Brain Plague

FIFTEEN

Jonquil could never forget her expedition to that vast New World, strange-tasting, wildly beautiful, terrifying. The macrophages she had to outswim, evading the viselike grip of antibodies, only to behold the words of a new god. A god awaiting people.

By contrast, after generations beyond counting, even the farthest reaches of her own god's circulation felt familiar to Jonquil. She patrolled there with Fireweed, training the infrared elder to detect the slightest need for repair, signs even the nanoservos might miss. Her filaments twitched. "There—I taste a precancerous cell."

Fireweed extended her filaments. "An abnormal growth protein," she flashed, sending molecules of alertness. "Only stage one."

"Nevertheless, let's mark the site." Micros themselves did not dare leave the bloodstream to penetrate the epithelium, lest they attract deadly immune cells, but the Plan Ten nanoservos would eliminate the cancer.

On their way back to the arachnoid, the two elders came upon an outcast micro. Incapable of work, the grayish ring jostled aimlessly among the red cells, begging for vitamins. Fireweed brushed its filaments to pass it a few.

"Why?" asked Jonquil. "Why prolong its miserable existence?"

"The One True God decreed, 'Love Me, love My people.

"You call that brainless microbe a person?" Mutant children whose brains failed to reach Eleutherian standards were barred from the nightclubs, never exposed to the pheromones that ripened for breeding, nor did they mature as elders. Worth no more than a virus.

"There, but for a twist of DNA, go you or I," flashed Fireweed. "All people are one."

"You sound like Rose," observed Jonquil. "Don't listen to her, just live like her." Rose's abstemious lifestyle had earned her an exceptionally long and healthy life, the envy of many. But then, had Rose truly lived? Jonquil wondered. Jonquil herself, with the god's help, had led the greatest cultural renaissance Eleutheria had ever seen. But now, she felt the arsenic atoms tearing loose from her membranes one by one. Foreseeing the end, she had passed on to Rose her most vital knowledge, the photo codes from the judges of the Thunder god. The codes enabled people to pass safely among the masters.

Fireweed said, "That unbeliever does not sway me. But the new heretics—those who seek to emigrate to the New World— they shame us." After Jonquil and Fireweed had spread their stories of the New World, an unorthodox sect had risen up demanding to emigrate, to found a purer society in the wilderness. Jonquil tried to pass laws against them. A mistake, the restrictions only attracted converts to their fanatical leader: a Green One, verdant as the legendary Fern.

Before dawn Chrys tossed in her bed, her eyes full of colored cells twinkling, rolling through the arachnoid. "God of Mercy," flashed Jonquil. "Great One, we need your help." "What is it?"

"A new sect begs to address you. Will you see their leader?"

"Sure."

"God of the Eleutherians." The new one flashed green.

Chrys smiled, thinking fondly of Fern. "I call you . .. Pteris." A large, handsome tree-fern.

"That shall be—until we find our New World."

"What?"

"The new god promised us a New World. Let my people go."

Chrys shot upright, as wide awake as if the volcano smoking in the distance had exploded. Her startled cat jumped off the bed. "What nonsense are you talking? Jonquil, what's this?"

"My deepest apologies, God of Mercy," the yellow letters flashed. "Alas, these heretics were undone by the tales of our exploits in the uninhabited world. We'll remove them, to trouble you no longer."

"New god"—What had Moraeg told them?

"We shall return," the green one challenged. "We'll defy even death. Every year, we'll return to demand our New World."

"Why?" asked Chrys. "What's wrong with Eleutheria?"

"Eleutheria is a sham. Corrupted, untrue to its founding principles. 'World of opportunity'—what falsehood. See all the beggars floating homeless in the veins."

"Jonquil? I thought you and Rose took care of this."

"We tried," Jonquil admitted, "but in recent years, perhaps, I've not kept up so well."

"Rose? Is this your doing?"

"Nonsense," said Rose. "I have nothing to do with those god-talkers. I've tried what I can to spread enlightenment, but degenerate societies consume themselves from within."

