"Why should we settle? Teach them a lesson."
"For a first offense, they'd get off with a warning. I'm not sure what lesson they'll learn—except to avoid getting caught."
Chrys thought it over. "Let me talk with the father."
The father's sprite wore a breastplate of lapis and jade. "My deepest apologies. A new neighbor, too; why haven't we been acquainted? You must call on us." He waved his hand, full of jeweled rings. "It was their homecoming night, you understand; all the excitement. But I've lectured them most severely and deactivated their Elysian pass for a week. I trust you'll accept our compensation."
Chrys cleared her throat. "If you don't mind, my lord, may I suggest a more useful alternative? Let the boys spend a few hours serving at the Spirit Table. Get to know their neighbors."
"An excellent idea! If it weren't for headball season; the team takes up every minute." He sighed and shook his head. "Besides, the tube stop, you know—we wouldn't want them to pick up"—he whispered—"diseases."
"Very well," said Chrys abruptly. "I'll accept your offer."
The lord waved his hand. "It's done." In Chrys's eyes, a digit increased by one.
"Since your boys have no time for charity," she added, "I'll donate the sum, in their name, to the Simian Advancement League."
His faced turned dark as his namestones before his sprite vanished.
That afternoon, Chrys took a trans-world call. To her amazement, there stood her younger brother, his face pink and his arms tan. His eyes glowed.
"Hal," she breathed.
The boy waved. "I can see you!"
She smiled. "I see you too."
"An angel visited our hill," he rushed on. "The angel brought health to all the children of the village."
From behind, her mother put her arm around his shoulder. "A very special angel. An angel of the Spirit, who always knows our need."
Chrys swallowed, her eyes too full to speak. What did the mountain people need more—their health, or their pride in their own belief? For years her mother's pride had wrestled with her own. They were one, and yet they were estranged. Chrys could reach back and help them, yet she could never go back home.
TWELVE
Aster felt her memories slipping, the molecules losing their grip and floating out into the cerebrospinal fluid. After a life of exceptional length, going on three months, her time in Eleutheria would soon end.
"Jonquil, you will have to carry on." She feared the yellow one's lack of character, but she could still lead the people, and she had a genius for design.
"Don't worry, Aster. Rose will help me."
Aster did not like leaving Eleutheria under the influence of a former master. But Rose, despite her outlandish ideas and lingering foreign accent, was an effective organizer, running a dozen councils and committees, establishing a system of social welfare. Her personal lifestyle was even more ascetic than Aster's; she ate only unsaturated hydrocarbons, and avoided any hint of scandal. "Live like her, but don't listen to her."
"Don't worry. I never listen to anyone."
"I only regret I will never live to see our next masterpiece." The creation she had dreamt of, the plans still alive in the heart of Eleutheria, and in the people of the Map of the Universe. She had seen enough of the plans to know one thing: The new creation would have no roots, like the Comb, but would float on a vast body of water. Where such a structure could exist, she had no idea. "But you will. Remember, build for the future. For beauty, truth— and all the gods that have to dwell there."
Chrys felt bad for Aster, the one who had helped Fern restore order, who always looked ahead for Eleutheria. She wished she had pressed Jasper sooner about his new project. But now it was too late to do more than sketch the little ring's last portrait. And with her biggest show of the year coming, she faced getting tested by Selenite, with Jonquil and a former master leading her people.
"Oh Great One, when will we return to the Underworld?" A flash of Jonquil's gold.
"Not for many generations." No distractions till after her show.
"We need new immigrants," insisted Jonquil. "Our settled generations grow lazy." Again already? Their generations flew so fast.
"Find the uncorrupted Enlightened Ones," added Rose. "Bearers of the Truth."
"Show them our portraits," countered Jonquil. "They'll forget about Truth."
"They won't care for your dirty pictures."
Chrys held her head in both hands. "Behave yourselves and let me work, lest you feel the god's wrath." Early every morning, new scenes bubbled up from her mind, demanding to be composed. Beyond single portraits, an entire cityscape of micros floated through their filamentous dwellings in the arachnoid. The shear newness of it took her breath away. Yet who but a handful of carriers would understand?
