Jasper nodded sagely. “People must wait upon the gods.”
By the twelfth course, the golden servers started strolling with harp and theremin, while the guests rose to stretch. Chrys shook her legs, unaccustomed to reclining so long.
Alone, Jasper caught up with her. His fingers curled around a pipe of inlaid wood, balanced against his short thumb. The pipe lifted as he smoked, keeping his Plan Ten anti-cancer nanos at work, but he looked more distinguished than ever. Then he removed the pipe. “Chrys, we’ve something to show you.” The hallway carried them to a holostage large enough for a lecture hall. With his pipe Jasper pointed.
An ocean of sun-speckled turquoise. Out of the waves rose a pearly dome of immense proportions, full of elaborate tessellation. A city-sphere of Elysium; not Helicon, the capital she would recognize, but one of the other eleven. Perhaps Papilion, center of the arts, home of Ilia and Yyri? Or Anaeon, known for scholars and philosophers?
“Silicon. The future city of Elysium.” Jasper’s voice vibrated with pride. “For a thousand years, there were but a dozen. Now, at last, will rise the thirteenth.”
“It matches our plans—exactly!” flashed Jonquil.
“Down to the fenestration…” The faintest of lines revealed an elaborate pattern of hexagonal panes.
“If only Aster had lived to see. Does it please you, Great One?”
Chrys regarded the dome thoughtfully. “It’s lovely. Like all Elf cities, a pearl floating upon the sea.”
“Silicon will be NOTHING like other cities. You’ll see.” Jonquil was unusually vehement.
“We have revised the plans substantially, in recent generations,” agreed Rose.
Chrys found her voice. “A…whole city?”
Jasper said, “My firm put in a bid for Silicon. The plans for our bid were drawn by Titan—that is, Eleutheria. We were awaiting the client’s response, when—” He shrugged delicately. With sudden insight Chrys realized the true reason Eleutherians had called Titan “blind”—an omnipotent god who failed to foresee his own end. Little did they know, or perhaps they dared not think, that all the gods were blind.
A new floating city. Her eyelids fluttered as she tried to come to grips with it. “Don’t the Elves limit their population? Why do they need another city?”
“Not a city for humans. For sentients.”
A city for sentients. That had made the news, back when she used to listen. She put up her hands and shook her head. “Saints and angels—Why would sentients hire microbes?”
Jasper nodded. “Sentients have complex attitudes toward their human progenitors. Yes, they want to do things their own way; and yet, they want to be seen as having nothing but the best, even the best of what passes for human taste. Of course, Silicon will be built by sentients, thousands of them; but the overall aesthetic design…” His pipe puffed reflectively. “Your people say they have revised their design. Interesting. With your consent, I’ll arrange a new presentation to the Silicon planning board.”
FOURTEEN
Silicon. A glimpse of that future metropolis, the very image of their ancient plan. The prophecy would come true: Eleutheria would design the greatest structure the gods had ever seen. But when would that be? And how could Eleutheria make their city different, greater than any that came before?
Beyond building, Eleutheria had a new mission: To test the gods and their peoples. For two generations the elders rehearsed and remembered what they had learned—the telltale molecules that dissolved into the arachnoid, the signs of an altered brain, and the deceitful ways of the masters. Jonquil let Rose lead the investigation; she seemed to relish the job.
Meanwhile, Jonquil devoted herself to the portraits, helping the god develop color schemes and refine subtle shadings. Her most able assistant was a young elder who flashed infrared. In her youth a chess champion coached by Rose, now Infrared spent all her hours poring over the god’s creation, barely stopping to absorb nourishment.
“Come join us in the nightclub, Infrared,” Jonquil flashed at her one day.
“Not till I figure out these hues. Does the detail look best in blue green, or a more saturated blue?”
Such single-minded pursuit was foreign to Jonquil. “Infrared, life is short. What do you live for, if not the pleasure of taste?”
“I live for love of the god,” flashed Infrared, “no more and no less.”
“Love? How can one ‘love’ the god, a being great enough to contain us all?”