"Rose," countered Jonquil, "you yourself want only the best chess champions. How could we breed the best, if we let all cells with inferior genes into the nightclubs?"

"Fireweed?" blinked Chrys. "What do you know of this?"

"Such heretics," said Fireweed, "in ancient times would have had their arsenic torn out." The letters came blood-red. "But truly, the heretics remind us how poorly we ourselves serve our God.

With faith and patience, we'll learn to love even the meanest ones as we do God Herself."

Red, yellow, green—Chrys shook her head, as if she could clear out the lot of them. "Go, then, and do so."

"And the heretics?" asked Jonquil. "What shall we do with them?"

"Pteris, why can't you stay and make Eleutheria better?"

"Our own god calls us," said the green one. "We'll return every year, until you let us go."

"Not every year. Or there'll be an eclipse of the sun."

For some seconds the letters vanished. Chrys guessed they all had plenty to say to each other. Then Jonquil asked, "How often will the god allow?"

"Once a generation." Chrys sighed, her eyes aching. Microbial rejection.

And today was her own day to be tested. What if the tester heard of Jonquil's little "visit"?

Her tester now was Pyrite of Azuroth, a nanodesigner from the Comb, who looked even younger than Daeren. Pyrite arrived a few minutes late. "Sorry," he apologized, "I was delayed below. A vendor tried to talk me into a trophy, a giant caterpillar claw." He smiled, obviously trying to put her at ease; Chrys knew their routine now. "How are you? Anything I need to know?"

Her heart pounded in her chest. "They visited a non-carrier," she forced herself to say.

His brows lifted. "With children?"

"Certainly not. Just two elders."

"You let them?"

"My friend insisted. She's upset because the doctor put her way down on the list."

"I see." Pyrite nodded. "Well, let's sit down and have a look." His irises flashed green, like Opal's. Perhaps his people came from hers. Pyrite nodded again. "Once you let them explore a 'virgin,' they get all kinds of ideas."

"I don't understand," exclaimed Chrys. "Before, they were perfectly happy with me. They're welcome to visit any other carrier."

"When humans discover a new habitable planet, what happens?"

Nervously, she clasped her fingers. "So what can I do?"

"Put up with it. After a few generations they may forget."

"Not Eleutherians."

Pyrite thought this over. "With luck, we may find a recipient soon. But there's a long waiting list for emigration."

Chrys frowned. "If there's a waiting list for hosts, as well as emigrants, why not let more go ahead?"

"Both need to meet our standards, and make a good match. The streets have enough slaves already." Pyrite's eyes defocused, and he nodded again, as if to someone unseen. "The good doctor wants to know who they visited. We have to check her out."

Chrys gripped the chair. "You reported it already?"

"Of course."

"Moraeg will be furious."

"She shouldn't be, if she's a serious candidate."

"Why should she be way down the list?" Chrys wanted to know. "She's a totally together person. She's been married a hundred years."

"Is her spouse a candidate?"

"I don't think so."

Pyrite shook his head. "We take singles, or couples, but not half a couple. Too many problems."

"That's hardly fair," Chrys exclaimed.

"Maybe not, but we can't afford mistakes."

Chrys sighed. Another old friend lost.

Pyrite leaned forward. "Are you the real 'Azetidine'? The one who does the portraits?"

She smiled, recalling her provocative signature. "I'm afraid so."

"Awesome," he exclaimed. "Could I have your autograph? I mean, after my two months testing you."

Over the next two days, the would-be emigrants kept their word, asking each night for their Promised World. The rest seemed happy as usual, and Jonquil was thrilled to help her new compositions. But now each day ended with sadness.

The day came for her to test Lord Garnet, with Daeren's help, of course. Daeren stopped at her studio, where her painting stage displayed her latest work in progress, a couple of children in a nightclub hung with luminescent proteins. As he turned to watch, Chrys stole a look at him, his deltoids nicely filled out, a pleasing valley between the shoulder blades.