One morning she had a visitor—Lady Moraeg. "Chrys, it's been so long." Moraeg's diamonds glittered as they traveled round her neck, her curls dark except for lava tint. She embraced Chrys just like the old days.
Chrys said guardedly, "I've been here long enough."
"Oh," said Moraeg, "Carnelian and I took such a grand tour this year, to Solaria and Urulan. We saw a real 'caterpillar,' up close. What a monster." She caught Chrys's arm. "But now it's back to work. Goodness, my dear—how well you look." Probably she had waited to see how Zircon survived.
"What wilderness is this?" flashed Jonquil. "Can we visit?"
"Stay dark." Chrys had warned them—why didn't they listen?
"It's almost time for your show," added Moraeg. "Can I help?"
"First take a look." The room darkened, then filled with the cityscape. Microbial wheels tumbled through the columns of arachnoid, their colors winking, their nightclubs pulsing with colored music.
Moraeg's eyes widened. "There's a planet I've never been to."
Chrys grinned. "It's inside my head."
"Is it true then? You have Titan's own brain enhancers .. . inside your head?"
"What about your own stuff? Don't you have a show too?"
"Oh, another six months." Moraeg called up her florals; carnations in baskets, lupins on the slopes of Urulan, the sort of thing you'd hang in a sitting room. Then, unexpectedly, Wheelgrass Meadow. Red looped petals hung from hooplike stems before a distant singing-tree.
"Our ancestral home! Beauty, imagination, excellent taste— Oh Great One, we must visit this—"
Chrys squeezed her eyes shut. "Stay dark, or face the god's wrath."
"Does it hurt when your eyes flash like that?"
Startled, her eyes flew open. She shook her head. "They just talk too much. But then, like, I have a million minds to draw inspiration."
Moraeg held her chin thoughtfully. "You know, I've lived a hundred years; I made one giga-credit fortune, and married another. Now I've made a second life—in art. To go for the best." She paused. "Does that trial still have openings?"
"We have a party of visitors all set to go," Jonquil insisted. "We'll be most considerate."
Chrys's pulse raced. "I don't know. I can tell you who to call."
"I thought you might have connections. If they need volunteers, let me know."
After her friend left, Chrys took a deep breath. Another artist on Olympus—she was thrilled, yet wary, thinking what she had gone through. As for her people . . .
"Jonquil? You must call all the elders here at once."
"I will try, Oh Great One. They are busy planning urban renewal—"
"At once. There is serious trouble."
Chrys counted the seconds until Jonquil returned. "We are here, all thirty."
"Rose too?"
"All of us. What is the god's wish?"
"You disobeyed me. You expressly failed to follow my commands. "
"We are sorry," said Jonquil. "We trust the God of Mercy will forgive."
"Right now the God of Mercy is full of wrath. You will experience my wrath as an eclipse of the sun." With that, she winked the window closed. Then she closed her own eyes.
Darkness wit
hin, such as she had not known for three months. "Xenon?" she called. "Tell me when sixty seconds are up." A minute—about a week for them, should make a good eclipse. Still, it was the longest minute she ever spent. What did her people make of it? What if they went crazy, like the ancients? No sight, no sound except the pulse pounding in her ears.
At last she opened her eyes.
"The light returns! Oh Great One, we were paralyzed with fear. Even Rose was scared, although she won't admit it."
Chrys nodded at the yellow letters, satisfied.
"We praise your mercy," Jonquil added. "We pray we never lose your sight again. We have written a list of a thousand new laws to make sure we never forget."
One law alone would do, if only they obeyed. She sighed. "We all need to get in shape, before the test of the Deathlord."
Despite their new laws, Chrys grew increasingly apprehensive as the days ticked off till her testing. She tried to put it from her mind and threw herself into her painting. She was adjusting the hue and saturation of a particularly difficult foreground, when Xenon announced Selenite.
