viewcoin, one of several she kept for publicity.

The viewcoin transmitted to her own eyes, and Saf's. A tranquil peak at midmorning—exploded. Black clouds filled the sky, and a pyroclastic flow raced straight toward the viewer with a muffled roar.

A ghost of a smile came over Saf's face. It was hard to reach a slave, their senses grew so dull, feeling only microbial dopamine. Suddenly the woman straightened as if in shock. "You've .. . already got them."

A chill came over Chrys, from her scalp down to her toes.

"The masters of Endless Light," Fern called the plague micros. "The masters never speak to us. They call us the root of all evil."

Taken aback, Chrys blinked twice.

"You've got the worst kind," added Saf in her slow, toneless voice. "You and Day. All yours care about is money." The word "money" came as if dragged out of her. Then suddenly she extended an arm as if to grab Chrys. "You've also got. .. ace, in your veins," she hissed. "Give . .. us ... your ... ace."

Startled, Chrys drew back. Would the slave suck her blood for arsenic?

She hurried in with the gathering crowd, the ticket price automatically subtracting from her window. Simian locals, L'liite tourists, a lord in peridots; elbow to elbow they crowded. The perfumes and the odor of unwashed sweat nearly stifled her. At last she found her seat.

The stage exploded, blindingly. When the light and smoke cleared, the simian dancers were coming on, disguised as the caterpillar monster of ancient Urulan. The cheer of the crowd drowned the music, but at last the music won out, insistent, hypnotic. The music took them to distant cities on the most ancient of the seven worlds of the Fold.

"Oh Great One," Fern's letters appeared at last. "We are trying so bard to keep you healthy, but until your eyes close for sleep, your body cannot be renewed. What more can we do?"

Her head throbbed, and her throat felt thick. She had not slept for over a day. But her show had opened, with some success, she reminded herself. And now the music brought peace. Early in the morning, she elbowed her way out of the hall. At the bar, two slaves were buying ace, a yellow-eyed simian in dead nanotex and a socialite in fur. Feel good now, but how long before they'd suck blood for it?

"The masters won't speak to us," repeated Fern, seeming regretful. "But the blue angels know them well."

The blue angels? Daeren's micros? Chrys felt a chill. "Does the Lord of Light come here?" she demanded of Fern as she hurried out, trying always to keep an octopod in sight. "Does he.. . meet with slaves?"

"He does."

"Why? What does he do here?"

"We don't know. The blue angels bade us keep to our own cistern. We were not allowed at the eyes to see."

A security agent meeting slaves; an Elf art director carrying micros....

Outside Gold of Asragh, a beggar called at departing guests. A Sapiens swung at him and cracked his head. Two sims tackled the assailant, who was suddenly joined by the rest of the Sapiens gang, all loaded with high-grade stunplast. Octopods soon scattered the lot, but the three sims lay soaked in blood.

Chrys eyed the Plan Ten button in her window. Plan One would come for them, she told herself. Though it hadn't come for her, the time she sprained her ankle in the stairwell.

"Oh Great One, I must leave your eye now," flashed Fern. "The children are so many, it's time to adjust the hormones so that more become elders. I'll go, but Poppy will stay."

"I will serve you forever, Oh Great One." Poppy's infrared letters warmed her.

Down a side street, beneath a curve of a building root, lay a couple of adults and two small children, asleep together on an old mattress. Chrys crossed the street to toss them a credit chip. Above, hugging a power link, glowed several cancers, quiescent so long as they fed. She hurried to catch the tube up.

"Oh Great One, your eyes are dark this year. Why?"

Her neighborhood looked as empty as a black hole, not surprising at this hour. But she reached her door without incident. "I am sad, Poppy. Sad about my friends."

"Sad? The gods are great and powerful. How can the gods be sad?"

Chris thought of the "gods" below. "The gods are people, Poppy. People just like you."

"I know this, Oh Great One. I have always known it. But I love you still. I love you because you can see me."

"I love you too, Poppy." The covers felt so good as she slid under them. Without thinking she blinked to close her window, just as she used to before the micros showed her how to turn off the ads. On her shelf above, the volcano sat unnoticed, its alarm not set, a wisp of virtual smoke rising from its peak.