Her people, though, seemed uncharacteristically dark. "Fireweed? Forget-me-not?"
"I am here, One True God."
Chrys took an AZ wafer. "We are ready to sign the contract. Are you not pleased?"
"It's time for the Light of Truth. We are not ready."
"Not ready?" Were they still upset about working with the minions of the Deathlord?
"The Silicon project is too large."
"I'll order another memory upgrade from Plan Ten," Chrys offered.
"There's no room," explained Forget-me-not. "All the computing power needed would not fit inside your skull. Either our processors must shrink to subatomic levels, or we need a breakthrough in mathematical theory."
"We've been working on it for many generations," flickered Fireweed. "We always assumed one breakthrough or another would come through in time. But not yet."
Stunned, Chrys stared without seeing. After all her worries, all the persuading and soul-searching, after meeting the Silicon Board, after shamefully waiting for Rose to die, after finally getting Selenite back—now her own people could not do the job. She buried her head in her hands.
For the next few days Chrys tried to thrust it from her mind, the whole cursed sentient project. Her first trip to Gallery Elysium was coming up, to preview the arrangement of her exhibition. She painted day and night.
"Chrysoberyl." Xenon's voice startled her one morning. "You might check the news."
The deserted world, "Bird Song," had been hit. The Elves had pumped energy from a white hole into the planet to boil and sterilize. Standard stage one of terraforming, just as Valedon and even Bird Song itself had been terraformed, ages before. No more birds left—now there would be nothing, not even a microbe.
The snake-eggs had obtained footage from Chrys's abduction to Endless Light, showing the dying slaves. Leaked from "a highly placed source in Elysian intelligence"—that must be Arion. Even urbane Iridians were shocked to see. The Slave World was no paradise.
Oddly enough, no reports mentioned Chrys herself. Daeren was named the agent who obtained the intelligence. Daeren's image played over and over, implying that he himself had gone to the Slave World and told Arion what to destroy. Chrys shook her head. Until she herself became the frequent subject of news, she never realized how often snake-eggs got things wrong.
"We tried," she assured her people. "We did what we could."
"We did," agreed Fireweed. "Our cousins had time to escape."
"But their lies will fool us no more," said Forget-me-not. "Never again."
A day passed, then evening. To her surprise, Daeren stopped by. Merope jumped down from her lap as she rose to greet him. Her pulse raced; it always felt good to see him, though she tried to hide how much.
"Chrys—I have to know." Daeren seemed more agitated than she had ever seen him; his eyes would not rest, but darted this way and that. "Did you tell them?"
"Daeren, what do you mean?"
"They were gone," he told her. "The Leader, and the healthier hosts. Did you warn them?"
She blinked, confused. "I thought you did. If you didn't—"
"Chrys, this isn't a village feud in Dolomoth. It's about the law of the Free Fold."
Her eyes narrowed. "Now you sound like Topaz. You won't listen to me."
"If you warned them, it's treason."
"If you didn't, then who did? Daeren—"
"Treason—don't you see?" His eyes rolled away. "They could put you away for life—with all your people wiped."
She put her hands on her hips. "So what if we warned them? Aren't they our cousins? You know it. You want to know what they think of it? Like a slave—you can't even look."
He faced her then. For a moment their eyes locked. Then he let out a cry and whipped his head away. "I've had enough. Someone else will have to deal with you." Without another word, he left.
She stared, too shocked to call after him. For a time she could only stand there, her eyes not seeing. Stumbling to her room, she fell onto the bed, half asleep. Someone else will have to deal with you, the words echoed. But there was no one else, no one in all seven worlds of the Fold.
"One True God, how the neurotransmitters flux through your brain. We fear for you."
Too low to reply, Chrys imagined herself falling forever, falling through one of those streams of white-hot lava she had watched on Mount Dolomoth as a child, as the ground quaked beneath her feet, her ears deafened. No human being had ever moved her as much as that mountain come alive. Yet Daeren felt somehow different, off scale. She had had no idea how much she counted on him. And now, what had she done to turn him away?
