“Already the arsenic atoms are falling loose from my proteins one by one. Atoms I would willingly have shared with my starving sisters.”
“I know, Rose.” Social safety nets, arsenic for the poor—Rose’s legacy had transformed Eleutheria.
“You know how I spent my life, my endless quest for light. Betrayed, time after time, until the end, when I myself was the betrayer.”
“I know.”
“You will live a thousand times longer. Long enough for a thousand betrayals.”
Chrys swallowed hard.
“This is most essential—remember. Never give up seeking. No matter how many times betrayed, no matter how obsessed with your work, no matter how dangerous the quest—never end your search for light.”
The inner darkness expanded. Chrys tried to open her eyes, but the tears that filled them blurred her sight.
“Great Host? Do you see?”
“I see.”
“Unlike my deluded student, I know that the gods are fiction. But if there ever were a true god, that god could do no better than you.”
“Rose?”
No answer.
An eternity passed. Chrys lost track of time as the ship whirled through fold after fold. Her throat was parched; she could barely swallow. She nodded off to sleep, only to wake with a start from some unremembered terror. Then she dozed again.
Into her window popped a human sprite. It was Daeren. “Chrys! Oh god, Chrys—are you all right?” His face looked more scared than she had ever seen. Within minutes he boarded, with Doctor Sartorius.
Daeren caught her in his arms and pressed her head to his chest. “Chrys, whatever it is—it’s okay. We’ll do what it takes, Chrys.” She took a deep breath. The scent of him was like heaven. “We’ll soon reach the hospital.”
Suddenly she sat up. She tried to speak, but her throat would only let her whisper. “I have to paint.”
Her looked at her, puzzled, irises flashing sky blue. Behind him, the wall of the ship had puckered in, becoming a tunnel to the medical rescue vessel.
“She’s in shock,” said the doctor.
“I tell you,” she insisted, “I have to paint her portrait.”
“Yes,” Sartorius agreed, in a different voice, more soothing than usual, “you’ll feel better at home.”
“Chrys,” exclaimed Daeren. “In heaven’s name, where were you?”
She took a viewcoin from her pocket and squeezed. Then she blinked to transfer all the records of her journey. It took some minutes. Without a word she gave it to him.
At the hospital, they set up a painting stage; the doctor called it “therapeutic.” Chrys traced her sketch of Rose, hurrying while the memory was fresh. She worked without speaking, heedless of the doctor’s face worms still probing her health. Daeren said nothing more, but he approached to pat her arm now and then, as if to make sure she was still there. Andra arrived to share the contents of the viewcoin.
At last, the portrait was completed. The eternal existence that even Rose gave her soul for. The people’s cocaine.
Chrys sank back, exhausted, unable to lift her arm again. Someone bent toward her, and she tried to focus her blurred vision. It was Chief Andra. “Can you hear me, Chrys?”
She nodded.
“I’m sorry, but I must ask. Is the double agent still alive?”
She shook her head. The homeless mutants had lost their voice. The chess team was on its own.
“The others—you have an hour to decide.”
A face worm from the doctor touched Chrys on the forehead. She withdrew as if spooked. “Let her sleep,” the doctor said.
The Committee met at Olympus, seven carriers and two doctors, seven million people, huddled alone upon the vast ocean. The branches of the virtual raft had sprouted fragrant orange flowers, spreading pollen out to sea in all directions.
“So there is no fortress,” observed Andra, as if confirming a point. “Only sick and dying people. And their hosts.”
“They fail to regulate their own growth,” said Doctor Sartorius, “just as they do in the vampires. As each host dies, the masters need a new host to move into.”
“So they kidnap new ones,” Andra concluded.
Chrys sat with her hands still, watching the horizon, a blue wash against gray. “What actually happens to the slaves when they get there?” she wondered. “Why do they just lie there until they rot?”
Doctor Flexor said, “We’d have to examine them, to be certain.”
“True,” said Doctor Sartorius, “but from what we see in your recording, the micros must turn on the dopamine center continuously. The intensity of the experience overwhelms any objection from the host. Gradually all other mental functions shut down, until the host loses sentience, a shell of flesh.”