Chrys half jumped out of her skin. The painting shuddered, turning all grayish green like a hurricane. "Urn, please do sit down," she urged Selenite. Xenon had his usual tea and cake laid out.
Selenite shook her head. "Sorry, I can't accept anything for testing." Her eyes narrowed. "Did Daeren ever?"
"No, of course not." Not till he'd decided to pass her on. "It's just that I think of you as a business partner."
"It couldn't be helped. Any problems you know of?"
"We're all fine."
"Please stand, I find it easier." Selenite drew very close, the red fire flashing in her eyes.
"Beware," Chrys reminded her people as she accepted the transfer. "Warn Rose and her friends."
"We are ready," Jonquil assured her. "We have prepared many generations for this day."
After what seemed an interminable time, Selenite at last nodded and relaxed in a seat. "Not bad," she allowed. "For your information, here's a list of subversives I'm passing on to the committee."
The alphanumerics scrolled down her window: reds, yellows, greens, and so on. There must have been several hundred. "You mean these are all..."
"They all fit one or more criteria of my screen. They go on file in our intelligence database. Didn't Daeren tell you? You have a sizable file already." She shook her head. "I always let the carrier know, for their own protection."
"I see." She clasped and unclasped her hands, feeling haunted.
"Chrys . .." Selenite cocked her head. "You do a good job, but why do you tolerate those master sympathizers?"
"Well..." It was a compliment, Chrys told herself. "I was raised by true believers, and I've lived with artists. Different ideas are, like, different colors."
"People live or die by ideas."
To that, Chrys did not know what to say. She remembered something. "Do you still have a waiting list?" she ventured. "For new carriers?"
"A very long list," Selenite warned. "Tell your people they have to wait. Unauthorized transfer is a terminal offense."
"I meant, a list of humans who want to become carriers."
Selenite nodded slowly. "We're always looking for good candidates. You know our standards—you're welcome to recommend someone."
The show was packed; one could hardly get past the volcanoes. Chrys had underestimated the space required for her new large-scale compositions and had left the corridors too narrow between them. But then, no more than a handful of visitors had ever showed up before. This time, the news report must have made a difference.
Lord Garnet waved her over, gesturing toward the colored rings whose flickering filaments waved overhead. "They've finally come out—life size! Like real people!" Garnet had brought along half the financial district, all in the most discreetly expensive gray, their namestones diminutive. With them were Lord Carnelian and Lady Moraeg.
"I've never seen anything like it." Moraeg's forehead bore the Star of Ulragh, a famous gem she had acquired a generation before.
Lord Carnelian nodded, his talar and namestone like Garnet's twin. "The brain interior—it's truly pathbreaking."
Chrys had done a giant transparent brain, with the subarachnoid spaces filled in, the Cisterna Magna and the other vessels of cerebrospinal fluid where her people lived. Next to that, a close-up of an arachnoid cityscape full of the ring-shaped people. And last, she had asked Moraeg to lend Wheelgrass, the ring flowers of Prokaryon. The visitors looked intrigued, certainly not bored. More than a few of them had the flashing eyes of carriers. Even if the Seven did not all show up, it was a success; she was beginning to believe it. She hugged Moraeg. "Let's hope all these folks come to your show too."
"Don't forget our dinner party next week," reminded Garnet. "After your show—you promised."
Opal hurried over, a sheer gold talar flowing over her nanotex. "My colleagues from the Comb are amazed. At last they can see what's going on in my head!" She beamed with excitement. Then abruptly her face fell. "Chrys—look there—" There stood Zircon munching a handful of AZ wafers that Chrys had put with the refreshments. "You can't put those out for virgins. They'll attract masters like flies!"
"Oh my god." Chrys rushed to scoop up all the AZ, pushing her way as best she could through the crowd of perfumed talars, flashing nanotex, and fashionable vampire makeup. No Elysians, she thought with a trace of disappointment. It was too much, after all, to expect Ilia to return to primitive Valedon.
She nearly collided with Selenite. "Excuse me ..."
