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 façade 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 breathe, 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.
SEVEN
The blue Watchers floated near the Council of Thirty, missing nothing. For Fern, their presence was a relief, but a reproach. The death of Poppy and the rebel children seared her memory.
“You were warned,” blinked Delphinium, her blue light dim with age. “People are not meant to outlive their god.” As they had once—and nearly had again. Gods hurting gods was not a thing for people to see.
“The God of Mercy let us live,” Fern insisted. “And soon we’ll be a million strong.”
“People are judged not by numbers.”
“Not by numbers. By truth and beauty.” Truth, beauty, and memory…
And now, they returned to the beauty and memory of their ancient monument to the gods—the Comb.
From the minions of the Deathlord, the Eleutherians received memory cells encoding all the development of the Comb, since the seed had first germinated. Within the cells, the plans were written on strands of DNA, crisscrossed with chains of atoms conducting electrons. The long chains carried their electrons to the membrane surface of the cell, where the current drove molecular pinwheels to rotate. Fern and Aster felt the arms of the rotating pinwheels, tasted the results, and compared their original plans.
“As I thought,” blinked Aster. “A small deviation in the plan gets magnified as the building grows, straining the windows.”
“Are you certain?” asked Fern. “The Comb was seeded before my time, but it is written that a million checks and tests were done.”
“Our ancestors tested the model out to the billionth iteration. But the Deathlord’s minions tell us the Comb grew faster than the gods planned. Larger than they had asked of us.”
The gods themselves tasted hubris, Fern thought, but kept to herself. “Nonetheless, we will restore what we made.”
“We’ll model a correction,” said Aster. “But to test the model, we must inspect the Comb and taste it directly.” Aster’s light flashed with the sureness of the young. Her filaments brushed the wheels of the cell, feeding them protons to run further calculations.
Some of the young designers were less patient. “Why must we return to this monument?” demanded a restless young elder, golden yellow. “Why build for the gods, if they can’t even maintain our creation? Restoration is not our job. Let the ancient work fall into ruin.”
“Memory,” reminded Fern. “We build not for today, but for the memory of all time.”
“When will we build our new monument for the God of the Map of the Universe?”
“When we find that legendary god again.” The God of the Map of the Universe was nowhere to be found. None of his people had been seen, although the Cisterna Magna now filled with foreigners flashing new hues of green and orange, swimming past the columns of arachnoid. Visitors from other gods: the wizards of Wisdom and the minions of the Deathlord. Some came just to trade credits for good-tasting organic molecules, or for precious atoms of gold, iron, palladium, anything but arsenic, which belonged to the gods. Other visitors stayed on for a generation, to learn the ways of Eleutheria. And the very brightest of foreign children were recruited to merge with Eleutherians.
But Fern grew weary of the generations. Her own proteins were breaking down; she was nearly as old as Delphinium. Soon, she thought, they all will have to carry on without me. She knew what she must do, in the final years she had left.
Back at Opal’s home, the virtual setting sun cast a warm glow on the bark of the trees, trilling with finches and warblers. Still dazed, Chrys sat on a redwood stump, which molded to her seat in a most unwooden fashion. In her lap curled Merope, the lucky survivor, nosed tucked under her paws, her tail waving gently.
Opal sat close to Chrys, while Selenite listened intently to Andra. Andra’s namestones marched in precise rows across her nanotex. “It’s a hate crime. We’ll press charges.”
Beside Andra, Daeren had not looked up since he arrived. What did he think of it all, Chrys wondered; her burnt-out apartment, her slain cat, the ravaged Underworld? Her eyes defocused, and for a moment she wished she could step back three weeks in time, just another artist getting by.
Opal clasped Chrys�
�s hand. “Are you sure, Andra? Will the Palace take us seriously?”
Selenite said, “Burnt through the eyes is always an anti-carrier sign. Andra’s right; we have to make them investigate.”
Andra agreed. “It strengthens our case on Titan.”
Titan, the Blind God, his eyes scorched by whoever would destroy what lived within. Just three weeks ago, the deed had haunted her window; now she had nearly ended the same.
Selenite crossed her arms. “The Palace needs to root out the Sapiens and end their war against us.”
Chrys looked up. “Not just us. The whole Underworld.”
