“I see.”
“We’ll all see,” promised Ilia. “If Arion won’t take a stand, perhaps someone else will.”
At last all had left for the night, except for Daeren, who sat perusing one of his legal documents on the holostage.
“We’ll remember,” promised Forget-me-not. “The poisoned veins, the sacrifice of Fireweed, and our flight to the ten worlds. And in our Great Diaspora, we have learned some things about the true meaning of Eleutheria.”
“I’ve learned, too,” Chrys reflected. “I would have taken the false ones—anything. The virgins are right; we are addicted.”
“‘Independents,’” Daeren corrected, without turning around. “They’re addicted to oxygen.”
“Carriers share everything.” She whispered, “But Daeren, it’s different with you.”
He half turned, his face set hard. “Are you sure?”
He was actually jealous. She went to him and knelt, crossing her arms in his lap. “You’re still my one Lord of Light.”
Daeren’s face softened. He picked her up and carried her off to bed, kissing her madly. This time, at last, they both had their fill. “God of Mercy,” he whispered. “I live or die at your pleasure.”
In the morning, Andra brought bad news. “Someone told the Palace. We’re all summoned—Sar and I, and both of you.”
Across the pool flooded the virtual rising sun. Heaven was always too short. Chrys sighed. “So what do we do?”
Andra put her hands together. “I cut a deal.” As usual. “Sar goes to the Palace for interrogation. They’ll rake him over, but they owe him for Zoisite. The rest of us go to Arion.”
“Arion?” asked Chrys. “Why?”
“The first Elf children have succumbed to plague.” Andra let this sink in. “Now, at last, Arion swears he will hear the truth.”
“We’ve told him nothing else.”
“The whole truth,” Andra emphasized.
“Do you believe him?”
Andra was silent. The silence expanded, like ripples on the pool. “Until now, I have. Now, for the first time…I’m no longer sure. His eyes did not quite meet mine.”
Chrys closed her eyes as if to shut it all out. Then she forced them open. “Do we have a choice?”
“You have one other choice.”
Into her window sprang a virtual ticket. A starship ticket to Solaria. Exile.
Daeren must have seen the same. He looked down. “Chrys, I’m in your hands. Wherever you go, I will follow.”
Chrys turned to Andra. “If we leave, what will become of you? And Sar?”
Andra looked down. “We’ll manage. We always have.”
And the other Olympians, and Ilia, and all the hapless citizens in the streets. She thought it over, eyeing the ticket. “Solarian nightlife’s the best. Can we have, like, a rain check?”
TWENTY-FOUR
The terror of the flight from poison would never be forgotten, especially by the children swept out into new worlds. And still, Forget-me-not knew, worse was yet to come. Somewhere out beyond the familiar gods walked others, gods who could dissolve people with as little care as for a mindless virus floating in the blood.
But the Eleutherians who returned from the Diaspora were a different people than before. Some individuals had stayed behind to dwell with their new gods, while many strangers had left their own gods to join Eleutheria. The newcomers brought their own ways, but in the end most took up the great challenge of the past generations. And this time they made sure their work would outlast even death.
“Fear not,” Forget-me-not told the god. “Fear not the future. Whatever becomes of us, Eleutheria will remain. We have stored all of what we are, our history and our works, for whoever will find it after we are gone—in all the different worlds to which we fled. For in truth, Eleutheria is no genetic race, nor a physical place, but a way of being, a path of endless life. All those who seek to build in truth and memory shall find our way.”
The three carriers went in to see Arion, this time flanked by octopods. So much for peaceful Elysium. The Guardian of Peace sat there behind a conference table, live butterflies flitting outside the window beyond. Beside him sat his brother.
Chrys stopped to let her pulse subside. “It’s all over.”
“Not yet,” said Forget-me-not. “Another year’s as good as ten. So long as we live, we live free.”
Eris did not even pretend to meet their eyes. He studied his hands, clasped before him on the table, as if to say, this was none of his affair. Beside him, Arion looked on as before, his features the color of alabaster, his eyes penetrating. “Seat yourselves, Citizens.”