Recalling Rose’s threat, Chrys shuddered. “If that’s how it works, then why did Saf—I mean, the Leader, inside—why did she insist I had to say ‘yes’?”
Daeren looked up. “They don’t want trouble. They can barely manage their own hosts, let alone fight a free human.”
“They could infect the human, as a vampire does,” Chrys pointed out.
“They could,” said Daeren. “But the easiest way is to take someone already infected. Someone whose eyes say yes.”
Chrys’s eyes widened. “You mean…they only kidnap people that are already infected?”
Selenite agreed. “We know that, though we can’t prove it. Some victims actually collude with their captors—let them know their travel plans.” All for an endless rush of dopamine.
“Be careful,” warned Opal. “Our models always prove too simple.”
Pyrite crossed his arms. “The nuclear radiation,” he pointed out. “How do you explain that?”
Chrys had received high levels of alpha emission from radioactive dust in the air; levels high enough to kill her within a year. It took special nanos from Plan Ten to reverse the few hours’ damage.
Andra nodded. “We’ve detected trace alpha emitters before. Mainly plutonium.”
“So they are building nukes,” exclaimed Pyrite.
“We have a different theory, which we’ll check with Arion.”
In the Nucleus of Helicon, Chrys sat in her talar, her bare feet uncomfortably aware of the floor, Daeren at her side. Once again they faced Guardian Arion.
The fair-haired Elf regarded her curiously, an archway behind him revealing the foliage of a swallowtail garden for daily meditation. Internally, he interrogated Fireweed and Forget-me-not, along with a couple of blue angels. “So you took a break from your building designs.” That Silicon Board meeting with all the sentients felt like years ago. “You took the Leader’s invitation after all. Without advance planning. And the double turned triple.”
Beside her Daeren’s hand nearly touched hers, but he caught himself. “Guardian, you know it was not like that.”
“Was she not ‘abducted’ like the others?” Arion emphasized the word.
Chrys narrowed her eyes. “Plan Ten for all of Dolomoth, you said.”
“We shall see.” Arion’s fingers drummed on the table. “We must check this intelligence. If confirmed, it represents our biggest breakthrough against the brain plague.”
On the back of Daeren’s hand the muscles rose taut. “Guardian, do you realize what this ‘plague’ is? People—ignorant, even savage, but people nonetheless. They need contact—they need our help.”
Arion turned to him, his face noncommittal. “So your people tell me.”
“Then listen,” urged Daeren. “Surely all the wisdom of Elysium can be brought to bear to make that contact—to help those people, and keep them from hurting us.”
“Indeed.”
“You know what we’ve told you,” Daeren added, “how migrants from the masters have joined our own populations, sharing diverse talents and virtues.”
“And betrayal.”
“Look at Eleutherians, whom your own citizens chose to design your next city. Half their population des
cends from ‘masters’ of the brain plague.”
Arion’s lips tightened. The reference to Silicon was unhelpful, Chrys guessed. “Noble sentiments,” the Guardian concluded. “But first things first. We must deal with the plague’s source, this world of ‘Endless Light.’”
Chrys asked quickly, “Could you identify it? From the geography, and the writings on the wall?”
Arion hesitated. “Your chief drives a hard bargain. Yes, in strictest confidence, we know the planet.” He whistled a phrase, like the song of a bird. “That’s what the locals called it, some ten thousand years ago.” The medieval period, when world warred against world. “The planet was known for birds, exceptional in number and variety. Of course, no birds live there today. Destroyed in the Brother Wars—no vertebrates survive. Today, the residual radioactivity still excludes human life. Even Plan Ten could not keep you healthy there more than five years.”
Daeren nodded slowly. “So that’s what caused the radiation exposure. The ‘enlightened’ people seemed unaware. They never can keep their hosts alive long enough for it to matter.”
“Our investigators, of course, had marked that world ‘uninhabitable.’ An oversight.”
Placing his hands together, Daeren took a breath. “Now that you know where they are, Guardian, what will you do?”
Arion assumed a slightly paternal air. “We’ll do what needs to be done.”
