Yyri smiled more broadly than ever, though her eyes looked puzzled. Then her face relaxed. “Of course, dear, I see. Such extraordinary rendering of personality.”
The next hall contained Jonquil’s inspirations. It made Chrys’s palms sweat to see them, all those off-color depictions of children merging and worse, all together in one place, but Ilia had insisted on every one. Yyri smiled politely, then suddenly stared as Ilia’s sixth sense reached her. “Oh my,” she exclaimed. “How exquisitely provocative. Though perhaps…some might take exception, do you think, dear?”
Ilia’s eyes gleamed. A moment’s silence, then the two heads nodded. “A curtain at the door, and a warning.”
“We Elysians take children very seriously,” Yyri added, as if Chrys might think otherwise. Elf children were raised in precious nurseries deep within each city, with every conceivable resource showered upon them, from education to entertainment for fifty years.
“And here,” Ilia added, “we have political statement.” In a place of prominence beside a dramatic ornamental fountain, Ilia had placed Mourners at an Execution and Seven Stars with the Hunter.
Yyri clasped her hands. “Our Guardian of Peace will have a stroke.”
Ilia murmured, “Perhaps it might knock some sense into his head.” Then she turned to Chrys. “Your latest works? We’ve expanded another hall.”
Chrys cleared her throat. “I wanted to show you in person, for your approval.” She blinked at her window to download the scenes from the masters. Cadaverous micros crowded the brain of a half-dead host, like worms in rotting flesh. After much thought, she had placed Rose’s portrait here, next to the towering, obsessively monumental vision of her beloved Leader.
Ilia sucked in her breath. Beside her, Yyri at first looked puzzled. Then Yyri’s creamy complexion paled, revealing every vein. A brief glance at Chrys, as though the artist had gone mad. “I don’t know, Ilia. You’re right, the citizens need to know, but…”
The minutes of silence lengthened, while the Leader’s interminable speech kept flashing. At last the two heads nodded. “We’ll need to hire…” Ilia paused dramatically. “…security.”
“The Gallery hasn’t needed…security,” Yyri added, “for a hundred years.”
“A hundred twenty,” Ilia corrected. “That Solarian performance artist, remember?”
Yyri waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing compared to this. The very foundations of our society, shaken to the bone.”
Ilia took a deep breath, then turned to Chrys. “You promised us another Endless Light.”
“Oh, right.” She quickly downloaded the block of pure white, the one she had stared at after Daeren’s rescue, unable to do more. “There you are. Endless Light.”
Yyri clapped her hands. “Of course.” She sounded relieved. “Minimalism. Your talent is so versatile, dear.”
That night the snake-eggs interviewed Eris, the Guardian of Cultural Affairs, about the Gallery’s upcoming exhibit. Eris—She had not seen Arion’s deadly “brother” since the day he left his false blue angels hiding in her brain. His sprite in her window made her hair stand on end.
“Our season’s premiere exhibition will prove more controversial than usual,” the secret slave admitted, his voice at its most charming. “But educational,” he stressed. “In these difficult times, we Elysians must learn to master and bend to our will the forces that threaten us from less civilized realms.”
The snake-egg bobbed in his face. “So you support the judgment of the gallery director? Will this ‘educational’ exhibit be safe for the classes of school children that tour every fall?”
Eris smiled condescendingly. “Of course I support my gallery staff. I myself have acquired a first-class Azetidine for my personal collection.” Another word, thought Chrys, and she’d head for the sink.
“And now,” said the snake-egg, “for a view from Valedon regarding the cultural contributions of microbes, we bring you the Palace physician.”
The Palace physician, a worm-faced advisor to the Protector, draped himself like a lord. “The brain plague endangers all law-abiding citizens,” the doctor proclaimed, emeralds and adamants glittering beneath his worms. “Even regulated ‘carriers’ are essentially slaves to their microbial masters. In the long run, their supposed contributions to culture will be viewed in the same light as the psychedelic delusions of humans under the influence of toxic neurochemicals.” A couple of worms raised for emphasis. “Fortunately, we can help all the plague carriers overcome their addiction and modulate their minds with our own pharmaceuticals.”