Arms crossed, Selenite glared at Endless Light. At first glance, the cube was full of sheer white. Then the turrets of cloud appeared, light streaming through their windows upon an outstretched human form, face enraptured.
Chrys's smile froze.
"How could you?" Selenite exclaimed at last. "Of all things— it's indecent. Think of it—there could be recovering addicts here."
"Well..." A couple made up fashionably as vampires watched the piece politely, the broken veins painted artfully on their whitened faces. "A show has to have something controversial."
Down the hall, before the portrait of Dendrobium, her eye caught lava-bright nanotex, glowing infrared, the color only she and Elysians could see. Who would wear that?
Daeren. He must have meant the color for her; to anyone else, it would look his usual black. She felt warm all over, yet confused. Angry, yet she missed him. She wove her way between the chatting visitors to reach him.
Daeren turned. "I hope things went well this week?" He held a drink, orange juice.
"You didn't tell me you keep files on 'subversives.' "
"I note a few, to keep the Committee happy."
"Selenite listed them all."
"Was it useful?"
"The blue angels—we haven't seen them in generations."
"Not now." Too many non-carriers about.
Daeren added, "Working with a new tester is an important step. You made a good transition."
"I hope you like the show."
"You've captured the essence of micro people—exactly how they appear to us." He looked to the portrait of Garnet's favorite, the ring of forest green, its filaments bending in waves, its body slowly turning and bending just slightly, as if nodding. "That's just how they look when they're happy. Before, only we could see them. But now, everyone can see them as we do." His irises flickered blue.
Jonquil flashed, "The blue angels thank us for rescuing all those defectors."
Praise was sweeter than any drink.
In her eye the call light blinked. It was Ilia, her sprite clothed in her talar of butterflies. "I'm so sorry to miss your Opening." The gallery director rolled her eyes. "We have a major fundraising event."
"Of course, I understand."
"However, I would like to stop by next week, if you don't mind. For a private tour."
After the Opening, Chrys basked in the attention and tried to put out of mind the fact that of t
he Seven, only Zircon and Moraeg had come. Her window drowned in mail, mostly congratulations, the rest quickly discarded.
One night she awoke in a blaze of light. Before her on the floor lay a body like her own, a pool of blood seeping from its gashed eyes. She screamed, until she realized it was just a sprite.
"You are entirely safe in this house," Xenon assured her. "You just need to filter hate mail."
Hate mail. She shuddered. "I don't believe in censorship."
"But you don't have to read it at night."
"Okay," she sighed, "I'll filter mail at night." The price of fame.
"On the bright side," Xenon pointed out, "look at all your new clients. You have more friends than enemies."
More work than she could handle. "But it only takes one enemy."
In the morning, at work in her studio, she got a call from an Elf. Not Ilia; an Elf lord she had never met. Not a "lord," either, she reminded herself.
"Eris Helishon," the sprite introduced himself.
Chrys's jaw fell open. Eris Helishon was the Guardian of Cultural Affairs, adviser to Guardian Arion Helishon, and a dozen other things—including Ilia's boss. If Elysium had "lords," he'd be a big one. Yet there he was standing in her gallery, before one of the micro portraits, a virtual train of swallowtails playing out behind him. "I'm in town for the day," the Elf said, "and I happened to come across your work. I'd like to consider an acquisition. Would you have time to meet me?"
She got a talar and put on her best namestone, a cat's eye that shone like a moon. She took the lightcraft up to cross town; it bothered her less than it used to. She was a success, she told herself; a successful artist, meeting a buyer from Elysium.
They met at the gallery entrance, the great transparent brain shimmering just inside. About average height for an Elf, Eris had an air of complete self-possession, rather like Guardian Arion. To her surprise, his eyes flashed blue rings. The look was particularly striking amid his pale, cream-colored features. "I'm a carrier," he told her, just like Ilia. "Strain Coelicolor."
"Why, that's blue angels," Chrys exclaimed.
"Indeed. You know the strain?"
"Blue angels," flashed Jonquil. "We've never met blue angels outside the Lord of Light. How interesting."
Brain Plague (elysium cycle) Page 17