His eyes flashed blue and yellow. “I’m no longer worthy of you.”
“Then why did all those people invest their lives in you?” She gave him a patch to retrieve Forget-me-not.
“We’ve been busy,” reported Forget-me-not. “Rebuilding infrastructure, bringing things up to code. Putting up a few nightclubs.”
Hesitantly, he stroked her hair. Her eyes half closed, and her fingers dug into his back, remembering. His face drew so near that she breathed his scent. Then his lips were on her again, meeting her hunger until she was satisfied.
At last she lay beside him again, quietly. Her hand caressed his chest, wondering at his strength. “You’ve certainly got the touch, Daeren. As good as a woman.”
He raised himself on one elbow. “Chrys, do you like women better? I’ll get changed, to please you.”
She stared, overcome by the need in his eyes. Then she let out a long, shuddering sigh. “Daeren, please yourself. I’d love you even as a worm-face.”
He paused as if considering. “I don’t think Plan Ten has that option.”
“Well for heaven’s sake, don’t give them ideas.” Cradling his head, she whispered, “Just get better.”
“What if it’s too hard?”
“You have to try.”
“I’m trying. It’s the hardest thing I ever tried.”
Another afternoon of swimming amid sapphires, pulling weights in Andra’s gym, and hiking the virtual trail up to an endless scarp stretched beneath a tree-lined sky. Chrys leaned on Daeren’s shoulder and watched the sunset. “Lawyers and doctors sure know how to live.”
“When they have time.” Andra and Sar spent all their time getting people and hospitals out of one scrape or another.
That night Daeren again tossed in his sleep, struggling with unseen demons. At first he subsided, as if determined to stay asleep. Then his shoulders shook. He was sobbing in his sleep.
Chrys grasped his back, her arms fiercely encircling his chest. “Daeren—what is it?”
“They died,” he gasped. “They all starved, even their children.” The blue angels, he remembered. “How could I do that to them?”
“Daeren, that’s over. They forgave you, generations ago. Think of the future.”
“But I can’t forget.” He shook his head. “I never knew what it was like, for all those slaves I dragged to the clinic. Nothing left but their memories.”
“You have us, don’t you? Saints and angels—what will it take?”
The following night Chrys slept through. He must have too, she realized. In the morning, she recalled regretfully, Andra was to return.
As Chrys read her mail on the holostage, Daeren hugged her from behind, his hands cupping her breasts. Taking a deep breath, she turned and wrestled him to the ground.
For the first time, Daeren laughed. “Chrys, you’re dangerous.”
“You didn’t resist too hard.”
He flipped her over, with a deft motion she couldn’t figure out. Then he pressed into her, more firmly than before.
“Daeren,” she whispered. “Come home with me.”
He drew her up until they were both seated on the floor. “I’m still not well.” Seeing her look, he added, “Don’t be sad—I can’t bear it.”
“I can’t be happy all the time, even for you.”
“I’ll keep you in my window all day.”
“Yes,” she said, “I’ll keep your sprite up there. And stop back when I can.”
“You could take some blue angels,” he offered. “They deserve a spell outside purgatory.”
“I’m sure some of mine would stay with you. The fix-it types.”
He sighed with relief. “I was hoping.”
Her scalp prickled, remembering. Sometimes cruel was love.
Andra returned, with Doctor Sartorius back to his wormy form. As they arrived, Daeren seemed to close himself off again, without a word. But he hugged Chrys fiercely and kissed her hair. Then he retreated down the hall. The doctor followed him.
Andra said with a ghost of a smile, “I don’t have to ask how things went.”
Not with the house watching all, Chrys thought, suddenly embarrassed. “I hope your trip went well.”
“Thanks for helping out, and giving us a break.”
Chrys looked back once more down the hall of windows. “Is there anything more I can do? To get him out sooner?”
Andra faced her, purple rings flashing, questioning. She nodded as if satisfied. “You can tell him to make his peace with the rest of us.”
TWENTY-THREE
Forget-me-not was appalled. “To see a god sunk so low that he needs redemption from people.”
