Brain Plague

SIX

"Fern. It's been so long since we saw light from the god."

"Ten years, Poppy. Is that so long?" Privately, Fern was worried. The god was not ill—Fern herself had traveled through all the veins and arteries, seeking the telltale signs that would warrant a call to the hospital. They tasted none, not even a rhinovirus. Yet the god's light was gone, and no one knew what to believe. The Council of Thirty was falling apart.

"The god has never left us for so long," said Poppy. "Never more than two years. Has the Great One forgotten her people?"

"Mysterious are the ways of the gods," pulsed Fern. "But the star-dwellers never forget. And never must we."

"But our god seemed so sad."

Fern did not answer. Because most gods could not see Poppy's color, Poppy imagined she held a power apart from the gods. A dangerous illusion. Now she was meeting the young breeders in secret, and conniving at things—things Fern scarcely dared think about. If only the god would waken, before it was too late.

"So sad," repeated Poppy. "And yet, happiness for the gods is such a simple thing. All joy and delight rests in a single molecule."

"Poppy," Fern pulsed, faster.

"Dopamine controls the forebrain. Whether viewing the stars, or consuming tasteful nutrients, or merging with another god—it all ends up with dopamine."

"Poppy. If the god hears you, if the blue angels question you—"

"So why can't we taste it? Why can't we give the god dopamine? Why is this forbidden?"

Wake up, oh God of Mercy, awaken, Fern prayed in the darkness. "Poppy, for the love of memory, of all our lives—You know the answers. Answer yourself, and be still."

"We travel throughout the veins of the god, trapping savage microbes, pruning deadly cancers. Why can't we serve the god dopamine, just as the god serves us azetidine?"

"People are not gods. The gods dwell thousands of times longer than we, and are so much the wiser."

"Yet this god chooses pain over joy," insisted Poppy. "Is that wise?"

"You and I know nothing."

"Pain, for the god, is much more complicated than joy. Pain travels through many different circuits and has many causes. The worst kinds of pain come from awareness—from inventing one's own thoughts and feelings. These thoughts grow pain."

Fern said nothing. She sensed impending disaster.

"We can do better, Fern. The god is only one, but we are many. Our collective wisdom can outshine the god's own. We will find the places of consciousness, the source of pain, and gently shut them down, then turn on the dopamine. Then the god will sleep in joy forever, while we make wise use of our world."

"Poppy, remember, the blue angels warned—"

"Wise use," Poppy insisted. "Is this world not our own to use by light of Wisdom?"

"Poppy, I will call the blue angels."

"You can't do that," said Poppy. "Not till the god awakes, if ever. In the meantime ... I'm sorry, Fern."

Several other people rolled into view, green and yellow and turquoise, all of them young breeders. Fern was shocked. Where were all the elders? They had too many children to look after.

"Wise use," the breeders blinked at her, seductively twisting their filaments, bouncing to and fro off the strands of arachnoid. "We will make wise use of our world."

A dendrimer whipped out in front of Fern, binding three stretches of arachnoid. Another dendrimer, then another, beside her and all around her, until the tangled fibers imprisoned Fern in a cage.

"Poppy!" blinked Fern after her, as the people moved off to do their deadly work. "Poppy, remember—Beauty, Truth, Life ..."

None of the people looked back.

Helpless, Fern waited amidst the dendrimers, flashing for help as brightly as she could, all the while imagining the rebels and their ghastly attack on the neural circuits of the god. Even if she could get free, how could she stop them?

In the distance, between two columns of arachnoid appeared a spark of light. Magenta; the young Elder whom the god had named Aster. Aster approached tentatively, her filaments tasting the dendrimers of Fern's cage. "Aster! Aster—come quickly."

The little ring blinked questioningly. "Is that you, Fern? What are you doing in there?"

"Never mind. For the love of life, do exactly as I say. Bring me an enzyme and dissolve this cage." Fern was already planning what she must do. To save the god, and all their people, she could only do one thing—a thing as forbidden as what Poppy did.

Aster quickly returned with several enzymes. "I wasn't sure which one—"

"That one, it breaks bonds between carbons. Hurry."

Aster floated the enzyme toward the dendrimers, where it sliced quickly. She chose just which links to open quickest.

At last Fern was free. "Now hurry, Aster; come with me. You will be my witness for what I do and why."