Daeren nodded. "I like that one best." He turned to her. "Are you ready? Remember to sell off your investments."

Her investment with Garnet had grown considerably. "I'm not sure I can afford to," she realized. "I just gave Xenon a raise."

"You'll just have to work for a living."

They started up the street toward the Hyalite complex. One of the neighbors had a new grillwork of stunplast, forming pretty stars and moons with an angel on top. Chrys took care to avoid a touch. "Are you sure I'm still allowed?" she asked. "My people got in trouble."

"Don't let them do it again," Daeren warned. "If they had smuggled children in, they'd all be dead."

"They know better."

"Do the would-be emigrants give you a hard time?"

"Only once a day."

Daeren smiled, and his dark hair glinted lava in the sunlight. "Just like Fern, and the one I couldn't see." Fern and Poppy—she could imagine. It seemed so long ago, yet it was only a few months. "You did a good job the other night," Daeren added. "The Committee was pleased."

She realized he meant Pearl. "How is she doing?"

"She's making progress. She's lucky to have a caring partner."

"That's for sure," Chrys exclaimed. "If anything real bad ever happened to me, I don't know what I'd do."

"Chrys, you know we'd always help you."

"It's not the same," she said. "Not like .. . having a friend." Her eyes filled and she quickly looked away. The devil take Topaz, and those stupid emigrants, and whoever else.

Ahead, before Garnet's house, stood the first pair of golden caryatids. Their style had altered subtly since her previous visit. Each caryatid had its own pose, one carrying a platter of grapes, another a glass of wine. She could not help admiring the artfulness of each pose, the way the gown draped over the ankle. Even Xenon could learn a few tricks here.

At the end of the colonnade they faced the door with its cornucopia of gems. Seeing them approach, the door came alive. "Please, friends," begged the door. "We've so much to share."

Without thinking Chrys looked down at the gems.

"Chrys ..." warned Daeren behind her.

She remembered. Straightening her back, she gave the door a murderous glare.

"Very well," sighed the door. "Just remember—all that's gold doesn't glitter."

Inside, they were met by a chorus of birds, their plumage like a rainbow. The hall had redone itself in decorative panels topped with finials. Lord Garnet smiled. "Please excuse our door, I'll have a talk with him." From his tone, Chrys suspected he had indulged the door for years. "A pleasure to see you, Azetidine," he told her with a bow. "We share such good taste."

"She's training, as you know," Daeren told him. "Thanks so much for helping out."

Looking slightly aside, Garnet smiled. "It's always a pleasure to receive Eleutheria."

Daeren glanced at the finials and the singing birds. "The conference room, if you don't mind."

The floor glided down the hall until they reached a massive arch at right. Inside the conference room, the table was long enough to span an ordinary house. Three chairs slid around together.

"It's good to see you again," said Daeren, sitting down to face him. "Your caryatids—I like the new look."

"You noticed," said Garnet. "You always had an eye for beauty, Day."

He smiled. "Thanks for letting Chrys in on our session. Anything we need to know?"

"No," he said. "There never is, is there." Garnet leaned back into the tall chair, stretching his legs in a relaxed manner.

Daeren leaned forward. "Garnet, we're having a little trouble fixing on your eyes. Could you keep them steady?"

Garnet blinked a couple of times. "Your irises somehow seem brighter than usual. Sorry, I must be tired; it's been a bad day on the market."

Tendons shifted in Daeren's neck. "Sorry to be slow," he said softly, "but we still can't quite connect." Somehow Garnet's gaze kept veering just off center. "Perhaps you might try Chrys."

"My pleasure." His gaze shifted to meet her eyes."

"Rose," Chrys summoned, "it's time to test the God of Love."

"Great Host," flashed Rose, "his people don't want to meet us today. They claim they're not ready."

Chrys kept her gaze steady, hoping her face did not change. "Were you polite?"

"Certainly; what do you take me for?"

"We're polite," agreed Jonquil. "The people of the God of Love just don't want to see us this year."

Chrys swallowed. "Should we come back later?"

