Brain Plague

NINE

The last of the Watchers, Dendrobium, was on the point of death, losing arsenic atom by atom. Aster tasted her fraying filaments. "You've done enough for us," Aster told her. "We'll have to make it on our own now. Won't you return at last to the Lord of Light, as your sister did?" In her youth Dendrobium had been the Lord of Light's favorite, yet she chose exile among those who rejected him.

Dendrobium's filaments blinked faintly. "It's too late; I could not survive the transfer."

Except directly through the blood, thought Aster; the way forbidden by the gods.

"It's nothing," the dying Watcher told her. "I've lived a long life well. Now I have one last word for you to remember. Someday, your god will despair and let you do as you will. When that day comes, remember this: Just say no."

Aster's filaments tasted the memory cell, with its whirling proton pumps and its photoreceptors. "We will remember. We will record your image for all time." Then she remembered the great miracle of Fern. "You, too, belong in the stars. We will ask the Great One to perform this miracle."

The dying cell did not answer.

Now Aster felt truly alone. The Council was divided on so many things—how to finance new bridges and fix decaying neighborhoods of arachnoid, what to do with young elders who couldn't find jobs. Jonquil had lots of bright ideas, but her authority was undercut by rumors of scandal.

"Jonquil, is it true?" demanded Aster. "Is it true, what people are saying? "

"What are they saying?"

It was too shameful even to mention. Aster flashed the words behind a screen of dendrimers. "They say you try to merge with adults."

"Aster, everyone knows that's impossible. Only children can merge."

Not a convincing answer. "They say you try."

"Why is that so bad?" asked Jonquil. "The gods merge and come apart again."

According to ancient legend, the Blind God had merged and come apart many times, with many different gods. But the God of Mercy never did any such thing. "You are no god, just a foolish elder. Think of your reputation. I'm depending on you. How will you keep the next generation out of trouble?"

"The real trouble with the next generation is that they've all grown soft. All the Olympian peoples—we drown in mediocrity. Where are truly diverse foreign peoples to merge? Talents and ideas unheard of?"

"Ideas are one thing," Aster insisted, "scandal is another."

"Speaking of scandal, what are we to do with Minion-625? She passed our test for citizenship, but the Deathlord demands her arrest."

Aster's light dimmed. "What's she done now?"

"She wrote 'Pumpkinheads,' a show making fun of the gods."

"Oh, that." The show was making the rounds of the nightclubs, but Aster was too busy to see it. "She's welcome to stay here, but we can't afford a diplomatic crisis with the minions. Not while we're fixing the Comb."

After years without notice, suddenly Chrys had more commissions than she knew what to do with. Bemused, she scratched beneath Merope's purring chin, while the little green sketch of Fern twinkled amongst the spattercones and lava flows that now adorned her studio. "Xenon," she confided, "I don't even know what to charge them."

"You need an agent," the house told her.

Chrys rolled her eyes. "An agent for microbial portraits?" She could hardly ask Topaz to recommend one.

"If you don't mind," said Xenon, "I've frequented galleries for years, and I've always wanted to sell good art."

"Really?" Opal sure had picked the right house.

"I'm so excited," Xenon exclaimed. "It's simple enough; you start at the top of the market. A top portrait commission goes for around twenty thousand."

"To paint a microbe?"

"Remember, you've got the market cornered."

She thought it over. "We'll do Opal's first." She had already collected recordings of a couple dozen favored micros, several from Garnet alone. A sketch was one thing, but a portrait in full detail? Topaz would interview her subjects for hours before putting a hand in the painting stage, and the sittings could take days or weeks. When would Chrys have time for pyroscape?

But if she could pull it off. . . what a fantastic theme for her next show.

"Oh Great One?" Yellow flashes from Jonquil. "Aster asked me to remind you of the passing of Dendrobium." The last of Daeren's Watchers. Chrys was on her own now, with Eleutheria. "We ask your favor, to see Dendrobium in the stars."

