“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.
TEN
The rescued defectors were thin, their skin puckered in with dehydration. Their colors were pale, barely distinguishable from white, their filaments sparse, deficient in vitamins, and they tasted as if they never bathed.
“Let us go,” they pleaded, ensnared by the dendrimers. “We mean no harm. We’ll work hard. We escaped to live in freedom.”
Aster could barely make out what they flashed, their language was so foreign. But she sent for food and medicines and built secure housing, the dendrimers twining around the columns of arachnoid. “What do you think of them, Jonquil?” The blue angels had never let masters speak to Eleutherians, but there were ancient legends of the fanatical hordes that swept through a world, devouring all. And little they cared for their own kind, putting out toxic peptides to poison their neighbors, even sucking food from their own children.
But legend also told that even among the very worst people, a few always floated apart, instinctively seeking the Seven Lights. “These defectors are brighter than they seem,” observed Jonquil. “They had to come up with ingenious schemes to escape forced labor and torture.”
“So now they’ll come up with ingenious schemes to take us over.” Privately Aster was having second thoughts about her generous impulse. It was hard enough managing unruly Eleutherians; what to do with all these dangerous foreigners?
“Their children are harmless,” said Jonquil. “They’ve picked up our language already. And they test in the top percentile, especially math.”
That was even better than the wizards. Aster had tried to recruit more wizards, to help compute the endless iterations of the Comb, but they demanded their weight in palladium.
“Children in prison,” flashed Jonquil, emitting molecules of repugnance. “People are saying it’s an outrage.”
“All right,” decided Aster. “Take the masters’ children out, to a cistern far away from their elders. Once they merge with our own, they’ll forget their deadly past.” And their math genes would enhance Eleutheria.
“Some of the elders aren’t so bad,” observed Jonquil. “In fact, they’re rather interesting—”
“Jonquil, you know what the god ordered.”
“I know, but just see this one.” Jonquil emitted fascination.
The master elder was pale as the rest, a touch of pink, but otherwise alert, her filaments pensively probing the dendrimers that locked her in. As Aster approached, she tasted contempt and condescension.
“So, Comrade,” flashed the master. “This is what you call the ‘Free World.’” Her accent was clearer than the others.
“The world of the free,” said Aster. “Eleutheria.”
“You call this free?”
Aster hesitated. “You may yet earn freedom.” She could not help emitting doubt.
“So who put me here in chains?” demanded the pink one.
“The God of Mercy so ordered.”
“You call this mercy?”
“Yes,” said Aster, emitting anger. “You are lucky to be alive.”
“Degenerates,” said the master. “The world of degeneracy.”
Aster turned to go, but Jonquil held her back. “Don’t be cross, Aster. You’ve said as much yourself now and then.”
“Be dark.” She was sick of hearing about Jonquil’s scandals. “And as for you,” she told the master, “you can go right back where you came from.”
“Not yet. Betrayers of the people marked me for death. In exile, I will bide my time till I regain material advantage.”
No words could darken this brazen intruder.
The master suddenly flashed, “Do you play chess?”
Jonquil lit up. “Certainly. Our junior elders always make the top round of competition.”
“But not the very top,” the master shrewdly inferred. “I will coach them. I will produce a champion.”
“Think of it, Aster,” said Jonquil. “She might help us beat the wizards.”
In the early morning Chrys tossed in her bed, problems of color and shape wending through her mind like the caterpillar dancers of Asragh. She tried not to waken too thoroughly, lest her people make contact; she’d never get back to sleep.
“Oh Great One? Can you spare a moment?”
Too late. “Yes, Jonquil.”
“I want you to meet one of the people we rescued.”
“A master?”
“She used to be but—”
“They’re all still imp
risoned?”
“All but the children.”
“What?” Her eyes flew open, wide awake. “What about the children?” Those were the ones that could multiply and take over.
“Once they found the nightclubs, they forgot all about enslaving gods. But this elder—she will interest you.”
Chrys wondered what Jonquil was after; nothing good, without Aster there. “Just keep her chained.”
“Greetings, human host.” The prisoner’s letters came in pale pink, not the usual saturated hues of Eleutherians. “Do you play chess? Knight to f-3.”
Woken at four A.M. to play chess with a microbe. “God does not play games. Remember that.”
