Brain Plague (elysium cycle) Page 15

  The two Brethren appeared in their dust-colored robes. Beyond them the window of the calling station framed Mount Dolomoth, the wisp of smoke rising tranquil from its peak. Her father as always wore his long beard that used to tickle her face. Her mother's eyes still shone like blue drops of sky amid the wrinkles. A twinge of guilt—Chrys herself would never have those wrinkles. But her brother, at least she could help him.

  "Chrysoberyl," exclaimed her mother. "Are you all right?"

  "Of course, Mother. My work has taken off; I've made it big." She winced, realizing, how could she tell them more? "How is Hal?"

  The fold of her mother's robe stirred faintly in the breeze. "All the saints and angels pray for you."

  "Did you get my message?" Chrys asked eagerly. "Plan Six—it will fix his mitochondria."

  Her parents stood at the station, not speaking. Then her father slowly shook his head. "How can a man eat his fill when his neighbors go hungry?"

  Chrys frowned. "What's the matter, don't you believe me? Look, I know you can't understand, but—I've made good, honest. People are buying my stuff. I can afford to help my brother."

  The two hooded heads faced each other. Then her mother looked at Chrys, a sad, pitying look; the look that Chrys dreaded, as if her mother could see everything to the bottom of her soul, although Chrys learned long ago that she could not. "The boy next door had pneumonia for a month, and baby Chert was born with a limp. Who shall help them? Shall our son walk among them like a god?"

  Her mouth fell open. "You mean . . . you refused the Plan?"

  "The saints will provide," her father assured her. "The saints provide the most precious gift of all: Sacred love."

  "But I love my brother. That's why I want to help him."

  Her mother's eyes opened wide. "Oh Chrys, I see a dark path ahead of you. A path empty of light and love. Beware, Chrys; beware of false angels—"

  Chrys squeezed her eyes shut, and her parents vanished. Then she burst into tears and fell back on her bed, sobbing. How many years, she had ached for her brother, and now that she had a chance .. . did her parents hate her so much for leaving the hills?

  "Excuse me." Xenon's voice startled her. "Pardon if I intrude, but is there anything I can do? Any problem with the house?"

  Chrys shook her head. "Even you can't fix my parents."

  "I have no experience of parents, but I'm a student of human nature. May I try?"

  She looked up skeptically. "Go ahead."

  "How many children are in your parents' village?"

  "About thirty," she guessed.

  "Could you cover them all?"

  There was a thought. From each according to ability, to each according to need. "If I had the ability," Chrys pointed out. "I'm not as rich as Garnet."

  "You're certainly getting there." Her credit line had reached eight digits.

  "Vapor cash."

  "Sell off half your speculation, and let the other half grow."

  There was a thought. She sighed. "I still don't think they'll take it."

  "Of course not," said Xenon. "Don't tell your parents a thing. Let me handle it—an anonymous donor. My study of human nature tells me it's much harder to turn down a gift from Anonymous."

  She grinned. "Thanks a lot, Xenon. You're worth twice your pay."

  "You might consider that," he replied, "now that you have the ability."

  It was sad to count a paid sentient as your best friend. Her mother's last word left her unsettled. Who was left to love her, in this anonymous city? Love was cruel; cruel on the mountain, cruel in the city. Topaz had loved her and cast her off. Zirc might care, when not consumed by his own genius; and Opal was friendly, though maybe she just wanted the Comb fixed. Even Merope mainly wanted milk in her dish.

  "Oh Great One," flashed Aster. "Do we please you today?"

  She remembered her morning dose of AZ. "Aster," she replied, putting the wafer on her tongue, "Do the people love me?"

  "How can I say, Oh Great One? How could we not love life itself?"

  There was an honest answer. "Does anyone love me for myself—not just to stay alive?"

  "That kind of love is rare, rarer even than the trace metals, gadolinium or ytterbium. But there was one who loved the god for the god's sake: that was Fern."

  Fern, the first little green ring. Where was she now? Chrys looked fondly up at her sketch of Fern, still twinkling her last words to her people. Next to her in the studio, now, hung Opal's favorite, and Garnet's, and the blue angel Dendrobium. Chrys planned to expand and develop them, deepening their character. What would the patrons think of them amid the volcanoes, in her next show?