"What must we do, Fern?"

"We must waken the god."

"Waken the god! But that is forbidden—"

"It is forbidden. And yet, strange though it may seem, only this forbidden act may save our god, and all our people. Afterward, you will bear witness. And pray the god lets us live."

Fern approached a nearby blood vessel; luckily, it was one that would lead to the brain's alertness center. Feeling incredibly guilty, she helped Aster squeeze in through a pore between the cells.

"Fern," flashed Aster, emitting molecules of alarm, "we are not allowed here."

"No, but we must go anyway. We must wake the god, before Poppy causes damage beyond repair."

"But why don't the nanoservos wake her, or call the hospital?"

"I don't know." Fern dreaded what else Poppy had learned to do.

The current of plasma whipped the two micros through the blood, tumbling among the disks of erythrocytes, dodging the more dangerous macrophages. Fern's filaments explored the lining of the vessels for traces of neurotransmitters. At last she tasted the entrance. She helped Aster out, into the very core of the brain.

"Are those neurons, Fern?" Giant translucent cells with long, threadlike arms.

"Those are astrocytes, whose arms clean up stray neurotransmitters. The smaller cells are microglia that would kill us in a trice if they knew what we were about. But they can't taste us, so long as we avoid presenting antigens. Come, follow me." Fern slid past the many-limbed microglia until at last she found the dark dendrites of a neuron. What neurotransmitter did it use? She did not recall, there were so many, but her body synthesized several. She hesitated just once. Then her neurotransmitters floated out, into the synaptic cleft, to pulse the wake-up call.

"Fern, this thing you are doing is forbidden, beyond all forbidden things. Yet I trust you."

"You are wise beyond your years. When the god awakes, you will tell what I did. Let the god take my life, but, perhaps, let our people live."

Chrys half awoke; not the normal sense of awareness, but an awareness like being buried alive. Every muscle felt pinned down beneath stone. She screamed, but the pain itself was so hard she could barely hear her own scream. She slipped back out of consciousness, only to awaken again screaming. Again the pain forced her down.

Over and over she awoke to the pain. Not in any one place, it was burning the flesh off every bone in her body, fingers of lava searing every crevice. No sense of time or place outside liquid pain.

At last she awoke, still aching all over, but she could breathe. She lay very still, for the slightest movement thrust needles into the bone.

"Breathe slowly." The voice of a doctor. "Take your time and breathe. Don't hyperventilate." ,

Chrys swallowed. Her throat felt sore. The ceiling was that tasteless green of the hospital. The worm face loomed over her. Chrys tried to talk, but the words would not come out. She whispered, "Why can't I talk?"

The doctor did not answer. A brief memory of the pain, and the screaming. She nearly blacked out again.

Though her eyes closed, her window was open, keypad and all. She blinked wearily. "Fern? Are you there?"

"I am here."

"What happened to me?"

"I am not permitted to say."

Chrys frowned. "I bid you tell me."

No response. "Fern?"

"The gods will tell you. When you know, remember that you are the God of Mercy. Take my life; I accept my fate. But let the others live."

"What is this? Where is Poppy?" She closed her eyes to see better, but all was dark. So she opened them again and tried to sit up. Her head still felt as if an entire city block were sitting on it.

By the bed stood Doctor Sartorius, his face worms squirming. The doctor lifted an appendage. "Chrysoberyl, can you hear me?"

"Sure." Idiotic question. "What happened?"

"You overslept. You missed connecting with your growing population. As a result, you experienced an unfortunate episode." He sounded like he was trying to avoid a malpractice suit. "But your condition was caught early, with no permanent damage. You will make a full recovery."

How reassuring. Chrys swallowed and said more loudly, "What happened?"

Beside the doctor stood Andra, the tall Sardish chief of security, with the deadly blue eyes that flashed purple. The Thundergod. "For ten years you failed to meet your people," the chief observed. "Long enough for some to think up mischief. One actually figured out how to turn off your health sensors—a very serious event." Andra turned to stare at Daeren, who stood apart, his face averted, grim as death. Andra's look seemed to remind him how serious it was, and how badly he had messed up to let this happen. Then her hard eyes returned to Chrys. "The micros decided, after ten years of silence, they could do a better job of running your body than you could yourself. So they took over your dopamine center and were in the process of relieving you of your higher cognitive functions. Fortunately, they were not yet expert at it, and we caught them in time."