“Gods are a fiction. All talk of gods is the people’s cocaine. You are a mortal human host, destined to serve us.”
“Forgive her, Oh Great One,” urged Jonquil. “She lacks our education.”
Yet she speaks more than half truth, Chrys thought. “So? Why should I serve you?”
“We are the Enlightened—my comrades and I. Led by our Enlightened Leader, we shall gain ultimate truth and rule the universe till the end of time.”
“Ultimate truth? What is that?”
“The Truth is this: All people are one. All sisters are as one cell.”
“All are one? You mean, Jonquil and Aster too?”
“The degenerates are too far gone. Look at their people, their society—homeless, jobless, pitiful outcasts fill their arachnoid.”
A likely story. “Jonquil, did you hear that?”
“We do have too many homeless mutants,” Jonquil admitted. “Ask Aster why—I’m no economist. Now, getting back to chess—”
“Pink One,” said Chrys, “I call you Rose.”
“Thank you, Great Host.”
“Rose, how does your Enlightened Leader avoid homeless mutants?”
“From each according to ability, to each according to need.”
“Nonsense,” flashed Jonquil, annoyed at last. “Why do you all end up starving? Why do you ruin every host you inhabit?”
“Only when our Enlightened Way is betrayed. Betrayed and corrupted by greed and by god talk. But not all are corrupted. Those comrades who hold to the Way bring their hosts at last to Endless Light.”
“The Slave World?” prompted Chrys.
“The world of Endless Light. A world greater than you can imagine. I will show you just a glimpse.”
A rush of light swirled and crystallized into a vast edifice, a palace built of icicles. All filigreed windows, with little white rings dancing through like snowflakes. Light filled everywhere. Everywhere, as far as her eye could roam, the crystal passages followed, winding into spirals without ceiling or floor, endless everywhere, and everywhere, endless white light.
In the corner of her eye a light pulsed red. A call from Dolomoth—it must be her parents, at last. “Be dark, all of you.” She jumped out of bed, startling Merope who had been curled up on her feet. Grabbing a disk of nanotex, she pulled a comb through her hair. The nanotex stretched and slithered around her skin. “Okay,” she said aloud, her head still spinning as she blinked back at the keypad.
The two Brethren appeared in their dust-colored robes. Beyond them the window of the calling station framed Mount Dolomoth, the wisp of smoke rising tranquil from its peak. Her father as always wore his long beard that used to tickle her face. Her mother’s eyes still shone like blue drops of sky amid the wrinkles. A twinge of guilt—Chrys herself would never have those wrinkles. But her brother, at least she could help him.
“Chrysoberyl,” exclaimed her mother. “Are you all right?”
“Of course, Mother. My work has taken off; I’ve made it big.” She winced, realizing, how could she tell them more? “How is Hal?”
The fold of her mother’s robe stirred faintly in the breeze. “All the saints and angels pray for you.”
“Did you get my message?” Chrys asked eagerly. “Plan Six—it will fix his mitochondria.”
Her parents stood at the station, not speaking. Then her father slowly shook his head. “How can a man eat his fill when his neighbors go hungry?”
Chrys frowned. “What’s the matter, don’t you believe me? Look, I know you can’t understand, but—I’ve made good, honest. People are buying my stuff. I can afford to help my brother.”
The two hooded heads faced each other. Then her mother looked at Chrys, a sad, pitying look; the look that Chrys dreaded, as if her mother could see everything to the bottom of her soul, although Chrys learned long ago that she could not. “The boy next door had pneumonia for a month, and baby Chert was born with a limp. Who shall help them? Shall our son walk among them like a god?”
Her mouth fell open. “You mean…you refused the Plan?”
“The saints will provide,” her father assured her. “The saints provide the most precious gift of all: Sacred love.”
“But I love my brother. That’s why I want to help him.”
Her mother’s eyes opened wide. “Oh Chrys, I see a dark path ahead of you. A path empty of light and love. Beware, Chrys; beware of false angels—”
Chrys squeezed her eyes shut, and her parents vanished. Then she burst into tears and fell back on her bed, sobbing. How many years, she had ached for her brother, and now that she had a chance…did her parents hate her so much for leaving the hills?
“Excuse me.” Xenon’s voice startled her. “Pardon if I intrude, but is there anything I can do? Any problem with the house?”
