“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 s
train?”
“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.”
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