“A mystery beyond understanding,” agreed Fireweed.
“And yet,” said Forget-me-not, “out of the mystery comes a Golden Age. Our arachnoid is richer than ever, pulsing with phenylethylamine.” The molecules produced by divine love.
Fireweed flashed a greeting to the visiting blue angels, who would spend the next generation with Eleutheria. The blue angels amazed her with their tales of the divine Underworld, which their ancestors had frequented with the Lord of Light. The Underworld, they said, had given birth to the Lord of Light, and to many other gods unseen, some without a home, even a window of their own. “What do you think of this Underworld?” she asked Forget-me-not. “We went there to recruit defectors, yet I never really knew what it was about. How could God lack windows?”
“There are homeless gods, just as we have homeless mutants.”
“One True God; yet the One are Many.” Fireweed’s vision deepened. Even if there were only One True God, that god took many forms, a different form for each people. And none should go unseen. Every god needs a window. Perhaps, she envisioned, Eleutheria had greater windows yet to build, beyond even Silicon.
As Chrys neared her front door, the undaunted snake-eggs swarmed. “Oh, Xenon,” she called. “Might we have some octopods?”
From the walls beside the caryatids emerged a phalanx of ‘octopods,’ their limbs striped with horrifying black and orange. Immediately the snake-eggs dispersed. With a short laugh, Chrys passed between the two outer caryatids.
At her door, she caught sight of one last snake-egg hovering some feet away, at the level of her knees. “So you’re the brave one.”
The undaunted snake-egg said, “Anyone could see those octopods were fake.”
Her eyes widened. “You can tell fact from fiction?”
“I’m a professional. I seek the truth.”
Professional what, she was tempted to say.
The snake-egg added, “My name is Quinx.”
“Come in, Quinx.” The snake-egg followed her up the stairs, at a respectful distance. There crouched Merope, ready to pounce on this tempting prey. “I’ll give you an exclusive interview,” Chrys added, “if you just tell the truth.”
“Fair enough,” said Quinx. “We’ll start with where you were born, your parents and so on.”
Her arms tensed. “Leave my parents out of this.”
“But that’s the sort of thing people want to know.”
“I don’t want snake-eggs bothering my family.”
“You should avoid ethnic slurs in public,” Quinx pointed out. “We are called ‘journalists.’ We’ll send your parents a human, if necessary. But we generally find the rural public more impressed by journalists than urbanites are.”
This urban journalist had never met the like of her parents, she thought. “Another thing—I am sick to death of hearing about Titan. Always ‘just like Titan,’ or ‘nothing like Titan.’ Can’t you just write about me?”
“Titan was yesterday’s news. Believe me, people will forget about Titan when they hear the truth about you.”
In the wee hours, Chrys roused just enough to see Fireweed’s letters flashing. “One True God! We’ve done it at last.”
“Done what?” she sleepily replied.
“We solved the problem of Silicon. We have the mathematical tools to
grow the city.”
“Congratulations.”
“The construction costs will increase by only a factor of two.”
Predictably, Selenite was furious. “A two-fold increase in our estimate?” her sprite demanded in Chrys’s ear. “After winning a competitive bid?” Her expression spoke volumes unuttered, probably how this was even worse than Titan. But perhaps her own “slip,” from which she’d now recovered, had left her slower to judge. “Let’s take it to Jasper.”
They met with Jasper at Olympus, over ambrosia and meat-fruits, the virtual singing-trees arching above. Chrys described the predicament, adding, “Before you say anything, let’s get one thing straight. Not another word about dead dynatects.”
“Live ones are enough trouble.” Jasper’s brow wrinkled briefly, then he shrugged. “Before we face the board, I’ll have the brains in the back room take a look.”
Seeing her puzzlement, Selenite explained, “The sentient engineers who do the real work. They don’t even stoop to human speech. You don’t suppose those board members could build so much as a tube stop, do you?”
“I kind of wondered.”