Unlike the other carriers at Olympus, Daeren had shown no interest in the micro portraits. "I'll sketch Dendrobium for you, Jonquil, but then we need to do our paid commissions. You'll have to help with the colors."

"Thanks for your favor, Oh Great One. Of course, paid commissions come first, but for your show, wouldn't you like to try some compositions of greater intellectual interest than dying elders? For instance, two children merging."

That would be a challenge, geometrically at least. She could see possibilities. Her show would be unique; maybe even controversial.

"I've reached four of your clients," reported Xenon, "and confirmed your commissions. I think you can look forward to steady income."

She looked up, then suddenly focused on her credit line. "Speaking of income, what's that 'two' doing in the first digit?" She couldn't have earned another million overnight.

"Your investment has done rather well."

Chrys twisted a loop of her hair. "Easy come, easy go."

"True," admitted Xenon, "last night you had another ten million for about five minutes. You might sell off some, now and then."

"I can buy my brother's health plan."

"Certainly, Chrysoberyl. Which plan do you wish?"

"How much is Plan Ten?"

"Plan Ten doesn't serve Dolomoth; the mountains are too remote. Plan Six, however, for twenty thousand a year, should cover the basics. The extra levels are mainly for options."

That was okay. Hal didn't need a gender change, just new mitochondria. Her spirits soared; she felt better than she had in weeks. She blinked at her window to call her parents. Of course, it was impossible to reach anyone directly in Dolomoth; they had to hike out to the village transmitter and call back.

A sprite flashed in her eyes. She was taken by surprise; it could not be her parents already.

It was Andra. "Chrys, a suspect has been identified in your case. A neighbor of yours; they think he's the one that hit your house."

The view split to include the suspect, a large-boned simian with the sullen look one would expect of someone bound hand and foot. Chrys recognized him from the tube maintenance crew. "Can you confirm any connection?" Andra asked. "Did he ever threaten you?"

Chrys shook her head. "He used to pass by my door on the way to work. Why do they think he did it?"

"A witness placed him nearby, earlier that day."

"I see."

"He's been in trouble before. They want to put him away again."

"For what? Being a sim?"

Andra nodded. "I'm afraid other leads have dried up. But for the future, you have good protection. Xenon's security is up to standard."

"What about Titan? Anything new?"

"That's another story."

Chrys turned cold, remembering that her new privileges came at a price.

An explosion of sound, and one of the sketches went black. The ash cloud—Chrys had set it to remind her. "It can't be noon already? The eclipse?"

"Don't forget your glasses," warned Xenon, as she hurried down the steps past the caryatids.

Outside, the sky had subtly changed. Not the greenish dark of a stormy day, nor the ruddy glow of sunset; something altogether different, an alien bluish light. Shadows developed a fantastic mind of their own. Through the leaves of a tree played little beams of light; not the ordinary, scattered rays, but each little spot of light was a crescent sun, the shrinking crescent of the sun itself behind the dark disk of the moon, of Elysium. At last only a tiny spark remained, just enough of a candle to illumine all of Valedon.

"What is it?" demanded Aster. "Tell us, what are these curious colors?"

"The sun falls behind a moon. Watch—in a moment, night will fall." Chrys smiled, remembering. "The ancients were struck with terror, forsaken by their angry gods."

"The gods themselves have gods?"

The disk of Elysium sprouted wings of dark. The wings darkened all the sky, until they revealed the stars. Chrys watched, still except for the pounding of her heart. Even though she knew the minutes would pass, she could feel the prayer rising to her lips. How the ancients must have shrieked and wailed.

At last, after interminable minutes, the light returned, as every thinking being knew it must. The blackened moon, though, would remain a while longer, cutting into the sun. Strange, to imagine that turquoise moon of the Elves transformed to a thing of evil.

"What if our god became angry? Will you ever forsake us?"

"Of course not, Aster." Whatever were they up to now, she wondered.