"What's wrong?" Garnet asked.

"Well, they said—"

Abruptly Garnet rose from his seat. "It's not working today, is it." His breath came faster. "I'm just not myself, that's all. Come back tomorrow; I'll make sure I get better rest."

"I wish I could do that," said Daeren very quietly.

"You don't have to report anything. Just come back tomorrow."

"It's already been reported."

Garnet shuddered, and his head twisted back and forth as if trapped. Like Pearl. "Who do you think you are?" His voice was loud and unsteady. "I've heard enough. The house will show you out."

The conference room door peeled open wide. Chrys suddenly realized, they were in the hands of a very frightened man.

"You'll be okay," said Daeren. "Just let Chrys continue. We'll do our best to—"

"You'll wipe them all out."

All of them—to lose them all, just like that. "No," exclaimed Chrys. "I won't. I promise, we won't hurt anybody."

Garnet's throat dipped as he swallowed. "All right then."

Chrys remembered to hand him the patch, which he put to his neck himself. A good sign, he was still in control. But what could have happened, she wondered in dismay. What went wrong? Did he get the bad strain from Eris?

The minutes lengthened as she waited for her people to do their work, while Daeren stepped out to the hall for a moment. Then he was back. "Jasper will meet us at the hospital—"

"No," exclaimed Garnet. "You needn't tell Jasper."

"Just for overnight observation."

"But if they've done something forbidden—"

"We'll see."

Garnet's irises flashed pink; that was Rose.

"I need them back now," Chrys told him.

"What did they say?"

Chrys flexed her fingers awkwardly. "I don't know yet."

Garnet looked from her to Daeren in a calculating way. "Just let me go. I've a home on Solaria; I'll go, and won't come back." Run twenty light-years, but not escape what's within.

Daeren caressed his shoulder. "We'd miss you. All of you. Olympus wouldn't be the same." At his touch Garnet relaxed enough to let Chrys have her people back.

"They've 'experimented' with his neurons," reported Rose.

" 'They?' You mean his own people?"

"They claim he asked for it, just for fun. They offered us untold amounts of palladium not to tell—as if the nanos won't find out anyhow. Pathetic, if you ask me."

"You yourself once looked pathetic, as a refugee," Chrys reminded her.

"Look, I know the Great Hosts don't give an atom for what I think, but what's the harm in a little Enlightenment? Sure, they messed up a few dendrites out of ignorance, but they'll grow back...."

"I'll call my attorney," Garnet added, but his tone had softened.

"It's not yet a matter for the law," Daeren pointed out. "If you come now, it stays with the Committee. Section Five-oh-three-three, subsection A."

At the hospital, Doctor Sartorius took Garnet away for the nanos to test every neuron. Chrys imagined him lying there amid worm-tubes all snaking into his head. She turned to Daeren. "What will become of him?"

The peach-colored walls extended a packet of instruments into a bubble of plast, which took off down the hall, dodging the humans at the last moment. Drunks and accident victims passed to and fro, the hospital's usual evening clientele. Daeren sank into a chair. "What happens next depends on what we find. If Rose is right, Garnet's people were just starting to go bad. We take out the main instigators and make an example of them."

Chrys sighed. "Hope mine learn a lesson too."

"They still ask?"

"Now and then."

Daeren watched her curiously, as if trying to figure her out. "I'm glad you were there. I'm not sure he would have made it with me."

Her mouth twisted. "His people thought they could buy mine off."

"Perhaps. I prefer a more generous view. But remember—" He looked her in the eye. "Never make a promise you can't keep."

She looked down. "I'll remember."

"Jasper?" Daeren rose from his seat. "We're glad you're here."

Lord Jasper strode quickly toward them, the map stone gleaming on his fur talar. "Is he all right? Where is he?"

"He's having the brain scan. We expect he'll be fine, but we need to make sure."

"Good god, what a scare." Jasper wiped his brow. "Are you sure he's all right? You've cleaned them out?"