Andra narrowed her eyes, her gaze hunting Eris like a bird of prey. “Eris. How long it’s been.” Her voice was deceptively relaxed. “How long since I’ve seen our descendants?”
Descendants of her own people? The false blue angels? As if a window opened, Chrys saw now why Arion did not trust Andra, and why Daeren’s slip had sparked her anger. The worst of micros could become the best; but even the best had produced the worst.
Eris acted as if he did not hear. Arion ignored the remark as well. He nodded at Chrys. “For the record, Citizen Chrysoberyl, you are the betrayer of two worlds, indeed the very integrity of the Fold.”
“Excuse me?”
“You tipped off the slaves before our mission.”
“I tried to,” she admitted. “To prevent genocide. But someone else got there first.” She glared at Eris, daring Arion to ask who.
Arion added, “You are also the only human to have seen the Slave World and come back free—twice.”
“I know of none else,” she admitted.
“And you made an exhibit of their obscene propaganda.”
That took her aback. “You want facts, or art critique?”
“And you expect me to believe that you follow your own free will, and not that of the brain plague.”
She studied Arion’s eyes. They met hers, just barely. “No,” she said at last. “I honestly don’t expect you will believe me. I expect to leave here with my people wiped, victims of—”
He waved a hand. So much for hearing the full truth. “Daeren,” he began. “The main tester of carriers at Hospital Iridis, you gave yourself up to the Slave World.”
Andra said, “He was not himself.”
“Let him answer.”
“I was myself,” Daeren corrected, his voice level. “You, Arion, were not yourself when you chose to annihilate what remained of a crippled world. The ancient barbarians, as you call them, left grass and insects. Your own act left nothing.”
“You did not object,” Arion pointed out. “You knew why it had to be done. It was either that, or wipe all the carriers of Elysium, and make the Valans do the same.”
“I was wrong,” Daeren said. “There are other choices.”
“But you came back.” Arion turned again to Chrys. “You rescued him. How?”
Her throat tightened. She could still hardly bear to speak of it. “The…Leader. Her portrait paid.”
Arion frowned. “You and your portraits. There, too, you abused my trust.”
“That’s true,” Chrys admitted. “I should have asked your consent.”
“But Daeren—you recovered.” Arion’s voice took on a peculiar note of urgency. “How? How did you recover, from the worst depths, yet hold on to your ‘people’?”
Andra explained, “An experimental treatment. Doctor Sartorius has the details.”
“Did the treatment work?”
“We believe it is working.”
“Would it work for others?”
No one looked at Eris.
“Daeren’s failure was brief,” Andra reminded Arion. “Even so, his recovery has consumed substantial resources, and the care of very special…people.”
“No amount of resources would be too great to save a millennial life.” As if an eighty-year-old sim would not matter. As if a person’s worth could be measured by his lifespan.
<
br /> “Did you hear, Eris?” Arion’s voice softened. “Did you hear that even the worst case can be cured?”
The room was suddenly still; had a fly crept across the table, it could have been heard. Only butterflies flitted in the garden beyond. At the table, Eris did not move. He did not respond aloud, but his electronic sense must have reached Arion.
“Yes,” Arion nodded. “Chrysoberyl, please explain what we found the night after you left your show. The medic who treated your injury reported mysterious trace molecules—later identified unmistakably as a mark of the brain plague.”
Andra insisted, “She was cleared. Arsenic-wiped.”
“But how did they get there?” pursued Arion. “How can you explain, unless you were a slave?”
Chrys stood suddenly, her hands planted on the table. From behind, an octopod arm gripped her shoulder. “He did it!” Her voice rose to a shout. “Eris did everything, you know he did. He sent the damned snake-egg to poison me. He’s poisoned half your own carriers, sent them to the Slave World; he tried the same with me. And now he’s starting on your children.”
The two Elves listened calmly to this outburst. At last Eris sighed and shook his head. “How sad. I told you what they’d say.”