Slaves in Elysium, mind-suckers in Valedon. Chrys made the Dolomite hand sign against evil.
She took the night off to escort Lady Moraeg to Olympus. Lord Carnelian was still absent, put off by her micros, but Moraeg would give no one the satisfaction of a sign of grief.
“Keep your eyes off the caryatids,” warned Chrys.
Moraeg regarded one with disdain. “That old trick.”
“Carriers are really very nice people,” Chrys hurried to add. “They just have, um, unusual customs.”
“Moraeg!” Opal embraced her. “So good to see you. That diamond,” she exclaimed. “Such a distinctive cut.”
Moraeg smiled. “An original, from the jewels of Ulragh.”
“I thought as much.” Opal’s eyes flashed colors. “May we visit?”
Chrys turned away, seeking Andra. How was Daeren?—It had been two days since his blue angels came home.
Garnet caught her hand. “Chrys, it’s been so long.” His eyes twinkled. “You never check your investments. I could be bribing you again.”
She shrugged. “The least of my sins.”
He leaned closer to whisper. “Where the devil is Carnelian? Put off by us?”
Chrys sighed.
“He’s been a Hyalite client for years. I’ll have a word with him.”
There was Andra, reclining beside a redwood tree. Chrys had to wait to catch her alone. “How is Daeren?”
Andra thought a moment. “Medically, he’s making progress. But his mind—” She hesitated. “He’s not trying.”
“It’s only been two days.”
“Too long, for his people. Too many generations of anguish.”
“Why isn’t he trying, Andra?”
Andra looked as if she had much more to say, but would not. “We’ll see.”
Suddenly tired, Chrys sank into a seat, refusing the delicacies from the caryatid. Jasper sat next to her and touched her hand. Dismayed, she remembered that Jasper did not yet know that her people couldn’t handle Silicon. “Are you sure you won’t try the lamb berries?” Jasper asked. “They’re new from L’li.”
“I’m not hungry.” Reluctantly, she passed him the transfer patch.
Jasper puffed on his pipe, his short thumb tapping restlessly at the stem. “We’re waiting to hear,” he reminded her. “Anything I can do?”
She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Jasper. We can’t do the job.”
He nodded. “I understand. I’ll come back with a better offer.”
“No, I mean it.” She struggled to explain. “The Eleutherians say they can’t do it. They’d need a computer too big to fit inside my head.”
Jasper’s expression did not change. “We knew that.”
“You did?”
“We were aware of the theoretical problem. But since it didn’t come up in negotiations, I hoped they had it solved.”
She grimaced at this optimism. “They haven’t.”
He set the pipe down. “Well, as I said, we’ll come back with a better offer. After all, the job will take longer.”
Chrys was astonished. “A better offer—for a job we can’t do?”
“Chrys, this project is unprecedented. Elysium hasn’t built a new city in over twelve centuries. And now, a dynamic form, to grow of nanoplast. Entirely new technologies will be needed. The sentient engineers, too, have several fundamental problems unsolved.”
“But—but i
t’s sheer lunacy.”
“Do you suppose the builders of the first Pyramid knew exactly how they’d complete it?”
“But what if we fail?”
“You’ll succeed,” Jasper assured her. “The math problem, they will solve. They’ll fail in other ways. Who knows—maybe Silicon won’t be finished in your lifetime, or perhaps never, like the ancient temple of Asragh, forever missing its tallest spire. Even if it does reach completion, someone will want to kill you, for one good reason or another.”
“Selenite will,” she added ruefully.
“That’s why Selenite never gets these jobs herself. But you’ll handle it. How long since you’ve walked on lava?”
She swallowed, thinking, I’m getting too old for lava.
The next day Opal called. “Selenite’s at the hospital. Her people got in trouble.”
