Brain Plague

EIGHT

Aster wondered, how could she ever manage without Fern? The green one had persuaded the Lord of Light to let them go, then the God of Mercy to let them live. For generations Fern had raised the children and guided the elders. Now she suffered the final agonies of impending death, barely able to flash a word.

Aster was left with jonquil to guide the Council of Thirty, and all the fractious young elders. Three of the blue Watchers remained alive, but they merely watched and bade her remember Fern's laws. To be sure, Fern had left the six hundred laws to live by, but how to put them in practice? For example, "When you harvest nutrients from the bloodstream, leave some behind to be gleaned by the poor." Did this really mean the farmers should be inefficient? Or would it be better to put the poor to work in public service, as the Council of Thirty had voted?

"How can there be poor Eleutherians?" wondered Jonquil. "We are a wealthy people, and there's so much work to do."

Aster wondered the same. But she tasted the poor ones, floating through the cerebrospinal fluid, their filaments bent and chemically deformed from lack of vitamins. How could this be? In the old days, everyone shared alike; but now, as their world neared a million strong, some, like Jonquil, grew rich enough to spend all their palladium in the nightclubs, whereas others floated by with nothing.

"There are mutants," Aster reminded jonquil. Microbial cells mutated much faster than the gods. Mutant children with deficient brains could do nothing but float by, absorbing food like ordinary germs.

"Too many mutants," agreed jonquil. "We need to refine our eugenics. Don't let the mutants breed."

"But a few mutants have the most valuable traits." Aster felt overwhelmed. A scholar, she had schooled herself to design for the gods, not to rule a crowd of unruly people. Yet Fern and the Council of Thirty had chosen her to carry on.

"It takes so much time to pick the good mutants," said Jonquil. "And then, this fixing the Comb is taking all our time for creative work. It's unbelievably tedious, worse than starting from seed."

The Eleutherians had refined their model of the growth of the Comb, with help from some new math prodigies recruited from the wizards of Wisdom. The new model revealed a structural fault reaching down to the very roots. The entire Comb, as she grew, was about to split into three more or less equal portions, like a merged pair making children. The correction would take a million times more calculation than planned. What had seemed a quick fix was turning into a nightmare.

"Why did the Great One make us do this?" demanded Jonquil.

"To make us design better in the future," said Aster. "That's what Fern thought."

"The Comb will look fine, dividing in three; I like it. As for the Deathlord's minions—their regime is so repressive. Why did the Great One make us work with them?"

"They're a democracy," Aster insisted, not sure she believed it. The minions barely thought for themselves; the slightest error, the slightest hue too red or too orange, was enough to get them expelled into oblivion. No mutant survived the Deathlord. "They just lack the nerve to face their god. We have to get along with all the gods, and their diverse peoples."

"But why can't we influence our own god? "Why can't we touch the Center? Just a trace of dopamine, now and then. I know, it's a new idea—"

Aster was aghast. "Have you lost your mind? It's not a new idea—it's the oldest idea in the blood. Remember Poppy, and our dead children." Fern had been so good, she was blind to the moral failing of others. Blind for Poppy, she had been blind again to promote Jonquil.

Back at her new home on Rainbow Row, Chrys dragged herself up the stairs past the staring caryatids. "Aster? Is Fern still there?"

"Fern is here. She can no longer speak, but she still knows you."

"Is there anything I can do to help her feel better?"

"We've done what we can. We have all her six hundred laws stored in memory. We will remember."

Chrys felt helpless. How could these people respect a god who could do so little? After all Fern had done for her. Listlessly she looked around the painting stage. The lights of her palette hung suspended along the side, like colored lights for the midsummer festival of the Brethren. Like ...

The stars. Someday a god will place us in the stars. She stood for a moment, transfixed by her idea.

"Aster, I will make her portrait. I will place her in the stars."

"A place in the stars! Oh Great One, that will please her beyond imagining."

Chrys pulled a line between white and forest green, then hurriedly picked several related greens. "What does Fern look like? Can you show me?"

"Here is how she looked before, when she could speak."

In her eyes appeared the little green ring, its filaments twinkling in all directions. Chrys sketched swiftly, with broad bold strokes of color, hoping Fern could at least see some of it before she died. "Aster, is she still there?"