Jasper nodded. “Maybe the brains can bring it down to, say, an increase of fifty percent. By the way,” he warned, “you’ll have to raise Selenite’s cut, proportionately.”
“It’s an outrage,” Selenite exclaimed. “Runaway costs, wasteful consumption.” She added, “But I’m getting used to it.”
Chrys kept Daeren’s sprite hovering above the painting stage, between Fern’s and Hal’s, and she stopped by Andra’s to see him every day. One day she brought Opal and Garnet.
As they reached Andra’s invisible door, Opal beamed with excitement. Garnet was more reserved, but he held between his hands a large dark sphere. Chrys eyed it with suspicion. “Like, a bomb?”
“Please,” sighed an octopod. “It’s been years since anyone tried anything.”
Garnet looked shocked. “Flowers.”
They met Daeren out by the swimming pool. Opal threw her arms around him and kissed the top of his head. “How could you stay away so long? We’ve missed you so.”
His face darkened with confusion, but he was not displeased. “I’ve been busy.”
“Working too hard as usual. And the blue angels? Just a peek?” She took out a transfer patch. Chrys felt vaguely jealous but checked herself.
Garnet set down the sphere. It sprouted a red carnation. There followed lilies, rosebuds, even Prokaryan ringflowers, live plast imitating live plants. “Olympus just doesn’t feel right without you.” He rested his arm lightly on Daeren’s shoulder.
“You’ll be pleased to hear,” Opal said, “we’re working on better communication with the non-carriers. We’re not to call them ‘virgins’ anymore. They’re ‘independents.’”
“Sounds reasonable,” Daeren agreed.
Garnet added, “We’ve been talking with Carnelian about how we can help the ‘independents’ fight the brain plague.”
Opal nodded. “All those defectors your brain brought back—we’ve put their intelligence to good use.”
Garnet’s gaze took in the glittering pool and the headball court beyond. “Excellent taste, though claustrophobic, I’d say. It must be tough being trapped in here,” he observed, kneading Daeren’s shoulder. “Watching your investments grow. Wondering why the seven are but seven.”
“I was a fool,” Daeren sighed. “Now they’ll never let me back. Not for what I used to do.”
Chrys felt numb. It was hard to imagine Daeren doing anything else.
Opal squeezed his hand. “Wait and see.”
“I know the rules,” he said shortly.
Garnet raised a hand. “I know what you can do. You can come serve at the Spirit Table. Jasper and I go there every week. It’s just the thing for you.”
Daeren smiled. “You’re right, I could serve at the Spirit Table. There are any number of things I could do. But what about the blue angels? All their tradition of relief work, and nothing left to do except look after me.”
After Opal and Garnet left, Chrys took a dip in the pool. Then she and Daeren rested at the far end, water rippling around their arms entwined, as they watched Garnet’s “flowers” grow and collapse to grow anew.
“The truth is,” Daeren exclaimed, “I’m tired of chasing addicts who will only run back the first chance they get. I’d like to get back to law, and acquire a place like this.”
The virtual sunset gleamed across the swimming pool, glinting off the sapphires. “Sounds good to me,” Chrys smiled. “I’ll be your worm-face.”
Daeren sat on in silence, a hand stroking her breast. “Chrys,” he asked thoughtfully, “what is ‘fenestration’?”
“The placement of windows? Why do you ask?”
“Just like to know what your people are chatting about.”
“One True God,” flashed Fireweed. “We have a vision. A new work lies before us—even greater than Silicon.”
Chrys absorbed this news with deepening suspicion. “What sort of work?”
“A new building plan. Commissioned by the blue angels.”
Forget-me-not added, “We’ve installed a branch office with the Lord of Light.”
“With divine permission?”
“Of course. What do you take us for?”
She looked accusingly at Daeren. “You didn’t tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
She sculled the water with her hands. “What’s your project?” she demanded of Fireweed.
“Rebuild the Underworld.”
“House the gods as they deserve,” added Forget-me-not.