The weight of it sank in. Pearl had been right, after all—how deadly these micros were. Yet, they were "people"—how could they have done this to her? Fern . . . "Are you sure?" she croaked. "Sure there's no mistake?"

"They've been tried and sentenced." Microbial justice. "Twenty-one were executed. The entire population was recommended for disposal, but the Committee vote was only seven to one. Without unanimity, we decided to give you the final say."

Chrys blinked. No wonder Fern had asked for mercy. "Why?" she asked. "Why did Fern do it?"

"Fern warned us." Daeren spoke, still looking away. "Fern awoke you and used your neuroport to call us."

"All extremely illegal," the chief added. "Such behavior could subvert your will."

Chrys swallowed. "What about Poppy?"

Daeren said, "Poppy was the ringleader."

The one she loved best. Her eyelids filled with water, but she would not let anyone see her tears. She turned her head to the wall. Behind her, she heard the doctor say, "I'm sorry, Andra."

"Never mind, Sar. This strain was always difficult. They should have died with . . . Chrys, you must listen now."

She turned her head slowly to face the chief. The chief's eyes were clear, their pupils small. No rings of light; no flash of comfort for Chrys's people.

"You must decide. You have the next hour—for them, a year—in which to decide their fate. Once you decide, we'll remove them cleanly, with no danger to yourself, and they will suffer no pain." A likely story. "We will leave you to decide. Alone," she added, looking again at Daeren.

"Wait," Chrys called, beginning to realize what her choice meant. "If these are really 'people'... I mean, I thought execution went out with the Dark Age." The Dark Age, when the brother worlds had warred amongst each other. After thousands of years, some of those dead worlds remained too radioactive to touch.

"The Dark Age," nodded the chief. "That's about where micros are at right now. We've had only twenty human years to civilize them. Would you rather keep a terminal prison in your head?"

Microbial wars. Chrys shuddered. What an idiot she was to get involved.

"Micros have no civil rights," Andra emphasized. "Any strain that endangers human health is destroyed."

Daeren added, as if to the wall, "Section Three-oh-four-four seven, sub-section D."

Andra raised her hand and touched a limb of Sartorius—actually touched the worm-faced doctor. "I have another call across town. When you've decided, Chrys, call the good doctor." She turned and headed for the door. As she passed Daeren, the two barely looked at each other but exchanged a transfer patch.

Doctor Sartorius departed, as did Daeren, leaving her alone. Alone, with her population of people—at last count, about half a million. Did they have souls? She knew what the law said, but what would the Brethren say? Who cares what they thought—what did she think?

She shook her head and tried to clear her mind. She had a chance to reconsider—thank goodness for that. It made no sense, having absurd little people in her head that wanted to build buildings and preferred Zirc's art to her own. Her friends shunned her— who wouldn't? These carriers with their vampirelike ways. Who in their right mind would risk a deadly disease? Even the slaves in the Underworld called her a fool.

And yet...

The micros had helped her work. For the first time ever, they had actually made her work connect—with other humans. There had to be something human about them. Even if Poppy betrayed her, so had other people she loved. And Fern had saved her life, legal or not; you had to break into a burning building. Should a whole people die for the sins of a few?

God of Mercy—they had called her that, from the beginning. Did the micros name the gods, just as the gods named them? Why "Mercy"? They must have known they were going to need it.

But why had that Security Committee given her such a dangerous strain in the first place? How and where had Daeren got them? That dynatect Titan, his life ending in a pool of blood. And what was Daeren doing in the Underworld? Better to get out without knowing more.

With a hiss, the door parted sideways. Chrys jumped, startled by the break in the stillness. There stood Daeren. He looked at her expectantly.

She blinked and cleared her throat. "Is an hour up already?"

Daeren shrugged and resumed his seat facing the wall. The light from the holostage caught one side of his face, casting the other into shadow.

Chrys watched him curiously. Her eyes narrowed. "You were the one holdout, weren't you."

He said nothing.

"You think it was my fault, I overslept."

"What I think is irrelevant," he told the wall. "You heard what the committee thinks."

Committees were always suspect, made to do things no individual could feel good about. First they gave her these dangerous people, then they told her to kill them off. Chrys lifted her head. "I'm no quitter. I'll keep them."