  The question was, how to display them to the best advantage. A cramped room in a gallery would not do. The twinkling filaments would just look like a mess of light.

  Then she had it. "Xenon? Can you build a dome up on the roof?"

  "Certainly, Chrysoberyl. A clear dome?"

  "For a clear night, yes, to let in the stars. For now, project them."

  Once the dome was erected, Chrys placed her portraits there, one by one, constellations shining down from heaven. At night they filled the urban sky, amid the sky signs and the flitting lightcraft.

  Jonquil was ecstatic, exclaiming over their power and beauty. Even Rose, still chained in dendrimers, was impressed. "The gods are a fiction," Rose said, "but truly the Great Host has developed fiction to a high art."

  "What about the children?" reminded Jonquil. "The merging children? We can't wait to see them."

  "I'm working on that." The coupling children had proven a bit much for Chrys's grasp of geometry. Two rings merging was not so hard, but coming apart afterward in three—she had to get the proportions right. And then to get the feel of it, what it meant for the micro people, an experience so alien to her. No humans who ever "merged" came out so transformed.

  "And the God herself?" remembered Aster. "Legend tells that the God herself was once portrayed in the stars."

  Mystified, Chrys thought back. That old sketch from her school days—she had shown it to Fern. She couldn't show that in public; the critics would laugh. But at home was okay. "Xenon, put my old self-portrait here." She blinked at her letters to pull the sketch out of storage. Veins glowing, and lava flowing melodramatically from her hair, she looked nothing like the stars, more like an apparition from hell.

  "What is this, Great Host?" demanded Rose.

  "The God herself, Unbeliever," replied Jonquil. "In my opinion, it could use some work. The brain, for instance; I can't make it out. Where is the Cisterna Magna?"

  "That's quite enough." And yet, Chrys thought... the possibilities. Humans were so fond of their own brains; why did they never portray them?

  Unfortunately, she had to let this thought simmer while she uploaded her people's latest calculations on the Comb. Then her people had to view the resulting simulations in 3-D, as well as endless plans and sections. The sectional views showed the interior of the Comb remaining intact, with floors and ceiling growing in proportion.

  She was pleased to show Selenite, at their next meeting. "Much better," Selenite admitted, sipping Xenon's exquisite green tea and teacake. Taking Xenon's hint, Chrys had found that hospitality significantly smoothed their conferences. "We've completely transformed the model. Where'd they get the math to do that? The wizards?"

  Chrys shrugged, hoping the Eleutherians kept dark.

  "Well, it's in good time," Selenite told her. "The Board wants a demonstration, a test run on-site."

  "A test run? Tapping the roots?" Visions of cancerplast made Chrys ill.

  "Only halfway down, level twelve. Inject the virus and see if it sends its data clear up to the executive suite."

  That weekend at Olympus, Opal clasped her hands in delight. "Selenite really thinks it will work—I can't imagine what it will be like here without all those pans of dripping water." She leaned over and whispered. "Do you really think Eleutheria will win at chess? Who's their mysterious coach?"

&nb
sp; "A woman with a past."

  A caryatid approached with a spiral assortment of nuts, and pate sweeter than apples. Averting her eyes discreetly, Chrys nonetheless permitted herself one of each. The taste went straight to her toes.

  "Chrys." Lord Garnet's eyes sparkled with excited people, even more talkative than her own. "The portraits are exquisite. I'll keep them to look at forever. Such fond memories." He slipped a transfer lightly at her neck.

  "Thanks for the investment," she told him, leaning back gingerly in her seat. The trunk of the singing-tree hugged her.

  "The market's done well," he admitted.

  Chrys admired the exceptionally fine texture of his talar, very plain, yet its nuanced shaping responded to every move. "I wish I had more time to spend it," she sighed.

  "That is the hard part," Garnet agreed. "By the way, I hear you portray the gods as well. A rather . . . striking portrayal."

  She shuddered. "Never listen to microbial gossip."