That evening, Selenite stopped by to conference about the latest plans. But there was something else on her mind. "Chrys, we work well together, I'll give you that. There's just one small problem." She paused.

"Yes?"

"You're holding one of my people. You can't do that, you know."

Mystified, Chrys stared at her. "Whatever do you mean?"

Selenite's black curls lifted in the breeze. "Minion-six-twenty-five. You've held her back. You can't ever do that; you must always return visitors on demand."

"On whose demand?"

Selenite's face hardened, like the Chair of the Board. "Each of us maintains order in our own way. You can't subvert the authority of another carrier."

Chrys looked aside. "Aster, are you there? What's all this about?"

"Minion-six-twenty-five emigrated to us. She applied for citizenship and was granted."

"Why does the Deathlord want her back?"

There was a slight pause, long by micro standards. "She was sentenced to death."

"Death? For what?"

"For writing a play disrespectful of the gods."

"Disrespectful? How?"

"It shows the gods striking their own feet with a thunderbolt."

Chrys looked up at Selenite. "If you didn't want her, why do you need her back?"

"She's a danger to you. To all carriers."

"Aster? Why did you accept her?"

A pause. "Will you condemn everyone who writes such stuff?"

"Is it dangerous?"

"If it is, the fault is mine for failing to govern better."

Chrys sighed. Those nightclubs were probably worse than the Gold of Asragh, but she little cared for censorship. "Some of them write trash," she admitted, "but I just got tested and had no problem."

Selenite's eyes sparked red. Whatever sparked from Chrys's eyes in turn, it only deepened her frown. "I think you should get a second opinion." She often disagreed with Daeren, but this frank assessment caught Chrys by surprise.

"Look," said Chrys at last, "I don't mean to subvert your, um, authority, but, like, I have to keep my own as well. I mean, I'm their 'God of Mercy'; they expect it of me."

"Mercy, or indulgence?"

Chrys started to reply but thought better of it. She spread her hands. "If you kill the minion, that's the way to make your whole population read her stuff. Believe me."

"Your population," Selenite corrected. "Mine know better. Very well, you may keep her—but if she ever returns to my arachnoid, she's dead."

Zircon met her as promised at the tube stop in the Underworld. Chrys felt light-headed, it was so good to see him again. The streets were still darkened with soot, but the vendors were back selling caterpillar-claw necklaces and imported nanotex, the bright colored disks stacked upon building roots. Others illegally tapped the roots' power to steam squid with exotic herbs. A stray cat padded silently past the disabled trash cycler. Chrys remembered that Merope could use a new companion. On the sidewalk, one sim pushed another in a wheelchair, while a better-off couple passed cloaked in air-conditioned chinchilla from head to toe. Only a long look down a side street revealed the haze, where housing units and building roots had melted into ruin.

"I'm so glad you came," she told Zircon. "I thought none of the Seven would ever touch me again."

Zircon flexed his arms, proud of himself. "They're all scared," he agreed. "They're waiting to see what happens to me."

She had figured, but hearing it out loud cut to the bone.

The well-built artist looked down at her. "You see, I'm not the biggest chicken."

"You're the rooster." Stepping behind him, she locked her arms around his waist, bent at the knees, and just managed to lift him off the ground.

"What the devil—" Zircon turned and caught her up, flipping her over before he set her down again. Chrys laughed so hard she lost her breath. "I get the message," he added. "You're healthy— I'll let them know."

Chrys caught her breath and sighed. "I do miss Topaz, and Moraeg."

"Moraeg and Carnelian left for Solaris right after the show, as usual." Solaris, the number one leisure world, and the most remote in the Fold. No wonder Moraeg had not called. Chrys felt better. "Topaz has more clients than she can handle," Zircon added, "but Pearl seems a bit off."

"And Yyri?" Zirc's lover; he had not mentioned her.

"She and Ilia are planning their fall season at Gallery Elysium. 'Gems from the Primitive.' "

Primitive Valan art, starring the urban shaman. "Good luck to you."