Daeren slowly turned his head. "Are you sure?"

She watched his face. The face of a slave? Or just the self-appointed savior of microbial people? "I'm sure."

He did not let his face change. He handed her a blue wafer. "This will tell them."

"Fern, are you there?" Chrys put the AZ on her tongue. "I've decided. You can stay."

Her vision filled with a rainbow, all the colors stretched across the sky, from violet and green through poppy and lava; more beautiful even than the first hint of sunrise at the horizon of the eastern sea. She caught her breath, transfixed. "That feels too good. Are you sure it's legal?"

"It is legal. I am humbled to serve you so well. Now that the children are grown, we will have more time for the gods, and our work."

As the rainbow faded, Daeren was watching her patiently. She frowned at him. "Why did you give me such a dangerous strain?"

"Any strain could have gone bad, if you left them ten hours at the height of their growth. The chief knows that."

"But the chief said these are more dangerous than others."

He nodded. "They're too smart. Another strain would have gone bad, but set off the nanos. Yours disabled the nanos. Smart people are always dangerous." He took out a transfer patch. "This time, I'll give you extra help. Watchers—my most respected elders, to live with you the next two weeks. They'll watch over yours, and remind them."

"Why didn't you do that before?"

He shrugged. "A judgment call. It's best in the long run if new colonies can develop on their own, without depending too much on outsiders. I thought yours would behave even worse, just to get around the watchers. But now, they've just seen twenty-one executions."

As he put the patch to his neck, Chrys tensed, half expecting him to touch her directly, as he had for Andra. But he handed her the patch as usual. It felt warm in her fingers. She put it to her neck. Seconds passed; above on the holostage blinked a message light, and a servo scurried out from the wall to answer. Then again all was still.

"Greetings, Oh Great One." These letters came sky blue. "My sisters and I will serve among your people and hold them to the Law. For the rest of my life I am yours. Do you grant me a name?"

"Delphinium." For the rest of the micro's life, a month at best. Still, that was quite a gift. She thought of something. "Delphinium, can you tell me about the Lord of Light—what's he really like?"

"The Lord of Light is the wisest and most wonderful of all the gods. His commands, and of course yours, are to be obeyed without question..."

The poor Eleutherians would have to listen to that drivel for the next month. Serve them right. Chrys looked up and folded her arms. "You owe me the truth," she told Daeren. "Where did you get these Eleutherians? Why didn't they die with the Blind God?"

Daeren clenched and unclenched his hands. "They survived because I got there with Plan Ten. The medic had Titan's circulation stabilized, but his brain had been sliced in half. There was nothing we could do for him." He hesitated, blinking rapidly. "But the micros—a few might still be alive." His face creased, as if struggling with himself. "The rule is, micros must die with their host, so that they never experience a god's death; for them, the gods are immortal. But I couldn't leave them. I put a patch at his neck. The blue angels went in, but they said the few left were too sick to survive the transfer." He paused again. "So I used my teeth."

Chrys stared until the wall's sickly green swam before her eyes.

"The gum tissue is thin, the capillaries right near the surface. I pressed my teeth at his neck, then counted the seconds for two long minutes." He took a breath. "They were there, all right. Barely a thousand of them, half children—they had their priorities straight. And they'd saved all their records—every damn plan of everything they ever built, all bundled up in nano-cells."

Saf would have sucked her blood for ace, thought Chrys. Daeren had sucked Titan's, for Fern and Poppy. "So why didn't you keep them?"

"We gave them their own cistern of arachnoid, and let them grow to ten thousand. I let them visit my eyes every hour around the clock. But it wasn't enough. Every day, all they asked was, 'When can we have our new world? The Promised World? The Blind God promised.' Every day, for seven days." Seven generations.

"What did Titan promise?"

Daeren shook his head. "Whatever Titan promised, there's a long waiting list for carriers. The Eleutherians were lucky enough to settle with me. But I was never good enough," he added bitterly. "They wouldn't even let me grant them names. They built their own city; they never let their children mix with blue angels. I guess mine weren't smart enough for them." He paused, considering. "I could have had my visual spectrum expanded to please them, but I was too proud. I do things my own way." Finally he looked at Chrys. "You were at the top of the list—clean living, professional, free of addiction. And you see infrared."

Chrys nodded slowly. "You were so anxious to pass them on."