  "Don't hide your best work. And when do you dine with us?"

  "After my next show."

  A living tire-creature wheeled past; startled, she followed the Prokaryan image till it vanished through the arch of a singing-tree. Around the arch of the tree sat Daeren and Selenite, at it again.

  "Too many defectors," Selenite was saying. "If we take in so many, their genes will displace those of our own people."

  While Daeren listened, Garnet leaned over to pass him a transfer and massaged his shoulder. "The defectors reject slavery," Daeren pointed out. "They risk death to reject it. They desire freedom even more than our own, who take it for granted."

  Garnet nodded, and Opal sipped her drink thoughtfully.

  Selenite shook her head. "In effect, we're favoring strains more virulent than our own, more likely to enslave us. You can't get around it."

  "Defectors are creative," Daeren insisted. "The most independent-minded of their kind. They bring vital genetic diversity. Otherwise, our own populations in-breed and degenerate, growing tame and lazy." Exactly what Rose said, thought Chrys.

  Selenite's eyes narrowed. "That's not true. We'll see who ends up at the Slave World."

  Opal extended an arm around each of them. "We don't have to agree."

  The next night was Chrys's regular shift at the Spirit Table. Sister Kaol was stirring the soup while Chrys chopped a growing pile of potatoes, keeping the skins for extra vitamins. At the long table sat a couple of derelicts, one of whom smelled so bad it filled the room.

  "From each according to ability," reminded Jonquil. "That's what Rose says."

  "Watch out for Rose," warned Chrys.

  An elderly man came in off the street. But usually by eight the tables were full, and she and Sister Kaol were running back and forth to fill the pots. "Sister, where is everyone tonight?"

  Sister Kaol leaned over to whisper. "There's a vampire, hiding out by the tube. The poor thing is scaring off our customers."

  Chrys peered out the window. A light was out, and the tube entrance was in shadow. She could just make out the contorted shape of the vampire. "I'll call an octopod."

  "Oh, no. An octopod would scare our customers worse. They'd never come back."

  Chrys frowned. Vampires even on this level—how far had the slaves spread? In her window, the purple button was waiting. She blinked.

  Daeren's sprite appeared, at his home for once; usually he was outside some hospital waiting room. Chrys felt bad. "Sorry to bother you, but there's a slave outside, and—like, if you could send someone to help them ..."

  "It's okay, I'm on call," he said. "Where is the slave now? Did they seek help?"

  "I don't know. He or she—it's a vampire."

  Daeren shook his head. "Chrys, we only help those with the will to ask. Otherwise, they just end up back on the street. At the vampire stage, they're beyond help, their entire bodies consumed by micros. They've lost most of their brain. Like a mad dog, they exist only to pass on a few desperate microbes."

  "You're sure? You couldn't just try?"

  "If I came, my eyes would only scare them off."

  Chrys thought this over. A second bowl of soup steamed invitingly, yet no customers. "Why do some slaves turn into vampires, while others go to the Slave World?"

  "Like tuberculosis, it can be acute or chronic. We guess that the Slave World is for hosts who readily obey, whereas those who don't..." He shrugged. "It's hard to know, since no human's ever been to the Slave World and come back alive. Either way, it's pretty grim."

  "How do you know that? I mean, if you've never been there."

  Daeren eyed her intently. "Why do you ask?"

  Chrys did not answer. She thought of Rose, and Endless Light. She signed off and looked again out the window. "Rose?" she called. "Rose, where are you?"

  "Here I am, Great Host. It takes me time, you know. Someone has to bring me out in chains." The former master slyly played on her sympathy.

  "Can you tell me how to help a vampire? If you can, I'll set you free."

  "In a vampire, the betrayers have gone completely wild. Instead of bringing their host to Endless Light, as they should, they burn and pillage, devouring the very flesh. When their host dies, they will all meet their just end."

  Chrys thought of the street folk who would go hungry that night. "Can we at least get the vampire to move off and quit scaring customers?"

  "Let the betrayers see me flash in your eyes. They'll scare off."

