“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?
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.”
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