“Love is beyond reason. A mere speck in the god’s eye, I love Her still.”
In her gallery, Chrys awaited the promised visit of Ilia, more distracted than usual. The night after Garnet’s dinner, all the exotic food had kept her awake, and her people could talk of nothing but Jasper’s revelation. Designing the thirteenth city, dogged by snake-eggs—what a target she’d make for any neighborhood tough with a laser. It would never come to pass, she assured herself. The Hyalite firm was just one of several bidders for the job. With all the revelations coming out of the Comb, any sentient with half a brain would know better.
The Elf gallery director was due any minute. Shaking with nerves, Chrys pushed her thick mass of hair behind her shoulders and wished it would stay there. Nothing terrified her more than to hear the pronouncement of experts, the ones who really knew—or worse, to imagine all the barbs they left unsaid. And carrier Ilia was a million experts in one. “The Thundergod’s judges test her,” she reassured Jonquil. “Tell everyone to treat her people well. This is the most important contact I’ll ever make.”
“Never fear; we’ve arranged all the best shows for her people. And I present a new elder to help guide us. She’ll please you well.”
Chrys froze. The thought of a new elder to name reminded her that Jonquil’s own days were numbered, soon to leave her people following enlightened Rose.
“God of Mercy, the One True God, from whom all blessings flow.” The new one flashed infrared, just a touch redder than the deadly Poppy. “Though I am but a speck in Your circulation, I live for love of You alone.”
Warily Chrys watched the letters cross her window. “Love me—and love my laws. Never forget.”
“All sixteen hundred of them. ‘You shall obey every word I say, and stay out of my—’”
“That will do.” Chrys thought a moment. “I call you Fireweed.” The flower that arose on Mount Dolomoth the season after the ashes had cooled.
A butterfly of light splayed across the floor, joined by more, as Ilia’s train swept through. The petite Elf glided through the doorway, her feet shod in delicate sandals, though Elysian streets were too clean for shoes.
“A great honor, Citizen,” said Chrys carefully. “Andra sends her regards.” She hoped fervently that Ilia still got tested by the Valan security chief. Whatever did Ilia think of Eris, the Guardian of Culture? Even if Arion was his “brother,” how could this go on?
“‘Ilia,’ please.” Ilia’s birdlike eyes flashed rainbow rings. “Are we ‘visiting’ today?”
They exchanged transfers. Then Ilia swept over to see Cisterna Magna, the arachnoid columns filled with the micro city, the glowing rings tumbling through it, signed with the molecule Azetidine. “A landscape of the brain—close at hand, it’s even more striking.”
Chrys cleared her throat. “As you can see, it’s quite a departure for my work.”
“A departure for us all. A living tapestry of a people never before depicted.”
Chrys blinked. Before she could recover, Ilia had moved on to Lava Arachnoid; the molten rock flowing into the sky, then oozing down into fantastic columns reminiscent of arachnoid fibroblasts. “Vibrant fusing of landscape, outer and inner—a metaphysical contradiction one could ponder for hours.”
“Thank you,” Chrys whispered.
“The portraits—of course.” Ilia regarded Fern with a fond sigh. “You must be inundated with orders.”
“Rather.” Then at last Chrys thought of something intelligent to say. “You and Yyri must be
so busy, planning the Gallery’s fall season.”
Ilia turned. Her talar swirled, and her projected butterflies streaked madly about the hall. “Usually it’s such a battle for the main exhibit—everyone pushes their own protégé, you know. But this year the choice was clear.” She paused. “If you’re available. No conflicting commitments, we hope?”
“No, of course not, I…” Her eyes widened. “You want something…for the Gallery Elysium?”
“Everything.” Ilia’s gaze circled the hall. “Everything of your ‘microbial’ period, as well as representative works from your primitive past. Our patrons adore tracing creative development.”
“So ‘Gems from the Primitive’ is your main exhibit next year.”
Ilia waved her hand dismissively. “That’s in the gallery annex. The main exhibit will be Azetidine alone.” Her irises flashed. “Or should I say…Azetidine, collectively.”