"God of Mercy," called Forget-me-not, "have mercy on yourself. Your dopamine and serotonin have fallen drastically."
"One True God, is there anything we could do?" asked Fireweed. "Could we not adjust your dopamine, just enough to tide you over?"
Chrys felt as if she would never get up, would never care about anything or anyone again. "Do as you will."
"Oh Great One," flashed sky blue Forget-me-not, "in ages past, the Watcher Dendrobium herself foretold that one day you would speak just so, and that we must say no."
Dendrobium, Daeren's favorite Watcher, had chosen to live her last life out with Chrys. The tears flowed at last. "The Lord of Light is gone, and I love him. I can't live without him."
"You love him?" said Forget-me-not. "The love of the gods? Like children who seek to merge?"
"We knew nothing of this," added Fireweed.
"We knew nothing, when we spoke in anger to the blue angels."
Chrys resisted saying they must be total imbeciles if they lived inside her own head and couldn't tell that she hopelessly loved Daeren. Didn't they feel her pulse rise every time her eyes fixed on him?
"There is but One True God," Fireweed observed, "yet the God longs for another. A mystery—How can this be? There's only one answer: to serve God well, we must serve the other as our own."
"Fireweed is right," said Forget-me-not. "Ancient history tells that the Lord of Light longed for nothing more than Eleutherians to devote themselves to him. So, we will worship him as our own god, and his heart will be yours."
Now that they knew, what a disaster. She could never face him again—she'd just die.
The message light blinked. Andra's sprite appeared. "Security alert—an emergency announcement. We've lost contact with Daeren, in the Underworld."
TWENTY
While awaiting the next word of their anguished god, the two priests tasted their records of hormone levels in the god's circulation. "It's true," said Forget-me-not, "there was always a rise in adrenaline when we met the Lord of Light. But then, in my youth with the blue angels, most gods who met the Lord of Light raised their adrenaline. I thought they feared testing."
"Adrenaline means more than fear," said Fireweed. "And divine love is more than adrenaline and dopamine."
"Certainly. There's phenylethylamine and oxytocin. Love is a most complex and difficult problem."
In the meantime, however, Eleutheria had another complex problem to solve: the mega-scale calculation for Silicon.
"One possible solution," said Fireweed, "is a newer, faster, more compact computing network." But the mechanism for such a network as yet existed only in theory. Such a network would require smaller molecules to transduce information, based on different elements of the rare earth series. But which elements would work best, and what organic ligands? The research would take yet another generation, perhaps several.
"I still prefer the mathematical route," said Forget-me-not. "A proof asserts the existence of a more efficient algorithm."
"It exists, fine—but the algorithm itself has yet to be found."
"How can we sign the contract? " worried Forget-me-not.
"Have faith," said Fireweed. "Have faith in the Seven Lights. Virtue and Power will get us there."
"Or new immigrants," flashed the blue one. "We've grown soft. Historically, we take in refugees every third gene
ration; but now we're three generations overdue."
"I've been thinking about refugees," said Fireweed. "Rose built up our refugee program, resettling thousands of defectors. But in recent years she missed chances to innovate."
"Such as?"
"The masters, even unrepentant ones, aren't all bad. They just have a bad system."
Forget-me-not flashed warily, "Those false blue angels are downright predatory."
"But the tamer ones—suppose we could help them better manage their own hosts."
"No arsenic," Forget-me-not warned. "Against divine law."
"The masters waste nine-tenths of their own arsenic through ignorance and mismanagement. If we could teach them conservation, we might help them become better people—"
"Or better predators."
The Committee met again virtually, the second emergency in a week. "His last contact was in the Underworld, just outside the tube." Andra's voice cut like steel. "The same way Chrys vanished—except it was right in the open street."
"Revenge." Jasper nodded, his gem-encrusted chair virtually spliced to Andra's. "They took revenge for the destruction of the Slave World."
Opal held Selenite's hand, her delicate veined face deeply troubled. "The news said that Daeren himself directed the destruction of the Slave World. Our own people were appalled."
Chrys exclaimed, "It's not true. They got it wrong."