"Just barely. She can still see. All of us can see and marvel at this miracle."

Perhaps she could animate it. "Show me her flashing. Show her telling about the Eighth Light."

The filaments darkened and brightened, telling of the Eighth Light of Mercy. At last Chrys loaded the sketch into a viewcoin, then she raced upstairs to the roof.

Before her all around spread the urban panorama, the ceiling of stars above, universal and human-made, the even brighter carpet below, altogether a veritable feast of lights. Chrys blinked at her window and up came the lights of Fern. A new constellation joined the heavens.

"A miracle," flashed Aster. "A miracle never known before among all the people. People amid the stars—this event marks a new dawn of history."

Microbial history. Chrys sighed. "Xenon?" she called. "Could I have a chaise or something? I'll spend the night out here."

"Certainly, Chrysoberyl. If you like, an entire seraglio setting for your pleasure—"

"One chair will do." She lay back and watched the green star of mercy, looming large above the others in her eyes. "And wake me every two hours."

In the morning Chrys awoke, tired but at peace. She had gotten her people through the death of their leader and put them to work renovating the Comb. She was back in control and could return to her pyroscape. With the vast virtual canvas, it took her longer than usual to block in the dark masses of rock and shadow. No color yet, but the dark parts were crucial. You could only raise brilliant color against abyssal dark.

"God of Mercy, I call on you."

"Yes, Jonquil." Aster must be out again, at one of her Council meetings. She was always harried now, like poor Fern used to be.

Fern ... Chrys kept Fern's sketch hovering with her color studies at the upper right corner of her studio, the green twinkling filaments forever cycling Fern's message of the Eighth Light.

"May I ask a question, for information?"

"Of course, Jonquil." Chrys plucked some dark to deepen a canyon in the foreground, before the distant volcano.

"Even though it might offend the gods?"

"I'm not offended."

"Can you explain why it's forbidden to touch the Center? You are the greatest god that ever lived; why can we not reward you in full?"

Chrys's arm fell, and a streak of charcoal gray marred the foreground. What could the yellow one be thinking? Was history to repeat itself every generation? "Look what happened to Poppy."

"True, but it's been three generations since. Who knows? There's always new technology." Jonquil sought a rational response to a rational question. Why was it so hard to answer?

Chrys thought carefully. "Reward is power. People lack the wisdom for such power. Control the gods, and you destroy yourselves. "

"Thank you, Oh Great One; that helps. You are truly the greatest of gods."

This was a hint for AZ, and Chrys promptly placed a wafer on her tongue. "Remember Fern," she added, and darkened the studio until only the sketch was lit. For a moment she watched the green star reciting; it always calmed them.

Xenon chimed. The sound startled Merope, who leaped down from the china closet. "We have a visitor, dear Chrysoberyl," Xenon announced. In her window appeared Daeren, standing expectantly between the outer pair of caryatids. "It's your testing day, remember?"

She clapped a hand to her head. "Oh, right—I'll get to the hospital." What a damned nuisance.

"We make house calls from now on," Daeren told her. "It's more comfortable all round."

"Well, all right then. Send him up," she told the house, recovering herself. "And could you put out some refreshments?" she added. "The blue angels are here," she warned Jonquil. "No more questions."

Daeren came up the flowing stairs between the rows of gargoyles and caryatids, their eyes swiveling after him. Chrys winced. "Xenon does our decor."

"I'm sure as an artist you contribute."

Chrys shook her head. "I'm an outdoors kind of person." That's why she ended up trapped in this city, she told herself sarcastically.

Then she recalled Opal's house full of redwoods. Ideas flooded her head; she could really do her bedroom. But for now, she faced the blue angels. "Aster? The Lord of Light is here. Will you visit, and keep Jonquil dark?"

"How's it going?" asked Daeren. "Anything I should know?"

"Not that I can think of. Here, won't you have something?" Next door, Xenon had prepared an entire banquet table, from canapes to carved roast, including several expensive wines. Chrys looked away, embarrassed.

"Thanks, but we don't accept anything on the job." Daeren looked her in the eye, and his irises flashed blue fireworks. His expression changed. "I'm sorry about Fern. You should have called someone; Opal would have slept over."