Chrys’s face felt hot, and her hands shook.
“Just remember one thing.” Ilia moved closer, and her voice intensified. “I want everything—you understand? No holding back your best for someone else.”
“What? No, of course not.”
“Even the most controversial.” Ilia nodded. “Remember, Elysians have sophisticated tastes. Our patrons expect the Gallery to be controversial, even shocking.”
“I see.”
“That Endless Light,” Ilia whispered regretfully. “You already let it go. How unfortunate.”
Chrys turned cold. Even Ilia was not immune.
“You’re working on another, perhaps?”
“No,” Chrys said flatly. “No more of that…type.”
“I expect the owner will lend it for our show.”
“Oh no—that won’t be necessary.” Chrys wanted no ties to that Elf slave. “Actually, I…I am working on another. Not the same, but just as…controversial.”
Chrys was in such a daze she barely knew how she got home. At the top of her house she lay back on her chaise with Merope in her lap, and looked out on the twinkling harbor below, still trying to grasp her good fortune. “Jonquil,” she called.
“Yes, Oh Great One. What is your pleasure?”
She swallowed an AZ. “Jonquil, the people have done well, and I am most pleased. Ask any favor, and I shall grant it.”
“God of Mercy, we live or die at your pleasure. If it please the god, I ask only that you complete a more advanced composition of the highest sophistication.”
Chrys frowned. “Are you sure it’s legal?” The last sketch she did for Jonquil had caused a riot in the Cisterna Magna.
“Of course, Great One. Our laws have been liberalized considerably over the last three generations.”
“Very well, I grant your wish.” At least Jonquil’s ideas could make interesting compositions. While commissioned portraits paid the rent, they grew tiresome; clients got upset about how their filaments were depicted, and others had to include accessory molecules. Jonquil’s ideas, though, might even interest Ilia.
“Our people, too, are most pleased. May we not serve the height of the god’s pleasure? Surely by now, technology must allow—”
“No.” She sighed. They still asked; they’d never give up. That’s why carriers needed all the damned testing. But who could test the testers? They might end up like Eris…
Never mind. The Gallery Elysium—she had to tell Zircon and Lady Moraeg; they would be amazed. And her family—but how could she tell them? The thought was a knife in her heart.
In her studio she loaded Fern’s portrait into a palm-sized holostill to send to her brother. “Dear Hal,” she recorded. “I finally made it in the art world. Here is something from my show. I hope you think it’s…pretty.” She could barely finish her sentence and just restrained herself from attaching ten thousand credits for pocket change. Xenon’s Anonymous would do better.
In the morning Chrys called Daeren. His sprite appeared between two colossal pillars of the Justice Ministry, wearing gray like the Palace bureaucrats. Chrys made her face frown. “Just making sure you’ll be home.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be at your studio on time.”
“Nope. Your place, remember? I’m testing you.”
“That’s right.” Daeren grinned. “You’ve done your homework.”
“If you really were in trouble,” she quoted, “you might ‘forget’ to come.”
Daeren lived in a top-level neighborhood, but she passed his entrance twice before finding it. No caryatids, no doorstoop—just the palest trace of a window. A good idea, she thought; avoid tempting vandals.
“We’re testing the Lord of Light,” she warned her people. “Are you ready?”
“Great God of Mercy, I live only for You.” The reply flashed infrared, from Fireweed. “There is no other God.”
Chrys sighed. This Fireweed was turning out even harder to deal with than Rose. “I love you too, Fireweed; but if you love me, love my people. Right now my people have a job to do.”
“I will do so, with all my heart.”
“Where the devil is Jonquil?”
Rose answered. “I myself will lead the investigation. You can depend on it—not a master will escape alive.”
One unrepentant “master” investigating others—Chrys nearly turned back and went home. But then, if this practice test went badly, Andra might relieve her of the chore.