Daeren hesitated. "Chrys is training with us," he added, noting Jasper's questioning look. "Her people checked him out."

"Yes, I recall now he mentioned it." Jasper nodded apologetically. "Dreadfully sorry for this ... inconvenience."

Chrys said, "It's an honor to be of service." She saw the sweat on his forehead. He must be worried sick, but for Jasper, dignity was everything.

Daeren addressed the wall. "Consult, please." The wall punched in, shaping a small round conference room done in blues and greens. Depression color, Chrys would have called it. As the three entered and took seats, the wall closed them in. "Here are Garnet's options," Daeren began. "The choice is his, but he'll need your support. He's lucky to have you."

Jasper waved his arm impatiently, as if at a poor business presentation. "I know he'll be fine. He just needs a clean start."

"That's one option," Daeren admitted. "If micros damage dopamine receptors, the carrier can choose to be swept for arsenic. The people know that." He hesitated. "That's a drastic choice."

"The hell it is. I know the law as well as you." Jasper faced Daeren coolly, but his hand was shaking. "I want him safe, do you hear?"

"If he chooses to keep them—the innocent majority—he'll be safe enough. My Watchers will see him through."

Jasper's hand closed into a fist. "You put him up to this."

"We haven't yet spoken—he doesn't even know if—"

"You wanted an excuse to give him your people, was that it? Or was the idea his?"

"Jasper," said Daeren in a low voice, "you're not yourself. Think clearly—you need to help him."

Chrys's heart pounded. "I could give him Watchers."

The two men turned to her. Jasper was incredulous. "You?"

"She's trained," Daeren agreed.

Jasper added, "You mean Eleutherians would be willing to spend their lives with Garnet?"

"I'll ask them. I mean, they'll do as I tell them."

Daeren looked away. "Thanks, Chrys. You know, this was my third call today. Perhaps you and the doctor could take it from here." He caught her hand, a bit harder than usual. They quickly exchanged transfers. Then he left without looking back, the taut deltoids shifting smoothly beneath his nanotex. Chrys wanted to run after him, to say something, but he was gone.

"Jonquil, could you recruit seven Watchers for the God of Love?"

"Certainly, God of Mercy. Though it's hard to believe, I know elders of good character who despise modern design and would embrace a mission of service." And the chance to invest in palladium, she guessed.

Jasper sat straight and folded his hands. "We're greatly in your debt."

"It's our job," she breathed. "Thank the Committee." Damn it, she was sounding like a bureaucrat already. She watched Jasper, his face like a mask, his fingers tightening and flexing, struggling between pride and fear.

"The God of the Map of the Universe?" inquired Jonquil. "Any word on our bid? Our aesthetic engineers have new options to offer."

Chrys tapped Jasper on the hand. "They want to talk shop."

He looked up in surprise. "Here?"

She shrugged. "You know Eleutheria."

Jasper accepted a transfer. His face relaxed. "The Silicon planning board agreed to hear us next month," he told her. "A good sign."

A bad sign, thought Chrys glumly. Even sentients made mistakes.

At the door appeared a face full of worms. It was Doctor Sartorius.

"The Terminator," flashed Jonquil. "Flee for your lives!"

"Be dark." Executions—that's all her people could think of the good doctor. "Be glad for those spared."

"You can see him now," Sartorius told Jasper. When Jasper had gone, the worm-face took a seat, out of politeness; he could just as easily have shaped himself down. "Welcome aboard, Chrysoberyl." His voice sounded more melodious than usual. "You are a welcome addition to the Committee."

"What happened exactly?" Chrys asked. "How did Garnet get in trouble? Why didn't the nanos warn him?"

The doctor's eyes swiveled unnervingly around the post of his body. "Our dopamine sensors are tuned to a fine threshold. We wouldn't want to sound alarms, say, every time you look at a beautiful painting."

Chrys rolled her eyes. "Saints preserve us."

"His people convinced themselves they did no harm, so long as they set off no alarms. But when testing time came, they panicked. They even fudged his memory, a worse sin than the original. He actually believed he was okay; but when they couldn't face the blue angels, he panicked."