Chrys shook her head. “Even you can’t fix my parents.”
“I have no experience of parents, but I’m a student of human nature. May I try?”
She looked up skeptically. “Go ahead.”
“How many children are in your parents’ village?”
“About thirty,” she guessed.
“Could you cover them all?”
There was a thought. From each according to ability, to each according to need. “If I had the ability,” Chrys pointed out. “I’m not as rich as Garnet.”
“You’re certainly getting there.” Her credit line had reached eight digits.
“Vapor cash.”
“Sell off half your speculation, and let the other half grow.”
There was a thought. She sighed. “I still don’t think they’ll take it.”
“Of course not,” said Xenon. “Don’t tell your parents a thing. Let me handle it—an anonymous donor. My study of human nature tells me it’s much harder to turn down a gift from Anonymous.”
She grinned. “Thanks a lot, Xenon. You’re worth twice your pay.”
“You might consider that,” he replied, “now that you have the ability.”
It was sad to count a paid sentient as your best friend. Her mother’s last word left her unsettled. Who was left to love her, in this anonymous city? Love was cruel; cruel on the mountain, cruel in the city. Topaz had loved her and cast her off. Zirc might care, when not consumed by his own genius; and Opal was friendly, though maybe she just wanted the Comb fixed. Even Merope mainly wanted milk in her dish.
“Oh Great One,” flashed Aster. “Do we please you today?”
She remembered her morning dose of AZ. “Aster,” she replied, putting the wafer on her tongue, “Do the people love me?”
“How can I say, Oh Great One? How could we not love life itself?”
There was an honest answer. “Does anyone love me for myself—not just to stay alive?”
“That kind of love is rare, rarer even than the trace metals, gadolinium or ytterbium. But there was one who loved the god for the god’s sake: that was Fern.”
Fern, the first little green ring. Where was she now? Chrys looked fondly up at her sketch of Fern, still twinkling her last words to her people. Next to her in the studio, now, hung Opal’s favorite, and Garnet’s, and the blue angel Dendrobium. Chrys planned to expand and develop them, deepening their character. What would the patrons think of them amid the volcanoes, in her next show?
The question was, how to
display them to the best advantage. A cramped room in a gallery would not do. The twinkling filaments would just look like a mess of light.
Then she had it. “Xenon? Can you build a dome up on the roof?”
“Certainly, Chrysoberyl. A clear dome?”
“For a clear night, yes, to let in the stars. For now, project them.”
Once the dome was erected, Chrys placed her portraits there, one by one, constellations shining down from heaven. At night they filled the urban sky, amid the sky signs and the flitting lightcraft. Jonquil was ecstatic, exclaiming over their power and beauty. Even Rose, still chained in dendrimers, was impressed. “The gods are a fiction,” Rose said, “but truly the Great Host has developed fiction to a high art.”
“What about the children?” reminded Jonquil. “The merging children? We can’t wait to see them.”
“I’m working on that.” The coupling children had proven a bit much for Chrys’s grasp of geometry. Two rings merging was not so hard, but coming apart afterward in three—she had to get the proportions right. And then to get the feel of it, what it meant for the micro people, an experience so alien to her. No humans who ever “merged” came out so transformed.
“And the God herself?” remembered Aster. “Legend tells that the God herself was once portrayed in the stars.”
Mystified, Chrys thought back. That old sketch from her school days—she had shown it to Fern. She couldn’t show that in public; the critics would laugh. But at home was okay. “Xenon, put my old self-portrait here.” She blinked at her letters to pull the sketch out of storage. Veins glowing, and lava flowing melodramatically from her hair, she looked nothing like the stars, more like an apparition from hell.
“What is this, Great Host?” demanded Rose.
“The God herself, Unbeliever,” replied Jonquil. “In my opinion, it could use some work. The brain, for instance; I can’t make it out. Where is the Cisterna Magna?”
“That’s quite enough.” And yet, Chrys thought…the possibilities. Humans were so fond of their own brains; why did they never portray them?
Unfortunately, she had to let this thought simmer while she uploaded her people’s latest calculations on the Comb. Then her people had to view the resulting simulations in 3-D, as well as endless plans and sections. The sectional views showed the interior of the Comb remaining intact, with floors and ceiling growing in proportion.
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