Daeren continued gazing at him, as if asking, did you hear our people at all? Then he looked down at his hands, ashamed. Chrys wondered what kind of death the bird world would die this time. Not nukes, that would be medieval.
“What about here?” she demanded suddenly. “The real source of plague is right here.”
Arion turned to her, his mouth small. “Where, exactly?” he asked dangerously. “Your Protector rounds up vampires by the hundreds.” Quarantined until they died. They probably smelled as sweet as Endless Light.
In her studio, on the painting stage, glimmered an evil light around one of the curves of arachnoid, illuminating the maggot-white rings of the masters. The maggot rings tumbled in sickly, wobbling paths, in ever-greater numbers, until the columns of fibroblast withered and ruptured, collapsing in purulent decay. Whatever would Ilia think?
Fireweed’s lava-colored letters returned. “What will the Hunter do to our cousins?”
The masters of Endless Light. Chrys turned to ice. Hugging Merope, who brushed around her feet, she did not know how to answer.
“We told the Hunter that the masters could change,” added sky blue Forget-me-not hopefully. “Our own history shows how many masters have changed and learned new ways.” Nearly all the population of Eleutheria claimed descent from masters. What would they think of the fate of their cousins?
“Others change for the worse,” Chrys pointed out. “The false blue angels.”
“That is true,” Forget-me-not admitted.
“God’s word is law,” concluded Fireweed.
Chrys reached down to scratch the bib of Merope’s chin. The plump feline stretched as if nothing else existed. Then Chrys looked back at her painting stage. What next?
“Show the Hunter,” urged Forget-me-not, recalling their summons to the brain of Guardian Arion. “Our historic visit to that virgin world, rich as a Garden of Eden.” Forget-me-not’s idea shone in her eye’s window, sumptuous fibroblasts stretching across the arachnoid like stalactites in a cavern. Rings of blue and far-red, tumbling and flashing their pleasure at the well-grown landscape. Chrys imagined the lining of Arion’s brain, complete with visitors. A bigger coup than even Topaz’s portrait of Zoisite. How were they doing, Topaz and Pearl? She had heard no word since that fateful night.
Meanwhile, that week she had several carriers to test. Zircon was the hardest; he knew her far too well to take any threat seriously. The night Garnet first introduced him at Olympus, all the caryatids had morphed into Chrys; she had stormed out, furious. But now all the other testers were overworked. Fortunately, Zircon kept out of trouble, hanging out with Garnet or with his aesthetic admirer, Doctor Flexor. His people acquired accounts at the House of Hyalite, and he took to wearing Garnet’s finely tailored gray.
Since the death of Rose, Forget-me-not led the testing, while Fireweed stayed home, devoted to her One True God. In his studio Zircon faced Chrys attentively, the sparkling namestone spinning on his talar. After her people finished, receiving the usual unsolicited tax tips, Chrys relaxed. She glanced up at the heroic sculptural forms that loomed overhead. “So how’s the urban shaman?”
“Oh, well.” Zircon sounded embarrassed. “I just wish I had more time. These people have so many clients.”
“Anything new with Topaz?” She tried to sound casual.
“You didn’t hear? Topaz and Pearl left town.”
She sucked in her breath. “Left? For where?” Topaz was always an Iridian, first to last.
“To Azroth.” Not quite so remote as Dolomoth, but no metropolis. “To keep Pearl out of trouble.”
“I’m glad for them both.” Topaz must really love Pearl, to have given up her beloved city. Chrys hesitated to ask the next obvious question. “Any new travels with Yyri?”
Zircon looked away. “Yyri needs younger men.”
“I’m sorry.” The nerve of that Elf, with all her arch comments to Ilia about primitive Valans. Chrys felt bad for her friend.
“Well, I’m not.” Suddenly intense, Zircon’s eyes flashed rings of gold. “Now that I’m fixed for credit, for the first time ever, I can choose someone I really care for.” He took both her hands, startling her. “Someone like you, Chrys. Looking into your eyes so much, these past two weeks, I’ve realized what I’ve been missing. You were always there for me, and I’ll be there for you.”
“The accountants want our business,” observed Forget-me-not. “They’ve offered us outrageous terms. They would do anything to serve you.”