"We should have waited till after your show," he admitted. "But after seven sleepless nights, I'd had enough." He nodded. "By the way, oral transmission gets you locked away for life. Subsection oh-one-A."

He had risked that much to rescue Eleutherians, yet they gave him nothing but grief. How dismally human.

"God of Mercy," came Fern's letters. "Aster and I are ready to help you with your work."

"We'll see about that," Chrys told them. "We're starting over with some new rules. Ten Commandments."

"Yes, Oh Great One."

"First, you will obey every word I say, and keep out of my brain cells."

"We will obey."

"Second, you'll let me sleep as long as I want every night."

"That will be no problem now."

"You will write a book about all the reasons you are grateful to live inside my head, and read it out to me every morning."

"Every day. And what else?"

"Just go back to number one." Enough playing god; she'd make herself sick.

Doctor Sartorius returned with his worms, their tool-shaped ends smoothed away. "How do you feel, Chrysoberyl?"

On the holostage, the quiet beach reappeared. Chrys turned to watch, trying to relax while the doctor's worms probed her scalp. "They say I can sleep okay now," she told the doctor. "Is that right? I thought their population was only half grown."

An inset box displayed the luminous red S-curve. At the midpoint blinked a marker, about five hundred thousand. Yet the number of children had fallen off. "Once they've passed half way," Sartorius explained, "their rate of increase levels off, so the proportion of children declines sharply."

Daeren agreed. "The elders should have things under control. But never take them for granted."

"So I can go home?" she asked hopefully.

"You'll stay here under observation. Until the chief lets you go."

From her hospital bed, Chrys checked her online gallery. Most of her new works displayed correctly, though Turquoise Moon needed more contrast. Her credit balance showed a third digit; one piece had sold. That meant she could pay her next rent.

But none of her friends called. They didn't know, she told herself. Or else Pearl had told them all. Either way, she had no heart to reach them.

"Oh Great One, we are ready to serve you."

Microbial friends—was that all she had left? All they had was her, exiled forever from their great dynatect. Suddenly she called the holostage. "Show me the dynatect Titan."

The stage asked, "Alive or dead?"

"Before he died."

The holostage filled with full-spectrum footage. There stood Titan, amidst a cloud of snake egg reporters. His talar, draped half open to reveal gold nanotex, was trimmed with infrared that few Valans could see, a pose of casual arrogance. His face had a prominent forehead, eyes wide, yet somehow drawn inward.

A snake egg asked him about the Comb. "Some say, Lord Titan, that you yourself did not really build the Comb; you were just a culture dish for those who did. Is it true?"

Titan's head expanded to fill the stage. "The Comb was made by the lights of Eleutheria. The light of Truth, ever true to its nature; of Beauty, the kind of beauty to draw the awe of generations; of Sacrifice, of only the best and finest materials. ..." As he spoke, his irises lit up, rings of infrared.

Chrys felt a chill. "Fern . . . was that Poppy?"

"That was Poppy."

"What did she say?"

"She said that the Comb was nothing compared to what we planned next."

Chrys swallowed hard. "She did not live to see."

"She lived to see a god die. The gods rarely let us see that and live."

They should have died with Titan; but Daeren broke the rule. Her scalp prickled. "Do any others yet live, who remember?"

"Only I remember. The others know only you, and your act of mercy."

"What do you remember of the Blind God?"

"When the blindness came, I starved. My cell ate its own proteins and half my memory DNA. I remember only the sketch of one future creation, for the God of the Map Stone. This god bears a remarkable stone, a map of the universe."

Their next commission; that would be the one thing they'd recall. "Who was the God of the Map Stone? What other gods did you know?"

"Our god was tested once in my lifetime, by the Lord of Light." Only once? Of course, every two weeks, and micros lived but a month or two. Two weeks with Chrys, and before that...

Fern must be getting up in years. "That time, the Lord of Light was angry. He said our god let us 'push the edge.' "

Chrys smiled. That was what she told Merope when the cat jumped up on the table at supper. Suddenly she remembered, her cats had had no food. She called her apartment to view them. Merope lay curled up asleep, while Alcyone prowled ghostlike through the volcanoes. She told the universal dispenser to put out food.