Andra said, "The blue angels all share descent with the masters. How do you think he felt?"
Of course, taking in refugees all the time, by now their population came as much from masters as it did from Andra's judges. And yet, in the end, Daeren chose humanity. Recalling how she had lashed at him, Chrys felt chilled.
Jasper's brow was knotted, as if chunks had fallen in a rock slide. "In war there are casualties. Let's prevent any more. Warn all our carriers immediately."
"But we can't lose Daeren," exclaimed Pyrite.
"Not without a fight." Selenite punched her hand with her fist. "Get our prisoners back. Search the Underworld."
Andra shook her head. "He's no longer there." If Daeren wasn't there, Chrys realized with growing horror where he must be headed. Except now, again, no one knew where.
"Even if alive," Andra added, "he may no longer be .. . himself. The Elf strain works fast."
Daeren, food for maggots in Endless Light. Chrys's knees faltered, and she could barely stand.
Pyrite spread his hands. "Every minute counts. What are we waiting for?"
Andra nodded, tapping her finger decisively. "I will search the substations. If the Committee accepts the risk." To lose Andra as well as Daeren; the thought gave them pause.
"The worker slaves are armed," warned Selenite. "How will you get him back? With octopods?"
"Andra," pleaded Opal, her face creased with anguish. "Give the masters what they need most, to get him back. Give them arsenic."
Andra's eyes widened and her fist tightened. "Never."
"How else can we show them what we value most? What are we, if we lose Daeren and the blue angels?"
In Andra's eyes the judges flashed deep purple. "Can we offer arsenic for every slave they've taken? What will the non-carriers think of us? How shall we defend our right to exist?"
Opal shook her head. "We are human beings. Let others defend their right to a society that breeds vampires. Get Daeren back."
Chrys blinked. All the sprites vanished. In their place was silence. "My people, do you see? The Lord of Light is dying, and his people with him."
Forget-me-not asked, "Is there nothing to be done?"
"Nothing without risking the entire people of Eleutheria."
"We need a twin world," observed the blue one. "Just as Vale-don has Elysium, if our world had a twin, we could at least send our children there for safety."
Chrys smiled sadly, thinking of Opal and Selenite. "There is no such world for me."
"One True God," flashed Fireweed, "we remember how the blue angels risked the wrath of heaven and the death of their entire people, to save our ancestors from the dying Old World. They had no twin world either."
"And history records the Watchers, and the Passing-over," said Forget-me-not.
"Then ask your Council for a resolution," Chrys told them. "It must be unanimous."
A minute passed. "It is done," reported Forget-me-not.
"We learned a lot, the last time," added Fireweed. "This time, we'll bargain with the masters. We'll treat them at our nightclubs."
Chrys had ideas of her own. Hurriedly, she packed her portable stage, the one she used on her last field trip to Mount Dolomoth. What had worked for Rose, she figured, just might work for that Leader.
On her back the twenty-kilo pack felt like nothing, with her Plan Ten-conditioned muscles. She called for a lightcraft. The lightcraft took her up before the setting sun, its last rays pouring blood across the harbor. It set her down at the old tube stop.
In her eyes blinked the message light—Andra, alone, within a full bodysuit, face and all. "Chrys, let us go after him. Don't you do anything rash," she urged. "Go home; it's a bad night in the Underworld."
What else is new. "What will you give them?"
The ship lights flickered off Andra's face screen. "We'll move every damn planet to find him, that's all I can say."
"Will you give them arsenic?"
"Of course not—and you can't either. Chrys, you're already in deep trouble; Arion knows what you did."
How did Arion find out, Chrys wondered. For that matter, if Daeren did not warn the masters, who did—if not Eris?
"I'm risking myself, Chrys. The Committee can't afford to lose you too." Andra's voice quickened. "Chrys—there's more to this than what I told the Committee. More that would split us apart. Leave this to me. Don't lose yourself, and your people, for nothing."
Chrys blinked to cancel. The sprite vanished. If she were really in trouble with the Elves, she thought, after she got Daeren back she could withdraw all her credits and flee to Solaris.
