Someone was touching her arm. “Chrys?” It was Opal. “Are you all right?”
Opal would fuss and take care of her. But Chrys was determined to handle this herself. “I’ll be all right,” she said firmly. “I just need to get home.” How would she survive without Fern?
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 calculations 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 raise brilliant color only 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 th
e 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 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?
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