"Who is this virgin god?" asked Jonquil. "He tastes good."

Startled, Chrys drew away from Zircon. The micros couldn't transfer without a patch, but she would take no chances. "Never mind what you taste. Keep to your own world, or you're dead."

"So who do you hang out with now?" he asked.

"Carriers. They're all nuts," she exclaimed. "It's a relief to be back with someone sane."

"Someone like me? Mind if I keep that and play it back?"

"We're rebuilding the Comb."

He stared. "Little you? Rebuilding the Comb?"

"Say, look, there's Lord Zoisite. He's on the Board; I met him." The patrician Board member passed with his octopod, ignoring a maimed simian with a cup. There were more homeless than ever; even up-level on Rainbow Row, the Spirit Table was full.

Zircon nodded. "Zoisite's a regular."

"Besides the Comb, I've done fantastic things for my new show."

"I know, I've checked it out. You'll have to explain to me those 'portraits.'"

"Those are them. The micro people."

Zircon opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. "These other carriers—are they artists too?"

"No, but they're all rich as Elves."

"No Elf would ever be a carrier."

"Ilia is."

"Ilia? The Elf gallery director?" He stared at her. "I don't believe it."

"I tell you, I saw it in her eyes. Her people contacted mine."

'"Her people?'" He shook his head. "You really have gone round the bend."

"It's the truth."

Zircon crossed his massive arms. "Why would Elves carry tiny people in their heads, when they're already engineered to do just about anything?"

"Nothing beats having a million worshipers in your head."

He thought this over. "Elves think they're gods already." Elysium had no crime or disorder of any kind. Its bubblelike cities floated on the ocean, perpetually safe and clean.

"I'm sure Elves can't become slaves," Chrys added thoughtfully. "Micros must be safe for them."

The Gold of Asragh opened its mouth. "You'll love this new show," Zircon told her as they entered. "The head caterpillar can belt it out to blow the roof off." The redecorated lobby scintillated with gold fittings, even along the slave bar.

"Oh Great One," flashed Aster, "we taste the signs of malnourished people."

"People not fed by their gods," said Jonquil. "Shocking."

Whatever did they mean, Chrys wondered. She looked toward the bar. Saf was long gone, probably to the mysterious Slave World. Behind the counter stood a new slave, eyes flickering at a couple of customers.

Zircon raised an arm. "Hi there, Jay."

Chrys frowned. She was generally polite to slaves, but Zircon sounded a bit too friendly. Then she stared at the customers. The two men were conversing, transfer patches held casually in their fingers. One listened intently to what the other said. The other was Daeren.

She stood, transfixed. Cold washed over her, freezing every limb. The micros had said he came here—and hid what he did. His head turned, and he caught her eye.

"That's Day," said Zircon. "Day's a regular."

Daeren's eyes widened, and his face tightened with shock. He got up and strode toward her. "Chrys, what are you doing here?" His eyes sputtered blue fire.

"The blue angels," called Jonquil. "What's wrong?"

"We've done nothing wrong," assured Aster.

Zircon watched curiously. "How do you guys do that with your eyes?"

Chrys lifted her chin at Daeren. "What are you doing here?"

"It's my job," Daeren snapped. "Chrys, with all that arsenic in your veins, how much do you think your life's worth?"

Zircon put his arm around her. "It's okay, Day, she's with me."

"Just get home," insisted Daeren. "I'll see you to the tube."

Her jaw tensed, and she clenched her fists. "Zirc, you go in," she muttered. "I'll join you in a minute." She headed for the door, Daeren following. Outside, she turned on him. "You listen to me, Lord Vampire. You have no business bothering me and my friends."

"Chrys, the black market's tight right now. They're starving for—"

"Then what in hell are you doing? I know a slave when I see one. I'm turning you in." She looked him up and down, figuring, she could drag him to the tube herself.

"I'm trained. I rescue them."

Her eyes narrowed. "You rescue slaves?"

"If they have enough will left to turn themselves in, they have a chance."