“Homes, schools, playgrounds,” flashed yellow Lupin. “All with the cooperation of the inhabitants—not just a building grown from seed. Incalculable problems to solve. Truly a challenge worthy of the highest intellect.”
Chrys crossed her arms. “This was your idea,” she told Daeren.
“I’m not allowed to have ideas, remember?” he said. “Just obey.”
“And how will it be financed?”
“Our profits from Silicon, to begin with,” flashed Lupin. “Then we’ll raise funds from all our neighbors. We have ways.”
Chrys put her head in her hands. She imagined what Jasper and Selenite would say.
As her exhibition date neared, the brain plague worsened. Whole sections of Level One were abandoned, and every morning dead vampires appeared in the streets. The Palace doubled the patrols of octopods, but that did little good against a menace unseen.
From Elysium, it was rumored that Elf children experimented with “visitors.” Kept in school for fifty years, they’d be bored enough to try anything. All in all, the reports did little to dispel tension over her upcoming show.
“Might you bring an octopod to your Opening?” ventured Xenon. “A real one, in camouflage.”
“Elysium won’t allow it. They’re above security,” she observed. “Even the Gallery had to get a special dispensation to post a guard.”
“Their medical response system is the Fold’s finest,” Xenon assured her.
“I hope I don’t find out.”
The Fall Opening at the Gallery Elysium was the foremost cultural event of the year. Chrys herself had never attended in person, but she had always watched through her window as Elysium’s most refined millennial citizens mingled with Valedon’s most famous and infamous. This year she found herself at the window’s other side.
The snake-eggs buzzed so loud one could barely hear, and the multicolored butterflies projecting behind all the talars mingled so confusingly that one hardly saw the art. But then, most people on Opening night were there less to see than to be seen. Chrys herself wore a talar of burnt dark red, shading into infrared that only the privileged could see, her hair flowing thick past her shoulders.
At her side hovered Ilia, filling in occasional responses to the more abstruse questions Chrys was asked. “Pathbreaking,” Ilia assured a butterfly-swirling visitor. “The most pathbreak
ing exhibit we’ve ever done.”
The visitor would not touch Ilia, of course, but impulsively caught a fold of her talar. There was a lot of clasping of talars, as highly placed Elves tried to show the world how intimate they were with those even more highly placed. They kept more of a distance from “Azetidine,” however. Perhaps it was the hair, or the infrared. Or perhaps it was the hint of scandal that put a strain in some smiles, the furtive glances toward the white curtain.
A group of Elf students strolled in parti-colored jumpsuits. They looked and acted her brother’s age, though in actual years they were probably closer to her own. Their guide spent a lot of time at Chrys’s old self-portrait, making the point that even great artists had to begin the hard way. She wondered whether the guide would let them beyond the curtain.
A Valan lady, obsidian with a lava sheen, wearing a diamond tiara. “Moraeg!” Chrys had wondered if any of the old Seven would come. She caught Moraeg’s arms.
“Indecent contact,” warned a voice from the ceiling. “You are fined one hundred credits. To appeal this ruling…”
Chrys turned as dark as her hair, but Moraeg laughed. “These quaint Elf customs. It’s too funny, isn’t it, dear?”
Beside Lady Moraeg, Lord Carnelian wore his finest gray talar with one blood-colored namestone. “So pleased to see my taste confirmed.”
“Thanks,” said Chrys, recalling the old rent credit. How good it felt to see them both together again.
Ilia nodded graciously. “I understand, Lord Carnelian, you were the first patron of Azetidine, in her early period. How discerning.”
The crowd parted, as it always did for Zircon. Among Elves, he looked more of a giant than ever. He patted Chrys’s hair three times, despite the Elysian fine for each. “Chrys—I can’t believe it.” Glancing at the protective curtain, he looked back at her in frank astonishment. “You of all people.”
“Thanks, Urban Shaman.”
Amid all the colors, one talar stood out in plain white. There stood Daeren.
All else receded, except Daeren’s face, and the blood pounding in her ears. Reaching him, she grasped a fold of his talar. “They let you out.”
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