Chrys lifted her chin. "I handled it myself."

Daeren handed her a patch. She placed it at her neck, then handed it back. Daeren said, "I just wish I could have seen her before she died. I must have sounded angry most of the time, but actually I was quite fond of Fern." Opal was right, he really did get attached to the little rings. "You've done well," he said at last. "But they worry that you won't eat enough."

"What?" Damn that Aster—no sense of discretion. "Where'd they get that idea?"

"You're not anorexic?"

She stared frankly. "Do I look it?" Then she remembered. "The Spirit Table. They had questions when I started serving there." Maybe the Sisters could use Xenon's banquet.

Daeren's look softened. "The soup kitchen? The one at the tube stop?"

"I gather these Eleutherians led a sheltered existence."

He nodded. "We're careful what we let them see. They're supposed to think all gods are omnipotent."

"That's bullshit."

"It's committee policy. The theory is, they'll be easier to control."

"Like I said." Though she herself had not been entirely candid about the weakness of the gods. "How do you control yours?" she wanted to know. "I mean, how do you make them obey?"

"That's a very personal matter. You have to work out your own way." He hesitated. "There's always Selenite's way."

"Executions?"

"She sends in Sar's nanos to make an example of one, every generation or so."

That petite woman with the black curls, a serial killer. Chrys shuddered. But then—what was the God of the Brethren, if not a serial killer? She'd try that one on her parents sometime. "Is that what you do? Executions?"

"Mine don't give much trouble. They're mature." A likely story, pretty boy.

Her youngest brother, Hal, she remembered suddenly. She had enough funds now to get him Plan Ten. But how long would it last? Xenon's salary alone would drain her in six months, unless her people got another contract. She had no idea how to manage money. "I hate to sound backwoods, but, what do you gods do with your credit? I mean, like, investing?"

"You need a financial planner. Try Garnet. He lives just around the block."

That was Lord Garnet of Hyalite. The Hyalite mansion took up several blocks. Hyalite was the most ancient of the Great Houses, having endured twenty-five centuries since the War of Purple. Chrys doubted whether Lord Garnet would care to see a starving artist. Especially one whose microbial symbionts built such shoddy buildings.

After Daeren left, Selenite called. "Chrys," her sprite announced accusingly, "we've got a problem. Your people have uncovered a more serious structural defect than we expected." The face with the neat black curls looked grim as death.

"Well, don't look at me. I once built a thatched cottage, when I first left home." The roof had sagged at the first snowfall. "That's about all I know of building."

"Your people know more than enough." The way she said it, Chrys guessed her "minions" thought about as highly of her "libertines" as they thought of them. Chrys still wondered about this partnership. Selenite added, "Tomorrow afternoon we'll tell the Board."

"The what?"

"The Board of Directors of the Institute for Design."

The Board of Directors met at the Comb's oldest level, the executive suite on the top floor. Below glittered all the towers of Iridis, the harbor shimmering in the late afternoon sun. Around the conference table sat a dozen lords and ladies in gray talars, as well as worm-faced engineers, one of whom wore enough emeralds to feed Dolomoth for a year. Chrys wore the one old talar she had, low-brained nanotex, now stretched thin over her Plan Ten-enhanced curves.

She recognized Lord Zoisite, the minister of justice, often seen at Gold of Asragh. He had pledged to curb the Sapiens attacks and halt the spread of the brain plague. Even allowing for Plan Ten, his looks were striking, nearly as good as Topaz's portrait of him.

Next to Zoisite, her window informed her, was Lord Jasper, husband of Lord Garnet of Hyalite. Chrys's eyes widened. Lord Garnet was a carrier—was Jasper? She studied Jasper's face. Distinguished, like Andra, she guessed; yet he had kept the thickened brow and flat nose of a sim. A sim, in a Great House, on a Board of Directors. He must be extra competent to have made it so far. From his neck hung a large namestone, round and polished, engrained with elaborate brown dots and tracery. Like a world one could enter into and travel along those lines; what they called in the trade a map stone.

"The Map of the Universe!" Aster's letters pulsed feverishly. "Oh Great One, we have business with this god, business unfinished over twenty past generations."

"Not now. Be dark." So the God of the Map Stone was here on the Board. Bad news for Eleutheria's future commission, once he saw the disaster of the Comb.