From behind the nightclub emerged a worm-faced medic. Chrys remembered Andra in the hospital, hauling some half-crazed victim to the clinic. "But I saw you share a transfer."

He hesitated. "I save a few 'people,' too."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Defectors from the masters. They want a better life."

"Microbial defectors? Like, tuberculosis that says it's sorry?" She rolled her eyes. "Saints and angels."

"Day!" A hoarse voice called from the door. It was the other customer. His eyes were wide, his face lined with pain.

Daeren exchanged a look with the medic. Then he took a step. "Is that you, Ahd?" He spoke in a low, casual tone. "You coming with us?"

The man tried to speak, but it turned into a gasp. His head rolled in a circle, as if trying to look, but he could not face Daeren's eyes. His sick brain must be crowded with half-starved micros.

"The masters of Endless Light," Aster called them. "The blue angels never let even Fern speak to them." Chrys watched as if frozen.

Daeren took another step toward the slave. "Can you recall the rest of your name, Ahd? Another syllable?"

"Ahd-Adam—" His eyes turned in circles. Then he gasped all at once, "Adamantine."

"Very good, Adamantine." Daeren had moved to just within arm's reach. "Now you just give me that transfer, and I'll give you something to calm down the rest."

Adamantine put a patch at his neck, then tried to offer it, but something went wrong. His arm shot out, losing the patch, and his fist caught Daeren full in the face. It all happened so fast, then the tortured man had turned half around, his head in his hands. Daeren stood and wiped the blood from his lip. "It's all right, Adamantine. Try again."

The man raised himself slowly, though his eyes still circled wide.

"The transfer patch," flashed Aster. "It's there on the ground."

"All those people—"

Chrys closed her eyes. "Stay dark." She reopened her eyes slowly.

Adamantine was still standing, his face contorted with pain. Daeren held out to him a wafer of green, different from the usual blue ones. "This will put them to sleep."

Breathing heavily, the man put out his hand and at last took the wafer. He swallowed it. For a minute or two, he stood there. Then he straightened, and his eyes met Daeren's for the first time.

"It won't last," Daeren quickly warned. "And if you go back, it won't work again. You have about five minutes to accept treatment. In treatment you'll go through hell, then spend the rest of your life recovering."

"I accept. . . treatment."

The worm-face moved in. "He's pretty far gone, Daeren. He can't reach the clinic too soon." The tendrils lengthened to insinuate themselves around the slave. The three of them hurried off toward the tube, leaving Chrys alone.

"The transfer," reminded Aster. "It's still there."

"Forsaken by the gods," added Jonquil. "They can't last long."

Chrys shook herself and turned toward the door, her mind still reeling.

"The people! They are dying!"

"Someone do something. Someone has to pick them up."

Chrys blinked hard at the frantic messages. "They're masters. Let them die." Stray cats were one thing, stray plague was quite another.

"They're defectors," pleaded Aster. "They tried to escape."

"They begged for rescue," added Jonquil. "They brought all their children."

"Their children can't last long."

"You are the God of Mercy. You will rescue them."

At the door Chrys stopped. "You're raving. I'd end up a slave."

"We'll bind them with dendrimers, like the viruses and parasites we purge from your blood. We'll keep our world safe."

"Nonsense," Chrys insisted. "When I'm tested, the gods will find out and exterminate you all."

"The Lord of Light himself saves defectors."

"He left those," said Chrys.

"That's why you must save them."

"God of Mercy."

"Don't let them die in agony. Don't make us mourn their horrible deaths."

Chrys felt her heart pounding so fast it would burst. She felt trapped. If she left all those 'people,' how could she command the respect of her own?

If anything went wrong, she told herself, the nanos would detect it and call Plan Ten. If they didn't, she could hit the purple button and face Chief Andra with her foolishness. Slowly she turned and her eye found the patch lying still in the street. She bent at the knees and picked up the patch, warily as if it were a snake, thinking, this was certainly the stupidest thing she had ever done.