“You did,” Arion agreed.
“Definitely tainted. Nothing to do but wipe them.”
“Evidently,” said Arion quietly. “Still, we have to be sure.” He nodded. “Test them.”
Andra leaned forward, her hands on the table, her eyes avid. “Eris, you’re absolutely right. We could have gone bad; heaven knows, we’ve suffered enough exposure.” She extended her hand, as if for a transfer patch. “Test me.”
Eris said, “That won’t be necessary.”
Furrows appeared above Arion’s eyes. Surprised to be contradicted, he turned toward Eris. Their eyes met. Arion froze. “As you say, Eris.” Outside of his eyes, the rest of his face grimaced, as if puzzled by his own words.
“Eris.” Andra’s tone deepened, in that classic Sardish inflection that made people cringe. “Tell me,” she said slowly. “Who do you fear more—myself? Or your masters.”
Eris wrenched his head around. For an instant, perhaps, the human face of him looked out. “Silence, you unspeakable—” He stopped, checked by the furious purple flashing in Andra’s eyes. The seconds passed. Then his eyes closed, and he slumped down upon the table.
Arion let out a cry and put his hands to his head. The octopods pulled Chrys’s arms back tight, while reinforcements appeared. A worm-faced doctor came to tend Eris.
An octopod had pinned Andra’s arms, and its deadly needle pressed her neck. Andra spoke quickly. “I told you what we could do, once we caught him. The Leader’s own defectors gave us their signal codes.”
The doctor’s worm encircled Eris’s scalp. “He’s asleep. Normal slow-wave activity.”
“But Arion,” insisted Andra, “what about you? Tell me, what color are my eyes?”
Arion turned to the doctor. “When was I last cleansed?”
“You’ve declined cleansing since last night.”
“Cleansing for arsenic won’t be enough,” warned Andra, her arms still pinned, the octopod’s needle beneath her chin. “They can burrow deep within the bone. Arion—let us help you. Before it’s too late.”
Arion stared, just outside her line of focus, his hand tense, shaking. “You ruined him long ago,” his voice rasped with pain. “Destroyed him with your plague. You’ll never leave this room alive.”
“Your eyes are green, laced with gold,” Andra went on. “You and I made the same mistake; we both trusted wrong. But I always delivered, didn’t I? I told you the Leader’s own defectors would take him down. Now we can get you clean—and no one will have to know.”
The Guardian did not speak aloud, but the octopod tentacle tugged at Chrys’s arm. She and Daeren were pulled out of the office, leaving Andra alone.
The two of them were escorted out through the street-tunnels of Helicon. The octopods brought them to a door and pushed them inside. Outside, the octopods squatted and faded into camouflage.
Inside, the room was small by Valan standards but comfortable, with a holostage and a bush full of real heliconians flitting on the balcony. Not a hint of getting wiped for arsenic. Scarcely believing it, Chrys told her people, “We’re safe for now.”
A vast rainbow filled her eyes, just like Fern used to do. Chrys shut her eyes, feeling light-headed. “It’s beautiful. Almost illegal.”
“Really?” flashed Lupin, shocked.
Chrys embraced Daeren. “What will they do to Andra?”
“Let’s hope Arion lets her test him.”
Still dazed, she shook her head. “I had no idea Eris got his people from her.”
“His original strain. He promised to set up the same system here as Andra and Sar did in Iridis.”
She reflected, “I guess Elves always come to Valedon to pick up our vulgar diversions. Just like Iridians go slumming in the Underworld.”
“We’ll never really know what happened to Eris,” Daeren said, “whether his people went bad, or they got replaced by another strain.” Out on the balcony, an aging heliconian fell off a branch, its wings still bright and crisp. The delicate insect landed below, its blue-spotted wings outstretched, a dead angel.
Her head nestled against his neck, and he brushed her hair. “I’m just glad someone was there for me when I needed help,” added Daeren. “Some very special people.”
Chrys looked up. “Daeren, if we, like, get out of this alive—” She swallowed hard. “We could have children. I mean, the micros have so many, why can’t we have our own?”