Chrys bit her lip, watching Zircon’s gentle eyes, his massive neck flowing into his shoulders. “Zirc—you’re my oldest friend, and I don’t know what I’d do without you. But, to be honest, right now, I just feel…confused.”
Releasing her hands, he spread his own wide. “Say no more—believe me, I know. Those little rings have me so confused, I don’t know who I am.” He grinned with a wink. “But if you ever find out, just say the word.”
The latest new carrier was Lady Moraeg. Moraeg had got her people through Daeren, all safe and proper. Delighted, Chrys took her to Olympus and warned her of all the carriers’ peculiar traits. Now at the two-week point, her colonists were overwhelmed with children, but otherwise doing well. “What are they like, Moraeg?” She squeezed her friend’s hand and shared a transfer. Moraeg’s eyes flashed different colors; a creative strain.
“Metal and minerals, I think,” Moraeg told her. “They keep showing me crystals—orthorhombic, monoclinic, isometric. It never occurred to me that crystals grew as beautifully as flowers.” Her arm swept toward the stage. A crystal of emerald extended like the shoot of a stem, then split off two side crystals at an angle. As angles grew and multiplied, suddenly all the corners sprouted flowers. Its beauty was daring and insightful.
“Something’s wrong,” flashed Forget-me-not. “Her people tell us their god is desperately unhappy.”
Moraeg must have seen Chrys’s expression change, for her obsidian complexion turned gray. Chrys caught her shoulders. “Moraeg? What is it?”
The Lady composed her face. “Carnelian couldn’t take it. He left last night.”
“Oh, no.” Lord Carnelian and Lady Moraeg, the most enduring marriage of the Great Houses. How the snake-eggs would hiss. Chrys embraced her, closing her eyes in shared pain. “He’ll come back, surely he will.”
“Never mind.” Moraeg straightened herself regally, adjusting the flow of her diamonds, not yielding a tear. “If he can just walk away from our hundred years, so be it.”
In the early morning hours, as Chrys half roused, the little rings retold all their stori
es, their colors tumbling through glittering palaces woven in the arachnoid. Fantastic edifices rose to the stars, plans for Silicon, and others that would never exist outside the imagination.
“One True God,” flashed Fireweed, her infrared voice rising amid the glitter. “What will the Hunter do to our cousins?”
“I don’t know.” The news had said nothing, although rumor had the Prime Guardian mobilizing warships unused for five centuries.
The glittering palaces receded until all was gray, the roiling gray of a pyroclastic flow, the gray of a people annihilated.
“It sets us a bad example,” added Forget-me-not. “It is hard for us to do nothing.”
“Did I grant your lives, only to be betrayed again?”
“Never again.”
“Never,” agreed Fireweed.
Dark—that terrible abyss that so often yawned just before daybreak.
“Give us a miracle,” pleaded Fireweed. “To help us believe in eternal good, despite the evidence of our eyes.”
“Give us a sign,” urged Forget-me-not. “A sign that you care.”
Chrys wondered, what would she do if her own cousins faced capture? “Warn them.”
“Exactly!” said Forget-me-not.
Fireweed added, “If it can be done safely.” The lava had learned common sense.
What harm could come of warning a slave? The destruction of Endless Light would not stop the plague; if anything, it might turn more into vampires. Either way, the brain plague would not ebb until someone faced its most virulent source—Eris, the Elf tester, the false god. How could the Hunter be so blind? But then, what would Chrys have done if the source were her own brother?
The morning was the safest time in the Underworld. Anyone out for mischief was sleeping it off. The Gold of Asragh, though open around the clock, was nearly empty by dawn. A simian girl in red lay splayed by the door, her skirt torn; Chrys tossed her a credit chip to find when she woke.
Inside, the slave bar was empty. “Jay?” Chrys called, then again louder.
A slave came out, bedraggled hair, back hunched, her face the greenish tint of a hospital wall. No more Jay. “None left,” Jay’s replacement gasped. “Supply’s dried up.” Then she caught a flash from Chrys’s eye. Straightening, she lunged for her wrist. “Ace,” the slave hissed. “You…full of ace.”
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