"As you know," Selenite was saying, "Chrysoberyl of Dolomoth cultures the original line of brain enhancers from Titan." Cultures, indeed; a walking petri dish. "Chrys herself is an accomplished designer, one of the Seven Stars."

Lord Zoisite nodded with a patrician smile. "I'm sure our new designer will be an improvement over the original."

Chrys gave him a broad smile, the kind she reserved for well-heeled clients with questionable taste.

From the end of the table spoke the Chair of the Board, a gentleman with a pinched expression who kept clearing his throat. "Frankly, Zoisite, we've had altogether enough 'designing.' "

Selenite said quickly, "Chrys's brain enhancers have already given us invaluable clues to correct the fenestral development, as well as the roof integrity and several other minor points to improve the habitability of our landmark edifice. Unfortunately—or rather, fortunately for the long run—our investigation has revealed a deeper anomaly."

The light dimmed. Above the table rose a golden honeycomb, the image of the Comb pushing up like an alpine flower in the spring. The shaft rose and widened, its crystalline windows spiraling slowly around it. Chrys imagined how this very conference room had risen over the past two years, its view ever more breathtaking.

"The past plan of growth closely followed our projection," said Selenite. "The future, however, will be different. Based on measurements of stress, multidirectional movement, and so forth, a hundred sixty-eight factors in all, we project the following."

As Selenite went on enumerating the 168 factors, the summit of the Comb continued to rise, but more slowly. About halfway down, the row of windows dipped and puckered in. Chrys squinted, trying to see more clearly. In the depression a shadow deepened, then suddenly gave way to blue sky. An invisible finger had pierced straight through the Comb. As the view slowly rotated and the sides of the Comb came around, Chrys could see that the hole was not so simple; there were three holes, as if one ring had sprouted another down the middle.

"It's beautiful," insisted Jonquil. "A tripartite annulus will look most attractive."

"Stay dark," ordered Chrys. "These gods are not carriers, nor do they care for great art. They just want a big phallic tower."

"A unique splitting mechanism." A worm-faced engineer, whose worms all terminated as various writing implements, capped by conveniently sinking into its head. Female, according to the list. One of her implements popped out and traced a circle in the air. "Remarkably reminiscent of living development on that 'Ring World' of Prokaryon."

The Chair was not amused. "Our attorneys advise us to sue."

Chrys blinked. Sue whom? Herself? Her microbes?

"Now, now," said Lord Zoisite with a gentle laugh. "Let's not be hasty. Why, the executive suite, this very conference room, will grow unchanged."

From the engineer's head, a second worm with a lightpen popped out. Her two worms sketched vectors on the table. "We could build catwalks to link departments across the middle."

Typical Valan planning, thought Chrys. The lower reaches of the city could split asunder, while at the top the Palace ruled on as it had for centuries.

The Chair clasped his hands and leaned forward. "Such faulty design is entirely inexcusable."

Lord Zoisite waved a hand. "The price of innovation. In any event, our new designer has guaranteed to correct the fault... for a fixed fee." He eyed Chrys more intently.

Selenite leaned forward. "For our fee, we'll guarantee the first five years. After that, we offer a service contract."

The Board members looked at each other. Lord Jasper with his map stone looked unimpressed. He must have heard the whole story from Selenite and quashed any thoughts he had about pursuing Eleutherian designs. "A building that needs a service contract?" Jasper flexed his fingers, his short thumbs meeting together. "Titan was said to build for the ages."

Suddenly Chrys felt her pulse pounding. She had vowed to keep quiet, but the mention of a lawsuit had changed her mind. "Excuse me, I know less about building than a cold germ, but I think you're missing something. The Comb is not a fixed structure, like the pyramids. It's a living being, like a redwood tree. If you had a redwood growing in the middle of Iridis, you'd have to prune it forever."

Lord Zoisite laughed. "A redwood in Iridis! That's it—that's the Comb."

The engineer tucked her worms back into her head. The Chair leaned back. "We'll get a second opinion, of course," he said, his voice easing.

Outside, alone together, Selenite took a deep breath. "We've done it, Chrys." She grinned. "We've convinced them we can do the fix."