For a while Daeren looked at her, unable to speak. At last he brushed her cheek. “I never thought you’d trust me.”
That afternoon, as they waited together, a group of Elves appeared on the holostage. Startled, Chrys sat up and straightened her hair. Among the Elves was Ilia.
“We need your help,” Ilia told her, a slight edge to her normally unflappable voice. “Arion has put all the carriers under guard, until we can prove we’re clean. You can test us, Daeren.”
Before, only Chief Andra was good enough for her. Daeren crossed his arms. “What became of your own testers?”
“Eris was wiped.”
Much as he deserved it, Chrys shuddered. One day in hell had been enough for her.
“It’s terrible to think of,” exclaimed one of Ilia’s companions. “We knew Eris had ‘turned,’ but should it come to this? He led a respectable life.”
Daeren looked away. “I’m on vacation. You can ask Chrys.”
“What?” the Elf exclaimed. “Not that scandalous artist.”
Ilia gave her companion a glacial stare. “Consider it an aesthetic experience. You’ve never refused one before.”
Chrys thought of something. “We’ll train you to test the others,” she told Ilia. “Your people can learn; it’s not hard.”
Ilia shuddered. “Too much temptation.”
Daeren added, “And tell Arion, we have ways to help Eris.”
Once again, they met with the Guardian of Peace. Both he and Andra had an air of business about them, the product of many hours of negotiation. A couple of Elf assistants were present.
“Elysium agrees to drop all pending charges,” Arion told the Valans, “under the conditions indicated.” A long list scrolled down the holostage.
“And we agree to help rebuild your carrier security program,” said Andra.
Arion nodded. “And I shall ask the Guard to open consideration of the rights and status of the alleged micro people.”
Andra said, “I’ve gone over the whole thing, but you both need to read thoroughly before you sign.”
Chrys read the suspended letters word by word. A lot of prohibitions, such as don’t ever visit the Slave World again—she could certainly live with that. Then her eyes stopped. “‘The undersigned agrees to desist from representational depiction of government officials.’”
Arion glanced at his aides, saying smoothly, “My staff must have put that in.” The line vanished.
After reading through it three times, Chrys at last put her hand to the document. A weight lifted off her chest. The plague still raged, but it no longer reached so high.
“One last point.” Arion looked hard at Daeren. “You said you could help Eris.”
“Yes.”
“You know he can never carry people again.” Arion’s voice was bleak.
“I’ve discussed an experimental alternative with Sartorius,” said Daeren. “We’ve never had an effective treatment for hard-core addicts. They can’t manage without company inside. Based on my experience, I can understand that. But suppose we give them just a few elders, to talk to.”
“Would that be safe?”
“Elders can’t breed. They’d need replacing every month or so.” Microbial methadone.
Arion reflected on this. “Would the elders do it? It sounds like a lonely existence for them.”
“A lonely way to spend one’s millennial lifetime. But mercy is their calling.”
As Chrys and Daeren rode the transit bubble to the Elysian hospital, her people rhapsodized about all the elegant dwellings they’d seen. “We’re taking notes,” flashed Forget-me-not. “Elysian dwellings maximize efficiency and aesthetics, suitable to house divinity.” Their model for the future Underworld, their project to dwarf Silicon.
Daeren took yet another AZ.
“Don’t spoil them,” Chrys remarked with a smile.
“They deserve it. They’re giving up their seven best elders for that…”
“Bastard,” she finished.
“Be careful, Chrys.”
“He was human enough to know what he did.”
“Human, and proud of it. That’s what saved us in the end.” That last slip before Andra’s eyes.
At the hospital, a doctor led them through a bank of apartments just like the place Chrys and Daeren had been sent. So that had been part of an Elf “hospital.” Eris, of course, had a more generous suite.
On a bed of nanoplast in shifting colors, the stricken Elf lay on his side hugging his knees, his head turned away. The doctor rested a hand on his pillow. “Eris, you have visitors.”
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