  She put down her potatoes. "Back in a minute, Sister." Outside, her eyes adjusted to the dark as she warily approached the tube. Music floated over from a neighbor's house, and the sparks of busy lightcraft rose and fell in the distance. Her steps slowed. What harm could come, she thought. As a carrier she was immune; even picking up Rose had not hurt her. She took another step toward the shadows. A foul smell reached her.

  A sound of gasping, with a rumble underneath. Then she saw the hunched figure, a man, she thought. He was bent over double, gasping and growling, as if at his last breath. His nose and fingers were white and blunted, dissolving inward like those of a leper. Chrys felt all her hair stand on end. "You, there." Her voice rang hollow, and her throat caught with nausea. "Who are you?"

  The head moved, catching light from across the street. What had once been a face now bulged with veins clogged by multiplying micros.

  "Environmental disaster," flashed Aster. "The masters destroyed their own host."

  "Betrayers," added Rose. "The Enlightened Leader shall hear of this."

  "You think your 'comrades' don't know?" Aster challenged. "How could they not? "

  "The Leader is light-years away. Even human leaders cannot limit their own depravity. Of course, you naive Eleutherians think the gods are perfect."

  Chrys blinked hard. "Just make it go away."

  Rose said, "Get closer, to meet the eyes."

  Meeting those eyes was the last thing Chrys wanted. Steeling herself, she moved forward, at once repelled yet ashamed at herself for adding to the poor creature's misery.

  The stench of the victim overwhelmed her; her stomach contracted. His labored breath rasped louder, faster. Another step closer, and its eyes chanced to meet hers. For one long moment, Chrys saw the creature as a human being, the human it would have been before it sank so low.

  A shriek split the air. The bloated head turned, tucked under an arm, as if lasers had put out its eyes. Then the creature picked up its feet and slowly shuffled away.

  Unnerved, Chrys shook so hard she could barely move. The cheerful lights of the soup kitchen beckoned. She turned slowly, her thoughts full.

  As she walked back, she thought she heard faint footsteps behind her, quicker than her own. Her head turned to look.

  The creature had changed its mind and come back. This time it moved with surprising speed, as if with all its last strength. The horror froze her for a moment; then she turned to run. In the darkness, she stumbled on the curb and fell.

  As she picked herself up, the creature lunged t
oward her. Instinctively, she raised an arm before her face. The vampire caught her arm. With a cry, she flung the creature from her. It fell in a contorted heap on the street, completely still. The street was dark and eerily silent.

  But its teeth had sunk into her arm. The wound stung, as she frantically wiped it of blood mingled with the creature's saliva. Trillions of fanatic microbes lay dying with their host, but a lucky, deadly few had made it to their next victim.

  "Plan Ten, Emergency," she blinked, brushing the tangled hair from her face. She sprinted for home.

  "Mayday—Capture invaders," flashed Aster.

  "Get them all in dendrimers, every one." The medic would exterminate them.

  "There are too many; and they're hiding all over your body. We don't even know their language. Set Rose free to help translate."

  A ringing tone filled her head, like an internal smoke alarm.

  "They've reached the forbidden zone." Where Poppy had gone; the alarm that should have gone off. Instead, Chrys had awoke in that hospital, bones burning with pain.

  "Can't you stop them, like Fern did?"

  "We're trying to find them, but that region has a billion neurons. "

  She reached her house. The stairs carried her up between the caryatids. At the top, she stumbled. Her mind clouded over, and the room receded.

  In her mind opened a window, a new kind of window, vast as the universe. All the lights of heaven flooded in. The light lifted her onto a lava stream of pleasure and desire. It was the first kiss of her boyfriend, swooning amid the campion on the mountainside; and it was her first taste of Topaz, her mind spinning amid all the colored lights of Iridis. It was ten times more than that, every inch of skin crying out for more yet, until the colors grew and merged into blinding endless light.

  Abruptly, the light clouded over. Her surroundings somehow were gray—the banisters, the ceiling, the caryatids, even Xenon's new furniture. Her feet sank like lead, glued to the floor, which now seemed unaccountably dirty and verminous, though when she looked hard she saw nothing. Her skin felt covered with slime that would not rub off.