"I see. That's why he seemed fine at first." She shuddered.

The worms hung still. "I'm sorry." The doctor's voice came soft. "Sorry we let this happen. I've contacted Opal; we'll redesign the sensors."

Good luck, she thought. No sensor could keep humans from fooling themselves.

Jasper returned, his face beaming with relief. "Everything will be fine. Thanks for all you've done, Doctor." He extended a hand. The doctor shaped a hand to clasp his. "And you too, Chrys; much obliged." He nodded. "Garnet knows what he has to do."

Behind Jasper stood Andra. The sight of her with Sartorius struck Chrys like a blow. Back in the hospital, she remembered, her head still in pain, her own people sentenced to death—

"Judgment day," flashed Jonquil. "The day of judgment for those people. God of Mercy, will you defend them?"

"Come, Chrys." Andra's voice was as icy as Chrys's own veins. They went with the doctor to the bedside where Garnet lay. His head was turned away, his hair straggled across the pillow.

"You will choose," Andra told him. "You and no one else." She glared at Chrys, as she had once glared at Daeren. "By the end of the hour, Garnet, you will choose either Watchers from Eleutheria ..." She turned to Sar. "... or the arsenic sweep." With that she was gone. But not unaware—Chrys knew that now. Every moment of the hour was on record.

"God of Mercy, please—all those children—"

"Be dark. Your work is done; this year is not for you." Chrys sat by the bed, waiting. Idly she surveyed the living walls, sickly green, wondering where all the little camera eyes hid. When she first came from Dolomoth, it had taken a long time to get used to the ubiquity of public vision. "Garnet?" she whispered at last. "Garnet, I have a question."

His head slowly turned.

She leaned over. "Why are the Seven Stars but seven?"

Garnet gave a feeble smile, then shook his head. "It's no use." His lip twisted. "Jasper is furious at the lot of them. He won't rest till they're gone."

She watched her words. "The choice is not his."

"The fault was mine. I made them do it."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "I was curious. Why not, after all. I can buy any pleasure in the Fold. What's a little dopamine?" He paused. "I can't buy back yesterday."

"Did you explain to Jasper?"

"Jasper can't accept it. If he did, he'd have to be furious at me."

"He loves you."

"He loves me to death."

Chrys knew that one well enough. Before Topaz had left her, when it started to go bad, Chrys remembered lying awake in the wee hours, watching that lovely white neck beside her, imagining her own powerful hands around it. Wearily, she pulled up a chair and sank in.

"There's nothing left," he added. "Lose them, or lose Jasper— I might as well go off to an Elysian Final Home." Elves generally chose their own end, once they tired of their centuries.

"I know," Chrys sighed. "I know that feeling well. And for me, there's no one hanging outside to care if I live or die."

He glanced at her sharply.

"I'll tell you what I do," she added, "when I feel like that. Find someone worse off. Go round the corner to the Spirit Table and serve the folks in our neighborhood who haven't got enough to eat."

"Not enough to eat—in our neighborhood." As if it were a new idea. He shook his head. "I could feed the whole Underworld, but it wouldn't help. Economics—you know that. The poor will always be poor."

"Perhaps. But they might help you."

He turned to her, fixing her with his stare. "Chrys, tell me the truth. Will Jasper leave me, if I keep them?"

One human, a million people. Chrys swallowed. In her teeth Andra's voice spoke, "Don't answer." Startled, she half jumped from her chair. "I'm sorry, I—I can't say." She bit her lip. "You know I'm fond of Jasper."

He kept his eyes on her, as if he could read her mind. Then his irises lit up.

"They will live, Oh Great One. A great victory for love and mercy."

Garnet smiled. "You're very kind, Chrys. You were kind to key the servers to his form." His old sly note crept in. "But I know your real heart lies elsewhere."