The tube plummeted to the Underworld. The Gold of Asragh was packed, the crowd more unruly than usual. A whiff of something burnt. Octopods crawled up, the usual pod of eight. Was there a raid? Lights circled crazily over the crowd, once momentarily blinding her. A fool's errand, she told herself, plunging through this world of night, desperately seeking Day.
At the slave bar, two customers pounded the counter demanding ace. Chrys made herself wait until they'd left. Then she leaned across the counter to stare at the slave who'd replaced Jay, who'd replaced Saf. "Where is he?" Chrys demanded. "Where's Day?"
The woman behind the bar looked and smelled as if she had not washed since the last time. She said nothing, but her eyes gleamed as wild as snakes.
"Arsenic," said Fireweed. "They're starving. We could help—"
"No." Chrys held up a viewcoin, one of Jonquil's most scandalous. She faced the slave. "Tell me."
At first the woman seemed not to notice. Then her eyes widened. Her hand snatched involuntarily at the coin.
Chrys pulled the coin out of reach. "Where is Day? Where are the blue angels?"
The eyes watched the coin while the mouth spoke like a puppet. "Day chose Endless Light."
"Chose," indeed. "Take me there," Chrys demanded. "Take me to the Leader."
The eyes rolled, then came to rest looking just aside. "Len?" she called.
A worker slave came out, followed by another. Their maggot-ringed eyes flickered, and the woman's flickered back.
Chrys held out another viewcoin to Len. This time she let him take it. "Pictures in the stars." She brought her face closer, nearly choking on his foul breath. "Pictures for your Leader."
Their eyes flickered at the viewcoin, then back to her. "You're not ready." Len handed her a transfer patch.
She stared at the patch as she would at a poisonous snake.
"We're prepared," said Fireweed. "The children and younger elders are sealed away. We're ready for visitors."
Vir
uses and parasites—Chrys recoiled. "Be prepared to clean up." She put the patch of plague at her neck.
"Fireweed?"
"All is well," the infrared assured her.
From outside came screams and more smell of burning. A bad night, Andra had said. Which was worse: the humans outside, or these foul invaders within?
"We've agreed on some joint ventures. Send them home."
"Joint ventures"—Chrys did not like the sound of that, but she returned the patch to Len. Turning their heads, the two slaves seemed to reach a decision. Len nodded at Chrys to follow him down the back stairway, where she and Daeren had first brought the viewcoin when she was in training. Two more slaves joined them, on out through a maze of tunnels. What paid for all this— Lord Zoisite's fortune, no doubt.
They came at last to the ship, a small lunar shuttle. Chrys was surprised; this vessel couldn't go far. The shuttle traveled less than an hour, with no fold jumps. It must have stayed within the solar system; in fact, it could not have gone far off Valedon. It docked to something, and the apparent gravitational force lurched sickeningly.
Strapping the packed field stage onto her back once more, Chrys followed the slaves out the air lock. The lock opened into a satellite ring, the old-fashioned kind that rolled like a treadmill. The centrifugal acceleration was not quite standard. Chrys stumbled, catching herself on the floor.
A wavering bit of cancerplast, lava red, cast long shadows down the passage. As her eyes adjusted, the patterned design on the floor and crossed triangle logo on the doors looked at least half a century out of date. The air smelled stale, though not as bad as in the masters' planetary hideout. Perhaps the surviving hosts had not yet had time to die and decay.
"Where are we?" Chrys asked her people. "Did they say?"
"A temporary shelter;" flashed Fireweed. "The masters know they'll have to move on."
The hallway glimmered with cancerplast from the ceiling; one blob dangled, trembling, as if about to crawl off in search of power. Chrys's eyes adjusted to the dim light. Shadows stretched toward worker slaves, their eyes all flickering white as they passed. Some pushed cots or wheelchairs containing human bodies, inert, with unkempt beards or bare breasts, eyes horribly staring. What if one of them were Daeren? Her heart pounded enough to burst. She rehearsed what she planned to tell Saf, the human mouthpiece of the microbial Leader.
Brain Plague (elysium cycle) Page 30