The air from the sea swept Chrys's face, and the warming circuit of her nanotex kicked on. "I sure hope we can."

"My people are convinced, and so am I," Selenite assured her.

"Can we do it, Aster?"

The magenta voice hesitated. "We could use some help."

"We need to recruit talent," added Jonquil. "From the wizards, and from all different peoples, of different gods. The brightest children of every generation." No wonder they always begged to visit the God of Wisdom. She wondered what Opal thought.

"Where would I find other gods?"

"Olympus."

Chrys stared. She said aloud, "What's 'Olympus'?"

"The Club Olympus," said Selenite. "We'll all be there. We have plenty to celebrate."

Before the Club Olympus stretched a long colonnade of faux marble caryatids. Some of the draped figures had their arms outstretched; others held a piece of fruit to the mouth. All of their eyes swiveled eerily toward Chrys.

Selenite wore black, with red and gold flames lapping ever higher. Opal wore a talar of deep blue, her gems swimming across its folds in the form of an ocean wave rising to foam, with a white moon at her breast, gradually changing phase. Any moment Chrys expected the outfit to demand a raise and a two-week vacation.

"Chrys," Opal exclaimed, pressing her arm, "I'm so thrilled you're fixing the Comb. It will be wonderful to work without drip from the ceiling. We're all impressed. Everyone's dying to meet you." She added pointedly, "Despite the brain drain."

The doorway of Olympus shimmered and expanded—into another world. Tree trunks arched into the virtual sky, then back to earth, like lava fountains frozen. The arched trunks were midnight blue, their foliage hung in green and yellow bangles, profuse enough to block the sun. Beside the looped foliage hovered a helicopter bird, its propeller buzzing. From beneath a tree's arch rolled a tire-shaped animal, headless and limbless, its suckers picking up from behind and rotating forward to catch the ground ahead. It took fright and sped off, like a wheel come loose from a wagon.

"Living wheels," exclaimed Chrys.

"It's Prokaryon," said Opal, "where the ancestral micros came from. On Prokaryon, all the creatures are living wheels. It's not so strange. Even your own mitochondria are covered with rotating energy generators, like molecular pinwheels."

"Those trees—are they wheels too?"

Opal nodded. "Their roots loop across underneath, and their arches sprout loopleaves. Micros inhabit the singing-trees; they make the loopleaves flash colors, to transmit their signals long-distance."

"Or they live in us, and use human eyes." No wonder they invented the neuroports.

Opal's arm swung forward, and a magnificent curl of gems rolled past her breast. "We humans make better transmitting towers. We're intelligent."

In a clearing sat several Plan-Ten-polished people resplendent in gem-swirling nanotex, relaxing amid bowls of lambfruit and AZ. The chief of security glittered in pale green andradites, marching in rows around her waist. With her was an eye-stalked sentient; Sartorius, with his worms pulled in to look less repellent.

"The Terminator," flashed Jonquil. "Turn away. We don't like to see him."

"Mind your manners. Where's Aster?" Chrys did not care much for the doctor either, but her people had better watch their step.

Opal and Selenite passed Andra transfer patches. Several carriers whom Chrys had not yet met held out patches to them, and to her. Everyone seemed to have their hands on someone, sending microbial visitors neck to neck. Plenty of talent to recruit, but it made Chrys uneasy, even if micros did keep the blood clean.

Out of the forest came a caryatid, taking slow, gliding steps. Its form was a young man, pale as an Elysian, perfectly proportioned, its gaze serene. Chrys admired the face; it was well done, more sophisticated than Xenon's handiwork. Its arm held out a platter of sculpted fruits, lamb and pork flesh grown on a stem, the sort of trifle one saw for a hundred credits behind thick glass on Center Way. Chrys took one, and the taste of it went straight to her head; she weakened at the knees. How the other half a percent eats.

Opal beckoned Chrys to sit. She and Selenite rested arm in arm beneath the brightly colored loopleaves. Selenite was already arguing with Daeren. "I'm not sure micros really are individuals, like human people," she insisted.

Daeren wore no talar, but his black nanotex pulsed with subtle geometric forms. His face was relaxed, but his hand clenched and unclenched. "Of course they're individuals," he said quietly. "Each one has personality. A micro feels in one day what a humans takes decades to feel."