Chrys stared. “Not the minions?”
Opal hesitated. “I think the blue angels emboldened them. They’d never seen people so totally unafraid, even when forced to live at her mercy.”
At the hospital Chrys held Selenite’s hand. Selenite’s face was creased, and she blinked more rapidly than usual. Chrys made herself smile. “Can I help? Send over a few ‘libertines’ to lecture them?”
“They took their own lives,” Selenite whispered. “Twenty of them. Protesting one execution.” She struggled to raise herself in bed. “The blue angels inspired them.”
“Well, now,” said Opal, seated by the bed. “Blue angels never hurt themselves.”
“But they encourage disobedience. Chrys, I was wrong,” Selenite added. “The blue angels are not safe—they’re the most dangerous strain we have.”
Opal’s eyes met Chrys’s for a long while.
“One True God, let the wizards visit,” flashed Fireweed. “We’ve founded a new school of mathematics.”
“Could you take half her caseload?” Opal asked at last. “I know it’s hard, with your show coming up.”
“I’ll manage.” In fact, Chrys had painted nothing since Endless Light. She wondered if she could ever paint again.
The message light; Andra appeared. “Chrys, Sar and I have to leave town for three days, on personal business. Could you stay over here and look after Daeren? The house has the full medical capacity of the clinic, but in case his people need help, we need a human carrier.”
TWENTY-TWO
The defectors from Endless Light had brought with them their unique branch of calculus, from the masters’ best minds drawn together in the one intellectual pursuit permitted by the Leader of Endless Light. Now in Eleutheria, they founded a new school of mathematics, a constructive theory of numbers bridging the infinite to the infinitesimal. Their algorithms vastly simplified the creation of the very large from the very small.
“Even the wizards come here to study,” flashed Fireweed.
“Working together,” predicted Forget-me-not, “we’ll soon have what we need to build Silicon.”
“Perhaps,” said Fireweed. “But I’ll never see the building completed. Not within my lifetime.”
“Nor mine,” agreed Forget-me-not. “But we’ve shaped the design, the promise of things to come. What could be greater?”
Fireweed extended her filaments, tasting the molecules of excitement from the mathematicians. “As I age, I think over and over again of the God’s commandment: Love me, love my people. Something tells me we have more work to be done, beyond Silicon.”
“We saved the blue angels,” said Forget-me-not. “The deed shines in our history like a golden light.”
“But where are the blue angels now?”
“I fear for them, and for us all,” the blue one admitted. “There is trouble in the world of the gods, trouble greater than our own.”
The snake-eggs picked on Chrys, buzzing so thick she could barely find Andra’s address.
“How did you get out alive from the Slave World?”
“Do the slaves pay you to paint their propaganda? Why are you spreading the brain plague?”
“Can you confirm reports that you are secretly a vampire?”
Her best defense, she had found, was silence. But one pesky reporter got tangled in her hair like a fly. She tossed it out, annoyed at losing a few precious strands. “If you won’t comment,” it warned, “other sources will.”
Andra’s home was faced in brick, at first glance monotone, but in fact each brick had its own subtle shade. There was no obvious door, but as Chrys watched, two camouflaged octopods slowly shaped themselves out of the brick. The snake-eggs vanished.
“We inform you,” said an octopod, “as a matter of courtesy, that this facility is fully secured. No one gains entry or leaves, save by our consent.”
“And no one makes trouble within,” added the other.
“Over the years we’ve foiled explosives, poisons, information viruses, even exotic animals,” the first added wearily. “Make our day. Try something new.”
Chrys frowned. “I’m expected.”
“Very well.” The disappointed octopods faded back into the brick, which parted to form a doorway.
Inside stood a man she did not know. Not a man; a humanoid sentient, his form too perfect even for Plan Ten. His eyes and nose were of classic proportions; his gray talar flowed majestically from shoulders to feet, his chest bearing a single white stone. “Chrysoberyl.”