Late that afternoon, Andra returned. The sight of her brought back Chrys's memory of pain; she felt faint, but she made herself stand. She observed Andra more closely than before. The chief had a few lines in her forehead, suggesting she had chosen "Distinguished." Her eyes burned violet, a hellish bright that made Chrys look away. Or was it her own people who did not want to look?

"Please, God of Mercy," begged Fern. "It's too soon for the Thundergod. We saw the judges take our children."

Chrys guessed this would not do; she had to keep her eyes steady, or the chief would keep her in the hospital. "It's been eight years. You must visit the Thundergod. I decree it."

Their eyes locked for what seemed an eternity. At last Andra nodded, then put a patch at her neck.

"Not the judges, God of Mercy. Don't let the judges come hack."

Chrys took a breath. "If you've behaved, you have nothing to fear."

"The judges wanted us all dead with the Blind God."

The Watcher, Delphinium, flickered blue. "The judges must come. It is the law."

She looked at the patch in Andra's hand. "I'm the God of Mercy. I will protect you," she promised. She put the patch at her neck.

At last the chief nodded, seeming satisfied. "You have a choice," she said. "You may stay here under observation, the rest of the week. Or you may go home tonight with Opal."

Opal smiled apologetically. "I'm so sorry," the round-faced designer told Chrys. "I should have stopped by your home before, but I'm working day and night on these new cardiac nanos."

Another treatment her brother could not afford. "That's okay, you don't want to see where I live."

Opal impulsively took both Chrys's hands. "It's so good to see you, after all we've heard. Are the Eleutherians there? Are they earning their AZ? Can we have a peek?" Like visiting a new baby. The rings round Opal's eyes twinkled several colors.

"The God of Wisdom!" called Fern. "Please, God of Mercy, let us visit; we have not seen the wizards in ten generations."

Opal already had a transfer patch at her neck. "Do you mind? We assume everyone wants to 'visit.' If not, just say no." She quickly placed the patch at Chrys's neck. Chrys drew back, not used to being touched like that.

"Transfer done." The letters were yellow.

"How about yours?"

"You can visit," Chrys told Fern.

"Ready to go."

She put a patch at her neck, then hesitantly raised it to Opal. Opal's neck was smooth and white. Chrys felt embarrassed.

For a moment Opal stared; then she laughed. "Eleutherians— they're just the same!" She shook her head in wonder. "After all they've gone through. Most strains protect their own DNA, but Eleutherians just want to get everyone's brightest children."

Chrys crossed her arms. "Are your 'wizards' bright enough?" she demanded. "Do they have good jobs? Are their parents respectable?"

"Of course they have good jobs," said Opal indignantly. "Didn't you see the news?" She held up a viewcoin.

Grains of cardioplast that rebuilt aging muscle cell by cell. The replay filled Chrys's window, happy sprites with Plan Ten planning to live another two hundred years. Even happier sprites planning to make a billion credits. Yet Opal herself was not mentioned.

"That was ours," insisted Opal. "Most carriers keep their names out of the news."

"Not Titan."

Opal nodded. "We don't want to end like Titan. Too much fear and jealousy—but that will change. You'll see." She sounded as if trying to convince herself. Then she smiled, her dimples returning. "You and I have lots in common. I work at the Comb, and my wife Selenite's a dynatect like you. She can't wait to meet the new Eleutheria."

"I'm no dynatect," Chrys insisted.

"That's right, volcanoes. Not so different, is it? I mean, volcanoes build up from below. Come, I'm sure you've had enough of the hospital. The lightcraft's waiting."

Chrys had never ridden a lightcraft. Outside, she eyed it warily, a giant squashed egg rimmed by rectennas; she half expected a couple of Elves to come out. Instead, she followed Opal inside. The door's lips smacked shut. "Seat yourself," ordered the lightcraft. From its walls came giant fingers, curving over to strap her down. Her stomach lurched as the city dropped sickeningly away below.

Opal relaxed beneath her straps. "Selenite does testing for the committee." One of the other seven votes. "Did Daeren tell you how the committee works?"

Chrys shook her head, still trying to steady her stomach.

"We all adore Daeren, but he tends to see everything from the micros' point of view."

The lightcraft dipped, its descent even worse than the climb. Chrys closed her eyes and held her breath. At last the craft settled, and the straps fell away. Her steps still unsteady, she followed Opal out to the street. Tall, forbidding towers seemed to say, starving artists don't belong here. "Andra's different," Chrys remembered. "Andra gives them no slack."