"But they depend on us completely. Without us, they are nothing."

"What are we humans without our planet, our atmosphere?"

Another caryatid glided forward. This one looked faintly familiar. Chrys frowned in puzzlement. Topaz; not exactly, yet it resembled her, a boyish version. Chrys's lips parted, then she shook herself. All these strangers had her confused. And she missed Topaz so badly. How had the show done? Topaz had not even called. At least Zircon had. She couldn't wait to see him again at Gold of Asragh.

"Even if micros are individuals now," Selenite continued, "evolution will make them degenerate. Look how fast they mutate. Like our ancestral mitochondria, they'll start out individuals, then eventually lose most of their genes and merge with our own bodies."

Daeren shook his head. "Mitochondrial ancestors were individual, but mindless. Mindless cells, like any ordinary microbe, at the mercy of natural selection. But micro people are intelligent. They breed their own children, correcting their genes."

"Some of us breed them," Selenite rejoined coolly. "Some of us select which offspring to merge. We cultivate our strains for essential skills, while discarding less helpful traits. In the end, they'll merge with our own brains—true brain extensions."

At that, Daeren did not answer. His face went blank, as if to hide his thoughts.

Opal leaned her head on Selenite's shoulder. "The micros will change us too," she warned. "Even our mitochondria transferred their genes into our own chromosomes. On Prokaryon, the micro people bred the giant singing-trees to their desires. And now—"

Selenite frowned. "Don't even say such things. The Sapiens will eat us alive."

Chrys thought, she herself would eat those micros alive if they tried to mess with her genes.

Opal leaned away and put a hand on Daeren's knee. "What about microsentients? Do you support them too?"

His mouth lengthened slightly. "I do," he admitted.

Selenite rolled her eyes. "So every nano-cell in every bit of plast could be a person?"

Another caryatid approached Chrys. Servers of course were kept at a level of sentience just below what might "wake up." She admired this one's classic features. "Some water, please?" The server obligingly produced a phial of clear liquid, the taste of a Dolomite spring. For a moment Chrys closed her eyes, back to her childhood on the ash-dusted slope, at once pleasant, yet achingly sad.

"Chrysoberyl?" Beside a singing-tree reclined Lord Jasper, his arm around a fair-haired gentleman in gray nanotex with one red namestone. Moraeg's Lord Carnelian, Chrys thought at first; but he was not. He must be Jasper's husband, Lord Garnet. Jasper rose to meet Chrys. "My pleasure." His thick simian brow gave him a permanently serious expression. Plan Ten could have reshaped his simian traits, but he hadn't; Chrys respected that. "You manage Eleutheria most admirably, by all accounts."

"The God of the Map of the Universe! When can we visit?"

Chrys hesitated, still shy about "visiting." "They're good people," said Chrys, her eyelids fluttering nervously. "They take pride in their creation."

"Keep your eyes open," complained Aster. "Shut-downs interfere with transmission. This is most important—"

"Be patient," Chrys blinked back.

Jasper nodded sharply, like a man used to sizing up character. "I'm glad they're back at work on the Comb. Perhaps they can salvage it after all." He touched her hand politely, then put a transfer at his neck. "As you know, the House of Hyalite had approached Titan about a ... major new project. Much bigger than the Comb. We believe he had just drafted a proposal, when he passed away."

"How unfortunate." What project, she wondered. What could be bigger than the Comb?

"Your people claim they saved the proposal, and have continued to refine it."

It unnerved her when her micros knew what was going on and she didn't.

"Let's not keep Garnet waiting," said Jasper. "Garnet, this is Chrysoberyl of Dolomoth. Our new neighbor."

Lord Garnet met her eyes, and his own sparkled gold. A younger son of the Hyalites, he had their high cheekbones and well-set eyes, but Chrys had heard little of him. He must have paid off the snake-eggs to keep him out of the news. Like Lord Carnelian, he wore only gray, and a namestone so small you could miss it. "So you're the new Titan."

"Oh, no." Chrys shook her head. "I'm no dynatect." She added earnestly, "I'm an artist. One of the Seven Stars."

"The God of Love," said Aster. "His people love our nightclubs. Let them visit."

Chrys touched his hand and offered him "visitors."