Daeren’s door opened. “It’s good to see you, Chrys.” In his sitting room the drapes merged seamlessly with the lights, punctuated by shapes of red and gold. Either Daeren or his house had a good eye for color, less conservative than she expected. By the window rose a sinuous black sculpture, like the eye of a galaxy. On a table, a virtual piece sprouted golden hexagons, rising as if to break into flight.
“That one’s early Titan,” he told her. “I have another of his, up there.”
At the ceiling, a mobile of ephemeral shapes turned in a slow dance. “Titan started with installations,” Chrys recalled. “His work…sings.” A sad song. She looked down again. Daeren’s shoulders had filled out a bit; he must have been working out, unless he had called Plan Ten. His black nanotex polished his form as hard as any sculpture.
“Can I offer you anything?” he asked. “Orange juice?”
She remembered just in time. “No thanks.”
“Well, you didn’t come to admire my collection,” he said. “Please proceed.”
“Rose, it’s time.” Aloud, she told him, “I’m supposed to ask if there’s anything I need to know.”
He studied her eyes. “No, thanks. And no, we don’t need to ‘give ourselves up now, rather than later.’”
She flushed. “Rose, remember your manners.” Daeren’s eyes flickered blue, responding to Rose’s interrogation. It seemed to take forever; Chrys was hard-pressed to keep from blinking.
“We see no problems,” Rose admitted at last. “So far.”
“Okay?” Chrys asked him doubtfully, putting a transfer at her neck. “I can’t vouch for how this will go.”
“No one ever can.” Daeren took the transfer, then sat with his arms crossed. Chrys sat back, hearing a music she had not noticed before. A quiet melody, deceptively formless, with no phrase repeated twice. She tried to keep her eyes on his, but somehow today she kept stealing a glimpse of the rest of him, his well-sculpted shoulders and below. So long, she thought wearily; it had been so long since she knew someone worth knowing. But humans weren’t worth the risk; their mistakes lived too long.
“All right, enough,” he snapped, abruptly sitting up.
Chrys raised an eyebrow. “I’m supposed to decide that.”
“Well, get on with it.”
“Rose is flashing the signal, Great One,” came Jonquil. “She is ready to return.”
Chrys took back her investigators. “Did they pass?”
“We issued numerous citations,” began Rose. “Insufficient clearance in tunnels to the capillaries. Deferred maintenance on infrastructure. Outdated cancer detectors—”
“Look,” exclaimed Daeren, “this was supposed to be a drug test, not a building inspection.”
“You pass.” She couldn’t resist adding, “Just barely.”
He got up and stretched. “They’ll have to polish their act. You can’t treat your fellow Olympians like a convicted felon. Carriers are fussy; they’ll demand another tester.”
“Be my guest—it wasn’t my idea.”
He thought a moment. “Garnet won’t mind.”
“Lord Garnet? I’d just die.”
“Garnet likes Eleutherians. You can join us, on our next appointment, and we’ll see how it goes.” Daeren lifted his hand; the music grew, shifting to a warmer tone. “That Rose had to tell us all sorts of masters’ tricks we hadn’t known to look for, antigenic mimicry and so on.” He gave Chrys a look. “Rose’s ego is her one saving grace. We’ve learned more from her than any defector I know.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“But don’t trust her.”
Chrys spread her hands. “So what can I do? Before long, she’ll be my ‘high priest.’”
“Priests only serve at your pleasure.”
Her head tilted curiously. “Did you ever demote one?”
“I’ve never had to.”
She rolled her eyes. “Sometimes, dear, you’re just too perfect.”
“In my line of work, I can’t afford mistakes.”
“In my line, I learn nothing except through mistakes.”
Daeren thought a moment. “I don’t know,” he said. “I hadn’t noticed any mistakes in your work.”
At the compliment she flushed. “You haven’t seen Jonquil’s latest.” She took out several viewcoins. “Be honest—are these a mistake?”
They sat together, watching each sketch in turn. “Sweet,” said Daeren, his face relaxed. “We like that a lot. And this one—you can see how the children long to taste each other.”
“Yes,” she sighed. Jonquil had been so particular about getting the filaments right.
The next one drew silence, and the next. A very long silence.
“Well?”
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