"Andra's a lawyer—an entire law firm, actually. She takes care of all the hospital malpractice."

"I see." Things were starting to fit. "Does Sartorius often need her services?"

"Andra and the good doctor are a pair."

"What?" exclaimed Chrys. "You mean she's a worm lover?"

Opal paused at a ramp leading up into a dark, discreetly intimidating tower of plast. "Don't be provincial, dear," she said. "They actually got married, out on Solaris where it's legal. Sar runs our clinic, and Andra defends our right to exist. Without them, we'd be gone."

Chrys was repulsed. "How could anyone stand it?"

Opal shrugged. "How he looks, alone with her, is anyone's guess."

Chrys followed Opal up the ramp. The ramp began to rise; Chrys had to catch herself.

"Watch your step, Ladies," breathed the building. Plast all over; rather live plast for her taste. Chrys hoped its roots below were healthy.

"Keep still," advised Opal. "The house knows where we're headed."

The live walkway carried them inward and upward. Light revealed a vast virtual wilderness—a forest of redwoods, taller than the eye could see, their canopy crowding out the sky. Amazed, Chrys caught herself on a soft railing.

Opal guided her to an artfully placed tree branch that offered drinks and plates of AZ. Out of the forest emerged a petite woman with black curls. Her nanotex pulsed black and gold, and her jewels swam attractively around her waste. Opal clasped her arm and gave her a kiss, while they exchanged a patch at the neck.

"Chrys, I'm Selenite." A dynatect, Opal had said. "How's Eleutheria?" Selenite's delicate fingers held out a patch; the standard ritual, Chrys realized.

"The Deathlord," Fern told her. "This god puts all dissenters to death."

Chrys blinked. Deathlord? The woman had fine, delicate fingers, no muscles to speak of. Her pupils twinkled reddish orange.

"The Deathlord's minions want to visit us. Is it safe?"

"She's a dynatect. Don't you want help with your work?" Hesitantly Chrys raised the patch to her neck.

"We never need help with our great work. Others seek help from us, but we are too busy."

Microbes with attitude. Maybe this "Deathlord" would give them a scare. "I bid you visit them." She held the patch to Selenite's neck.

"Remember to touch my hand first," Selenite warned. "To make sure of consent."

Opal waved her hand. "Chrys is just learning. Relax, we're at home."

"She won't always be at home. Chrys, we're so glad you pulled through. I know it's a challenge to manage Eleutheria." She sounded doubtful that Chrys was up to it.

"Have something," Opal urged.

A drink emerged from a shelf in the "tree." Blended fruits, like the first bloom of summer. Chrys savored the taste on her tongue. "Where do all the . . . gods' names come from?"

Selenite motioned to a seat, disguised as a polished stump; its plast molded gracefully to seat her. How the other half-a-percent lives. "I earn my name."

Opal's dimples showed. "The micros know us remarkably well." Well enough to flatter, Chrys guessed. "They name their populations, too."

"Like 'Eleutheria'?" asked Chrys.

"Eleutheria is our formal name for your strain. It means 'free spirit.' But micros call other strains by informal epithets, such as 'wizards' or 'blue angels.' "

"What do they call mine?"

"It's rather crude, I'm afraid."

Selenite said, "A loose translation would be 'libertines.' "

Opal explained, "It means they let their children mate with any kind of people."

Chrys narrowed her eyes. "Any bright enough." Just what she needed—microbes with a reputation.

Selenite's eyes had been flashing busily. She drew closer. "Chrys, your people tell me they kept all the plans of the Comb."

"So I hear."

"Amazing," whispered Selenite, shaking her head. "Listen. I have this contract for structural improvement."

"Improvement? On the Comb?"

"It ought to have been Titan's job, but Titan, shall we say, took little interest in ..."

"Maintenance," finished Opal.

Maintenance on the Comb, the work of genius. Chrys eyed Selenite with new interest. "His death left me in a fix," Selenite explained, "because, it turns out, the only complete set of plans was in his head."

Chrys nodded slowly. "What sort of maintenance would the Comb need?"

Opal looked askance. "What doesn't it need."

Selenite frowned. "She's a great building. Just a small problem of fenestration."

"Of what?'