Another caryatid approached, this one a young woman. And yet... the face was her first boyfriend, whom she had not seen in ten years. The one who had begged her to stay with him in the mountains forever, raising his goats and children. Chrys went cold with shock.

Lord Garnet smiled. "What good taste you have, my dear. We always try to please a newcomer."

The servers were keyed to her gaze, shaping themselves to what most caught her eye. Chrys looked away.

"Olympus?" Jasper called tactfully, "Key the servers to me, please."

Garnet leaned forward suddenly. "Tell me something. Why are the Seven Stars but Seven?"

Still recovering, Chrys ignored him.

"Daeren," called Garnet. "Do you know why the Seven are but Seven?"

Daeren came over and rested his hand lightly on Garnet's shoulder, lines of gold rising elegantly along his dark nanotex. He looked Chrys in the eye. "Because they were not eight." He meant something else, and so did Garnet, Chrys suspected. The committee—they all knew.

Garnet playfully caught Daeren's arm and passed him a patch. "You make a good fool. What goes on four legs, then two legs, then three?"

"You're a fool for all but numbers," jested Jasper. "Why don't you give us the kind that's useful?"

"Right, my dear." Garnet turned to Chrys. "Your people tell us you could use extra funds. Blink me a hundred. We only take one percent, for carriers."

The nerve of those Eleutherians—they'd catch it later. Chrys swallowed her retort and shrugged. "All right." She blinked at her credit line. The three digits reappeared in an investment box. The lower digits vacillated too fast for her to catch, but within a minute the first digit doubled.

"We invest on the nano-market," Garnet explained. "Trades lasting a fraction of a second."

Doubling every minute—it looked pretty good, even to someone no good at math.

Garnet tilted his head. "An artist," he repeated reflectively. "I invest in art. Do show us some."

Opal had overheard. "Please do, Chrys." She clapped her hands. Two singing-trees vanished to reveal a holostage.

Warily Chrys looked from one to another. What did they know of art, she wondered. Though if they liked something, at least they could afford to buy.

From online she called down Lava Butterflies, in Valan color mode. The piece began with the cone smoking quietly above the rocky landscape, foreground touched with poppies tinted orange. Then it erupted, the orange lava exploding into butterflies.

The carriers nearby all laughed, and even Jasper smiled. Chrys's face hardened. No sense of taste—philistines all.

"Chrys," called Opal, "why don't you show us Fern?"

She blinked in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"We've all heard about Fern," said Opal. "How you put her 'in the stars.' "

The carriers all grew quiet and watched her curiously. She realized that her micros must have spread it around, telling all their people about her precious little sketch. But she would never put that up for laughs. "It's private."

Opal's face fell, as if it were a real disappointment. The silence lengthened. Chrys felt bad; Opal had done so much for her. The sketch was not online for sale, but she took a viewcoin from her pocket and held it out to Opal, set on low power, enough to reach her alone.

For a moment Opal stared. Her eyes widened and she clapped her hands to her head. "That's it! That's how they really look, not like any micrograph. Like ..." She turned to Chrys. "Put it on the stage," she urged. "Let everyone see."

Chrys swallowed hard. It was just a sketch; she had never intended other humans to see it. Nervously she turned the viewcoin over between her fingers. At last she held it close to the stage. The lights dimmed. The image of Fern appeared, done in broad, hasty strokes, a giant green constellation, proclaiming the Eighth Light of Creation. The green filaments twinkled, in their own pulsing language that only the micro people knew.

"Behold our prophet," flashed Aster, "placed in the stars forever. God of Mercy, your greatness is everlasting." Chrys smiled. She should have known Fern was a prophet.

The carriers watched without speaking, and who knows how many "people" watched through their eyes. "But—she looks real," someone exclaimed. "As real as life—and yet—"

"Human size," added another.

Opal caught Chrys by the arm. "Could you do one of mine?"

Garnet said, "I'd like a whole gallery of my favorites."

"Mine first," insisted Opal. "Please—she hasn't another day to live." The urgency in her voice was most unlike her.

"What are your rates?" asked someone else.

The caryatids slowly passed, their food and drink unnoticed. Saints and angels, thought Chrys. Could it be that she would make good in "portraits" after all?