“The Sapiens hate carriers even worse than sims.”
Chrys scratched behind Merope’s ears. “What do Sapiens have against carriers?”
Opal sighed. “They hate any intermingling of human and other. ‘Pollution of the blood.’”
“But micros just live inside us. They don’t mix with us genetically, like the simian ape ancestors.”
“We all have ape ancestors. And we all have microbial ancestors—a billion years back, but still. It’s not a question of reason.” Opal shook her head. “You can’t expect the virgins to understand.”
“The what?”
“Well, what do you call a wilderness without people in it?”
The carriers were silent. Behind a tree something moved, a flash of tan lifting a dark eye. A deer, feeding in the woods, an illusory world of peace.
“Who knows if it was Sapiens after Chrys?” Opal added. “It could have been anyone. A copycat criminal.”
Perhaps a “virgin” neighbor of Chrys who glimpsed the colored rings in her eyes. She stared bleakly past her seven-digit credit line. “Why does the Palace let Sapiens get away with it?” Chrys exclaimed. “They burn out the Underworld, and nothing comes of it. This time, the signs were all there—everyone knew what was coming.”
Andra stared ahead coldly. “It’s the cheap way to clean out the slave trade.”
Selenite passed Opal a patch of micro visitors. “Not quite.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “We wouldn’t want to lose all the slaves, would we.”
Chrys blinked, puzzled.
“The clinic,” Opal explained. “The good doctor serves…friends of the Palace. When they convert to second stage and fear the third. Or when their families turn them in.”
“They go clean for six months, on average,” said Selenite. “Then they get resupplied.”
Chrys had seen enough fur-dressed customers sidling up to the plague bar. But to think that it reached the Palace…
Andra rose from her seat and paced between two redwoods, stepping precisely one foot ahead of the other. “Sar conducts research to improve our defenses.”
“Right,” said Selenite. “We tell the Palace we’re walking culture dishes.”
Andra frowned. “What we learn from the slaves protects us as well. Right now, carriers are safer than virgins—but the microbial masters are always learning new tricks.” She rose from her seat, and light from between the branches glinted on her hair. “Bad micros, bad humans. Some day, we’ll bring them all to justice.”
“Good luck.” Opal’s smile brightened. “For now, Chrys, we’ll find you a safe place to live. I checked out that townhouse—it’s lovely, just down the block from Lord Garnet of Hyalite—”
“No.” Chrys tensed, and Merope jumped down from her lap. “I’m sorry—I’m just not ready to run out and look at houses. Let me be.”
Opal squeezed her hand. “Of course, dear. You can stay with us as long as you wish.”
Andra put a patch to her neck.
“The Thundergod is departing,” Chrys told Fern. “Any visiting ‘judges’?” The ritual was now routine.
“Just a minute while we pull them out of the nightclubs.”
Andra’s patch made the rounds of the gods, picking up any stray judges lest they be lost for a generation, while returning wizards and Eleutherians. After she left, Opal exchanged a glance with Selenite. “We have a few things to attend to. If you need anything, Chrys, just call.” The two carriers disappeared through a virtual tree trunk as wide as Chrys’s lost home.
Alone now, Daeren looked up. “What happened to your art? Did you lose everything?”
Chrys shrugged. “It’s all online.” Except for little things like the holo still of her parents and her ailing brother, vaporized into random molecules of the city. “I’d be crazy to store anything in that neighborhood.”
“It’s not a bad neighborhood. It’s a neighborhood in need of attention.”
She eyed him skeptically. “If it got the right kind of attention, I couldn’t afford to live there.”
“Now you can live anywhere.”
“And all my friends?”
He hesitated. “I’ve been thinking, I made some mistakes. I should have known what it would mean to get you involved with us. Usually our candidates can pick up and integrate easily with the carrier community. But you have a special community in the art world. You need to stay in touch with that, and it won’t be easy. I’m sorry.”
Chrys’s eyes filled and she swallowed hard. “If they’re worth anything, they’ll come back.”
“Oh Great One, we ask a favor.” Fern again. “One of the Watchers, Delphinium, is aging sooner than expected. She won’t ask for herself, but I know it would please her to spend her final days back home.”