"Fenestration. The placement of windows—Titan's spiral fenestration was legend. But unfortunately—"

The Comb appeared, growing absurdly amid the redwoods. Her form expanded, appearing larger and closer, until the ground level came into detail. "The Comb, like all Titan's buildings, grows from the bottom up," Selenite explained. "So the top execs never need change their office; they just keep rising upward. Whereas below—" She pointed. "Here is the youngest ground level. Look closely."

The legendary windows soared beautifully up the honeycombed chambers. But in the bottom row, nearest the ground, each window was cracked. Fine grooves ramified through every pane.

"You see?" said Selenite. "If the newer floors all come up like that, it's a disaster. No easy fix, either. Whatever we do has to go in from the roots up."

"I see."

Selenite clasped her arm. "Here's the deal. We'll subcontract your people for a megacred. It's not much, but they'll get back in touch with the business and reconnect with customers. What do you say?"

A megacred? Seven digits? Chrys's mouth fell open. "Fern? Aster? What's this about?"

"The Deathlord's minions seek our genius," replied Aster, such pretty magenta. "But the Comb is an ancient monument. We build for the future."

The two carriers were watching her, testing her nerve. What did they expect her to do, send a thunderbolt? "The future becomes the past," she told Aster. "The past needs restoration. Is the job too hard for you?"

That must have got them. She counted the seconds.

"The Deathlord offers too little. Ask more."

Chrys looked up. "They want more money."

Opal exclaimed, "You mean they'll do it?"

Selenite frowned. "Let me negotiate, dear. Okay, one-point-five and that's final."

"Okay," said Chrys, before anyone could change their mind. "We'll take your offer."

Selenite put another patch at her neck. "We'll send you our memory cells detailing the recent pattern of development."

In the corner of Chrys's eye, her credit balance expanded by several digits, spreading across the screen.

"How's it look?" asked Selenite. "Did the funds transfer okay?"

Seven digits. One point five million credits, plus her last three-digit sale. "It takes up the screen," Chrys observed. "I need to reduce the font size."

For a split second there was silence. Then Opal collapsed laughing. " 'It takes up the screen!' "

"Stop it, Opal," said Selenite, trying not to smile.

Opal pressed her hand. "Chrys, you're going to be so good for us."

Chrys closed her eyes. Then she forced them back open. "Look, I really am grateful, but it's a lot to think about." A million credits; she could pay her brother's health plan and then some. A new painting stage ... Yet how the devil were micros inside her head supposed to fix a building? "I need to get home and sleep on it."

"You'll sleep here tonight," said Opal. "We promised Andra."

"What?"

Opal smiled. "Tomorrow we'll go house-hunting. I know just the place for you; you'll love it." The Comb disappeared, replaced by an elegant townhouse with an upsweeping facade and a pair of caryatids holding up the terrace.

Chrys raised her hands. "Saints and angels—I am getting back to my cats and my work."

The two carriers exchanged glances. "There's trouble in the Underworld," said Selenite. "It may have reached your neighborhood."

"Trouble?" She had not checked the news all day. Chrys rose swiftly. "I have to get my cats."

Opal rose with her. "Chrys, you carry nearly a million people. You can't risk their lives."

"My cats are as good as your damn people."

Selenite's face twisted. "I know the neighborhood; I've been there on call enough times. I'll take you down, with a couple of octopods."

Another dizzying climb in the lightcraft; Chrys thought her head would never clear. Then the lightcraft deposited her and Selenite at the top of the tube, where they had to take the bubble car down.

Her neighborhood was still intact, but directly below the Underworld burned, the homes and shops of the most crowded and desperate simians. The bubble car crept down the alley, its view obscured by haze.

"It's barely breathable," Selenite warned. "The bubble's filter is working pretty hard."

Chrys's heart beat faster. Her cats had to breath, too.

They turned a corner. There was her old high-rise, stretching clear up to the next level. But the door to the basement was smoking. Her door.

"Let me out." She pounded on the plast.

The plast opened. She stumbled out, coughing, her eyes streaming.

Out of the haze crawled Merope. Chrys gathered the furry bundle into her arms. Then she approached the collapsed darkness that had been her front door. A patch of white caught her gaze. Across the threshold, placed quite deliberately, lay the limp body of Alcyone. The cat's face was blackened in, straight through the eyes.