The following night the Spirit Table was full, nearing the end of the month when credit lines ran out. Sister Kaol's extra helper ran to the kitchen and back, and Chrys hoisted one pot of soup after another, putting her Plan Ten-enhanced muscles to use. She paused to push back her hair, damp with sweat. Men and women jostled in dead nanotex with strips peeling off, some with eyes overbright, high on one psycho or another. Some of the guests barely spoke, others argued, and one kept up a stream of dialogue with a demon only he could see.

Near the window, voices rose. A glint of metal, and a shriek.

Chrys vaulted over the counter and pushed her way through the crowd. Across a table lay a man streaked with blood while above him his assailant drew back the knife for another strike.

Chrys caught the arms of the assailant and yanked both behind his back. The man bellowed in pain.

The trouble sent all the customers to their feet, bolting to the exit. The Sister's assistant helped an elderly man to leave without getting trampled. Sister Kaol came to tend the victim.

"Oh Great One," flashed Fireweed, "we detect signals of injury in Your blood. The immortal God must heal."

Something wet trickled down her arm; the assailant's knife must have grazed. Still holding onto him, Chrys blinked for public health. "Plan One, someone's critical. Send help."

A flat voice responded. Chrys tried to hear over the assailant's cries. "Citizen identity?"

"Unknown." If he'd had any better than One, the Plan would know it already. "Look at him—you can see the blood."

"Noted. Responding immediately."

Sister Kaol raised her hand. "You can release that poor gentleman; he seems hurt, too."

The assailant fell, clutching his arm, which hung limp. The other Sister came and felt his shoulder. "I think it's been dislocated."

Chrys winced. She hadn't realized her own strength. Blood was seeping through her nanotex; she wiped her arm, where a gash needed skinplast.

"Oh Great One," flashed Fireweed again. "Jonquil is late getting back. We're concerned."

"Check your nightclubs. The gods are busy."

A medic entered, a smaller-sized sentient with just a couple of worms hanging down.

"Thank goodness," Chrys exclaimed, pushing back her hair. "This man was stabbed in the back; he's badly hurt."

The worm-face reached her, pealed the nanotex off her arm, and slapped on some skinplast. "Plan Ten only covers you." So he wasn't Plan One; just Plan Ten, automatically alerted by her slashed arm.

The Sister gave the assailant something to quiet him and managed to reset his shoulder. Sister Kaol had the victim laid on his back and was pressing a first-aid sensor into his chest.

"When will Plan One get here?" wondered Chrys.

"Another hour," said Sister Kaol, "perhaps two. If they get here." She shook her head. "I fear this gentleman won't make it. He has internal bleeding."

The Plan Ten medic still had his worms wrapped around her arm. Chrys asked, "Can I pay you to treat this man?"

"There's a ten-thousand-credit premium for walk-ins. The first available doctor will get back to you."

She watched the worm-face leave. Her breath came faster, and her arms shook. Would the damned city do nothing for a dying man? Who would help? She squeezed her eyes hard.

Daeren's sprite appeared, at home amid his sculptures. "Can you tell me how to get help for an injured man?" Her voice rushed. "Plan One won't get here, and Plan Ten won't even take a look."

Daeren looked thoughtful. "I might find a doctor. Just a minute." The sprite winked out.

The assailant dragged himself up and staggered toward the door.

"Wait," called the Sister after him. "You need further treatment. ..." Call the octopods, Chrys thought. But the Sisters never wanted to scare off customers.

"Great Host," flashed Rose. "My apologies for disturbing you, but you need to know that Jonquil has been missing these past six months. She is presumed dead."

For a moment the dining hall receded. Chrys closed her eyes to focus on her window. "Jonquil dead? How?"

"We're not sure." Rose's pink letters flashed against the dark. "We've searched but found no remains. She was out patrolling the circulation, when we detected signs of trauma. We think you lost some blood."

Jonquil was dead—lost in that rush of blood from her arm. Mopped up and gone forever. Chrys sank onto a bench and rested her elbows on the long table, sinking her head in her hands. "I'm so sorry. I should have known." Instead, she'd ignored them, just as the city ignored her calls.