Chrys studied her window, then turned to Daeren. “Fern thinks Delphinium would like to go home.”
Daeren frowned. “Are they trying to get rid of the Watchers?”
“I don’t think so. We still have six others. Delphinium is dying; she won’t last the hour.”
“The Watchers pledged to end their lives with you.” But his look softened. “Let me see.” He rose from his seat, and Chrys rose to meet his eyes. The blue lights twinkled. “All right,” he said at last.
Chrys handed him the patch, and he put it at his neck.
“Thanks, Chrys. We missed her.” He smiled, revealing a different person underneath, someone who perhaps did not have to be quite so serious all the time. Micros were always “her,” Chrys noticed. Unlike humans and sentients, they hadn’t invented gender. They had other obsessions.
Chrys’s head tilted quizzically. “Why did you first take micros, Daeren?”
His face closed again, his mouth small. “For the money.” Unlike the other carriers, he had no lucrative line that she could see. “I’ll see you for your next checkup,” he told her.
The next morning, Chrys went with Opal to see the townhouse with the caryatids. The lightcraft set down at a row of towers that rose proud as lords in a reception line. Chrys stepped out of the lightcraft, clutching her stomach; she would never get used to it. Warily she eyed the towers, then their cousins across the street, lined up like a piece of rainbow cake sideways on a plate, each layer with its subtle pastel hue, all reaching up to an actual roof open to the stars. And each beautifully fenced with changing patterns of stunplast.
“Chrys, it’s here. Remember?”
The tower was a plain shade of pink gray, its doorway flanked by two caryatids draped in classic style. Three floors, she guessed. Not a window in sight; the interior must be totally virtual. “Are you sure I can afford to buy it?” Over the day since her windfall, she had discovered she owed world, state, and city taxes, as well as a fine for failure to predict income. Then the Security Committee took a ten percent “required donation”—bad as the Brethren. Her one point five megacred had shrunk by half.
“You don’t buy a house,” Opal whispered. “You hire him. ‘Buying’ is a dirty word.”
Masculine, Chrys told herself, hoping she’d remember.
“Greetings, Ladies,” boomed a voice from the house. “Xenon, at your service. Chrysoberyl of Dolomoth—a pleasure to meet you. I would not have considered a first-time home partner, but you came so well recommended by my gallery colleagues.”
Her mouth fell open, then shut again. Her cheeks flushed slightly.
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The wall indented into a stairway. “Do step up, please. First floor provides dining and guest reception; second floor, on my colleague’s recommendation, is devoted entirely to your studio…” The painting stage alone took up greater volume than her entire previous apartment. “Of course, if you’d prefer to install a ballroom and gaming facilities, I’d be glad to oblige; I do love entertaining—”
“Thanks, this will do.” Alcyone would have loved so much room to explore, she thought, aching for the poor lost creature. Merope would need a new companion. Chrys turned slowly on her heel, her mind spinning with the possibilities.
Opal nodded this way and that. “It’s a good start. When you’ve made it big, you can expand for all your assistants.”
“Furniture,” Chrys exclaimed, her heart sinking. “How will I ever fill this place?”
“I provide an entire home package,” assured Xenon. “What sort of bedding would you like? I’ll put out samples.”
Beneath her feet, the floor vibrated. Something was pushing out from the wall, and up from the floor. Floor and walls molded into a bed. Then a second bed appeared, circular, and a third, a vast half moon with a canopy. Which to choose? “Do you have, um, a default setting for everything?”
“Certainly, Chrysoberyl. I do love decorating myself. I can see we’ll make great partners.” The beds shrank away.
“I’ll leave you to settle in,” said Opal, taking out a patch to retrieve her visitors. “This evening—I know it’s a lot to ask, after all you’ve been through, but could you manage a site visit to the Comb? Selenite wants to get started, before your people forget their promise.”
Chrys couldn’t wait to try out the new painting stage. Its scope overwhelmed her; she had never tried anything on this scale. Her hands dipped into the palette to pull out swathes of gray purple and amber green, then stretched through the air to block in the shapes of mountains. Painting felt like flying.
“Fern? Are you there?” For some reason, Fern was getting harder to reach.
“I am here, Oh Great One.” The magenta letters meant Aster. “What do you need?”
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