The voice was Doctor Sartorius. His tone had softened, the voice he had used the night she rescued Daeren. Chrys felt herself flush all the way from her face to her toes.
“I’ve not had a chance,” he said, “to tell you how much it meant to me, what you did for Daeren. I think of him as my own brother.”
Speechless, she nodded slightly.
“You understand that he is still very sick.” The doctor’s lips produced perfect speech. “His brain needs time to heal. The house takes care of that. You need do nothing, except stay here.”
Andra approached, also in gray. Her hand brushed his back. They looked like a couple off to a gem-trading convention. “It’s been hard for Sar,” she said, “these past two weeks.”
“And hard for you,” said Chrys, recovering her manners. “I’m sorry.”
“We’re glad we can depend on you.” Andra looked backward, toward a passage lined with chandeliers. “Daeren’s treatment facility is down the hall.”
From the ceiling, the house voice added, “There’s a suite for you, Chrysoberyl. Whatever you need, just ask.”
“Listen to the blue angels,” added Andra. “But be considerate; they don’t yet take visitors. They’re sensitive about their condition.”
“I understand.” She warned her people, “No visiting.”
“But the blue angels—it’s been generations since—”
“Stay dark, lest you lose the sun.” Down the hall, false windows hung with valances produced a soft light. There stood Daeren.
He did not speak; though if he had, she might not have heard, for the blood pounding in her ears. She whispered, “Day.”
Daeren’s eyes were dark, not a hint of light. Without a word, he turned and walked away, down the hall. Chrys followed. At her left, the arched windows came gradually larger, until at some point their light became real, the windows expanding into open archways above long, cushioned seats, as inviting as Olympus. The archways looked out onto a swimming pool, a headball court, and a virtual hiking trail leading up into distant mountains.
Daeren was sitting in a seat beneath the arch. From the wall by his shoulder extended a small table, holding two cups of orange juice and a dish of AZ. Chrys sat beside him. He seemed relaxed, one leg up on the seat, hands clasped upon the knee. The minutes passed. “Daeren, can you talk?”
Daeren met her eyes, his own still dark. “When I have something to say.”
She let out her breath. Glancing at the juice and AZ, she asked, “Shouldn’t I stay objective?”
“You needn’t be a saint.”
Chrys reached past him for the cup of juice, he
r heart pounding to feel him so near. She raised the cup to her lips.
“Chrys…what did you give them?”
Her throat tightened. “No arsenic.”
“I would have. For you.”
Her face burned. For the first time, she realized, she saw him without any micros chatting along. Just the two of them, alone.
“I just want to know,” he said, “what to thank you for.”
With difficulty she swallowed. “You’ll see it at my show.” Recalling the Leader, she shook her head. “What an egomaniac—to give up a world for her starving billions, just to see her own damned portrait preach Endless Light to the stars.”
“Of course,” he whispered. “That would be worth a world.” For a minute, he was silent. Then he held out the plate of AZ. “Reward them, for me.”
She eyed the blue wafers warily, fearing the Eleutherians would think it meant chatting time. “They haven’t done anything good yet.”
“They did for me. Let me feed them.” Picking out a wafer, he raised it slowly to her lips. Chrys thought, if his finger touched her lips she would faint. She took it into her mouth.
“Oh Great One, we don’t want azetidine. We just want to see the blue angels.”
Seeing her face change, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I told them they can’t visit.”
His eyes widened as if in fear. “Are they angry? I’m sorry,” he half choked, “I’m sorry, I—”
“No, Daeren,” Chrys insisted. “Of course they’re not angry, not anymore. We’re the ones to blame; we’re all dreadfully sorry.” But he looked away without answering. Chrys felt frustrated. “Would you let Forget-me-not visit? She used to be yours.”
He looked up. “So that’s what you call her.” His head nodded slightly. “All right.”
Chrys put the patch at his neck. Her hand felt reluctant to leave.
Closing his eyes a moment, Daeren took a deep breath. “All right,” he said at last. “Let the others come.”
Brain Plague Page 34