"Jonquil had a long life. She was nearing her natural end."

"She'll never get to see her portrait in the stars."

"In my opinion," said Rose, "she saw more than enough 'portraits.' "

And now guess who was the high priest.

"The One True God never errs," added Fireweed. "Inscrutable are Her ways, but God is perfect."

"Nevertheless, Great Host," added Rose, "those cultists are back to address you. You did say once a day."

"Great One," flashed the green letters. "We long to set forth to found our perfect society in the wilderness. We pray you—let our people go, to the Promised World...."

"Chrys?" Daeren was calling gently, seated by her. "Are you all right?"

Raising her head, she looked up at him through the hair across her face. "Jonquil's gone. From the cut in my arm."

"I'm sorry to hear that. There's nothing you could have done; the air kills them instantly."

Would it have felt "instant" for a micro, she wondered. She shook herself and took a deep breath. "I shouldn't have called you like that. Your one night home."

"But I told you, Chrys—anything you ever needed. Remember? What else are friends for?" A wonderful smile suffused his face. He had never looked so happy, as if she had done him the favor. "You know Doctor Flexor." The one who had helped Pearl. "She's a friend of mine."

The doctor had her face worms plugged into the man's chest. Already his color looked better. "I'll do my best," Flexor said. "Cardiac's not my specialty, but I downloaded the basics."

"Thanks," said Chrys. "I can pay."

"Never mind. It's a change of pace for me."

Daeren added, "Flexor and I visit galleries."

"I know your work," Flexor told Chrys. "Representational isn't my taste, but you do it well," she added politely.

Sister Kaol clasped her hands. "Won't you at least take some soup?" she asked Daeren. "We have so much left over."

"Sure, thanks," he said. "I think Chrys could use some too."

"Your blood sugar is low," added Rose. "You need to eat more regularly."

Chrys eyed the bowl of soup put before her, the potatoes she had peeled, the bulk-process meat she had diced. She still could not forget how Jonquil had died. So much overwhelmed her; the hopelessness of the slaves, the way even micros cast out their mutants, and how the heretic micros longed to leave her.

Meanwhile, Daeren spooned his soup as if he enjoyed it, as if he had counted on this meal. "The Committee's so pleased to have you, Chrys. They'll tell you, at our next meeting."

Suddenly Chrys asked, "How do we know we're right?"

"Right about what?"

"About Endless Light." She thought it over to herself. "We keep trying to 'save' people from slavery. But suppose they want it—so what?"

He nodded matter-of-factly. "You've seen the result."

"They run out of money."

"And a few other things."

"Rose says that humans choose Endless Light," Chrys told him. "They always have a choice; even those kidnapped from ships."

"They always choose slavery."

"Always? No one's ever escaped from the Slave World?"

"We once rescued a slave from a substation. We cleaned out his micros and put him in the clinic."

"And then?"

"He tried to take his life, four times. The fifth, he succeeded."

Chrys thought this over. "What if what we call the Slave World really is something wonderful? I mean, how do you know, if you've never been there?"

Daeren paused. "If that were true, why have we never heard from anyone? If you found something truly better than anything else in the world, wouldn't you call home and tell those you love?"

"Suppose what you found was better than love."

He did not answer but gave her a strange look.

"What good did love ever do me?" she exclaimed. "I loved Poppy, and look what she did. I loved Jonquil, and look what I did to her. I love my brother, and I can't even visit him."

He nodded sympathetically. "You could try."

"You don't know the Brethren. The lights in my eyes—they'd think I'm possessed."

"I wish I had a brother," Daeren said. "I was raised alone by my grandmother, about three blocks west of Gold of Asragh."

No wonder he couldn't pay for law school. Her mental picture of him shifted, rearranged. She looked him over, his obsidian hair, perfect shoulders, bronze cheeks. Topaz had drained her emotionally, and her last boyfriend drained her account. But she reached out to stroke Daeren's hand. It gave her a jolt, like touching lava that had not quite cooled. How could she bear to get hurt again?