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 only increase by 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 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 for her to answer the more abstruse questions she was asked. "Pathbreaking," Ilia assured a butterfly-swirling visitor. "The most pathbreaking 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."
"Just till midnight. Andra's ship expects me then."
She smiled. "I'll make sure we make it."
"Great One, we need to do business with the blue angels and our long lost cousins. A question of fenestration."
His eyes glittered blue and red. Chrys overflowed with happiness. "I hope you like the show."
Daeren nodded. "I can't see much for all the butterflies, but I know your work by heart. I'm impressed that Arion let you show Seven Stars and the Hunter."
"He wasn't asked." Her lip curved down. "He wants people, though, so bad he can taste it."
"Let's hope he doesn't get his wish."
In her ear Ilia whispered, "Dear, prepare yourself. We have a difficult guest."
Startled, she turned. Emerging from the curtain was Eris.
The Guardian of Cultural Affairs spoke to his companions, and they shared a laugh. That laughter she hadn't heard since the day Eris left his people in her brain to take over. Chrys's scalp tightened, and she gripped Daeren's talar till her knuckles turned white. "Saints and angels," she breathed, instinctively making the old sign against evil. "How dare he come?"
Ilia rolled her eyes. "How dare he not? The Gallery Opening is the cultural event of the year."
Seeming not to notice them, Eris turned this way and that, acknowledging the fawning of his fellow Elves, tossing off remarks about superior aesthetics and the uplifting of less advanced societies. At last he caught sight of Daeren. He paused, with a look of surprise. Two slaves, Chrys thought—one freed, the other in chains.
"So soon," Eris observed. "The good doctor's standards must be slipping."
"Your eyes are green, Eris," Daeren returned. "What color are mine?"
Eris shifted his gaze slightly toward Chrys, though his eyes did not meet hers either. "The lovely artist." He added, "Consorting with the fallen."
Chrys released Daeren's talar and stepped forward between the two of them. "Eris, it's been so long. Your people miss you."
Another look of surprise. "They survived? They must have pleased you, 'Oh Great One.'" He watched with satisfaction as her face colored. "Would you like some more?"
"The false blue angels fear our sight," flashed Fireweed. "For generations, we've prepared."
Chrys lifted her chin. "Yes, Eris. I'd like some more." Trapped, the deadly micros would serve as evidence even Arion could not ignore.
Looking beyond her, Eris turned aside. As he passed, he murmured, "You shall have your wish."
For the rest of the evening, as Chrys smiled and nodded to one notable after another, she could not shake her lingering dread. What if Eris, or one of his secret slaves, caught her unawares? What if the Gallery didn't see them touch her with a patch?
Just before midnight, she left with Daeren. Outside all was quiet, not a snake-egg in sight.
"You'll be late," Andra's ship accused in her window.
"Don't worry, he's with me."
Suddenly Daeren caught her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers. Their bodies melded together as if they were one.
"A grave act of indecency," came a shocked voice from the street. "Ten thousand credits ..."
She threw her head back and laughed, her hair dancing.
"Sorry," he told her, "I had to let you know how much I want you."
"It's worth ten times more."
As they wandered back toward the transit, a lone snake-egg zipped past them, faster than usual, Chrys thought. It dove forwards and back like a hummingbird defending its territory. Then it whizzed just past her leg, to disappear amongst the trees full of sleeping butterflies.
Where the snake-egg had passed, her leg burned. Chrys started rubbing the spot on her calf. "It stung me."
"What?" Daeren bent to inspect her ankle. "I don't like it."
"It feels better now." But she remembered Eris. "Emergency alert," she warned her people. "Check the circulation."
"We'll check every capillary. We're prepared."
A siren blared. Apparently, the Elves had sent help, too. A medical hovercraft appeared, hovering for a landing.
"The Fold's finest," Chrys exclaimed with relief.
Three rotund sentients rolled out while the hovercraft spouted about her right to receive or refuse treatment. Slapping their tubes around her leg, their tests took an interminable amount of time to pronounce the limb sound. Minutes lengthened to an hour.
Daeren shifted from one foot to the other. "I still don't like it. I won't rest till you get home."
"One True God, we have a problem. A strange toxin has appeared in the blood."
"A toxin? To poison me?"
"Not yourself, but us. It chelates arsenic, ripping the atoms from our flesh. Two have already died."
Her head shot up. "Doctor? Can you get rid of the toxin that's killing my people?"
"Which people?" The sentient rolled back and forth as if puzzled.
"The micro people. Inside me."
"Micros," observed the other doctor. "Sure, we can sweep you for arsenic. These days, it's highly recommended."
Chrys took a step back. "Is that all you know... about micros?"
"Chrys," said Daeren gently, "this is Elysium. Only a few carriers, and they keep private doctors."
"Perhaps Ilia could—"
"Let's get home."
They hurried to the transit stop, where a bubble loomed out of the fluid-filled tube. Within the bubble, seats molded to their form.
"One True God, the danger grows," warned Fireweed. "There is more and more of the toxin."
Why would the poison keep growing, she wondered. "Can't you destroy it?"
"We can, but it appears faster than we can get rid of
it. Even a single molecule kills."
"At this rate, most of us will die within a generation."
Chrys fought rising panic. "Can you protect the children?"
"We can encapsulate them. But they'll lose the ability to merge."
"Daeren ... could you take their children? Just till we get back—"
"No," he exclaimed. "I'm still a long way from normal. You can't trust me with children."
"We've found the source of the problem. An RNA plasmid infected your white blood cells. It replicates in the cytoplasm of each cell, where it makes the toxin. To eliminate the source, we'd have to kill all your white cells."
"Daeren—they can't last the trip. They're going to die." She could hardly believe her own words, but she shook in every limb. Eris—this was his work.
Daeren's hands clenched and unclenched. "Call Ilia Papilishon," he told the transit.
Ilia's sprite appeared in her window. "Dear, what a success! The show—"
"We're in trouble," Chrys cut in. "My micros—they've been poisoned. They have to get out of me. Please—can you take the children?"
Ilia's eyes widened. She drew in a sharp breath. "One doesn't speak of such things." Her sprite winked out.
Silence lengthened. Damn Ilia, Chrys thought. Damn Arion too, and every damned Elf on the turquoise moon.
"I'll take them," said Daeren.
"You can't."
"Just till we get home."
"We'll get the children ready," flashed Forget-me-not. "We'll confine them to one cistern, and we'll keep watch over the Lord of Light."
It would take several passes to send them all. After the third transfer, Daeren took a deep breath. "Chrys, I think that's all I can manage. Children get into trouble; they're too curious."
She sat back and stared ahead, numb with the dying inside. Ahead the flowing bubble merged with another from the side. More Elf passengers with their refined ways, blind to genocide in their midst. How many others had Eris done in this way—only to replace them with his own?
"We're encapsulating nearly everyone. We can last a while, but we will slowly starve."
"What if false blue angels are hiding in my bones?"
Brain Plague (elysium cycle) Page 35