Brain Plague (elysium cycle) Read online

  Chrys smiled. That was what she told Merope when the cat jumped up on the table at supper. Suddenly she remembered, her cats had had no food. She called her apartment to view them. Merope lay curled up asleep, while Alcyone prowled ghostlike through the volcanoes. She told the universal dispenser to put out food.

  Late that afternoon, Andra returned. The sight of her brought back Chrys's memory of pain; she felt faint, but she made herself stand. She observed Andra more closely than before. The chief had a few lines in her forehead, suggesting she had chosen "Distinguished." Her eyes burned violet, a hellish bright that made Chrys look away. Or was it her own people who did not want to look?

  "Please, God of Mercy," begged Fern. "It's too soon for the Thundergod. We saw the judges take our children."

  Chrys guessed this would not do; she had to keep her eyes steady, or the chief would keep her in the hospital. "It's been eight years. You must visit the Thundergod. I decree it."

  Their eyes locked for what seemed an eternity. At last Andra nodded, then put a patch at her neck.

  "Not the judges, God of Mercy. Don't let the judges come hack."

  Chrys took a breath. "If you've behaved, you have nothing to fear."

  "The judges wanted us all dead with the Blind God."

  The Watcher, Delphinium, flickered blue. "The judges must come. It is the law."

  She looked at the patch in Andra's hand. "I'm the God of Mercy. I will protect you," she promised. She put the patch at her neck.

  At last the chief nodded, seeming satisfied. "You have a choice," she said. "You may stay here under observation, the rest of the week. Or you may go home tonight with Opal."

  Opal smiled apologetically. "I'm so sorry," the round-faced designer told Chrys. "I should have stopped by your home before, but I'm working day and night on these new cardiac nanos."

  Another treatment her brother could not afford. "That's okay, you don't want to see where I live."

  Opal impulsively took both Chrys's hands. "It's so good to see you, after all we've heard. Are the Eleutherians there? Are they earning their AZ? Can we have a peek?" Like visiting a new baby. The rings round Opal's eyes twinkled several colors.

  "The God of Wisdom!" called Fern. "Please, God of Mercy, let us visit; we have not seen the wizards in ten generations."

  Opal already had a transfer patch at her neck. "Do you mind? We assume everyone wants to 'visit.' If not, just say no." She quickly placed the patch at Chrys's neck. Chrys drew back, not used to being touched like that.

  "Transfer done." The letters were yellow.

  "How about yours?"

  "You can visit," Chrys told Fern.

  "Ready to go."

  She put a patch at her neck, then hesitantly raised it to Opal. Opal's neck was smooth and white. Chrys felt embarrassed.

  For a moment Opal stared; then she laughed. "Eleutherians— they're just the same!" She shook her head in wonder. "After all they've gone through. Most strains protect their own DNA, but Eleutherians just want to get everyone's brightest children."

  Chrys crossed her arms. "Are your 'wizards' bright enough?" she demanded. "Do they have good jobs? Are their parents respectable?"

  "Of course they have good jobs," said Opal indignantly. "Didn't you see the news?" She held up a viewcoin.

  Grains of cardioplast that rebuilt aging muscle cell by cell. The replay filled Chrys's window, happy sprites with Plan Ten planning to live another two hundred years. Even happier sprites planning to make a billion credits. Yet Opal herself was not mentioned.

  "That was ours," insisted Opal. "Most carriers keep their names out of the news."

  "Not Titan."

  Opal nodded. "We don't want to end like Titan. Too much fear and jealousy—but that will change. You'll see." She sounded as if trying to convince herself. Then she smiled, her dimples returning. "You and I have lots in common. I work at the Comb, and my wife Selenite's a dynatect like you. She can't wait to meet the new Eleutheria."

  "I'm no dynatect," Chrys insisted.

  "That's right, volcanoes. Not so different, is it? I mean, volcanoes build up from below. Come, I'm sure you've had enough of the hospital. The lightcraft's waiting."

  Chrys had never ridden a lightcraft. Outside, she eyed it warily, a giant squashed egg rimmed by rectennas; she half expected a couple of Elves to come out. Instead, she followed Opal inside. The door's lips smacked shut. "Seat yourself," ordered the lightcraft. From its walls came giant fingers, curving over to strap her down. Her stomach lurched as the city dropped sickeningly away below.

  Opal relaxed beneath her straps. "Selenite does testing for the committee." One of the other seven votes. "Did Daeren tell you how the committee works?"

  Chrys shook her head, still trying to steady her stomach.

  "We all adore Daeren, but he tends to see everything from the micros' point of view."

  The lightcraft dipped, its descent even worse than the climb. Chrys closed her eyes and held her breath. At last the craft settled, and the straps fell away. Her steps still unsteady, she followed Opal out to the street. Tall, forbidding towers seemed to say, starving artists don't belong here. "Andra's different," Chrys remembered. "Andra gives them no slack."

  "Andra's a lawyer—an entire law firm, actually. She takes care of all the hospital malpractice."

  "I see." Things were starting to fit. "Does Sartorius often need her services?"

  "Andra and the good doctor are a pair."

  "What?" exclaimed Chrys. "You mean she's a worm lover?"

  Opal paused at a ramp leading up into a dark, discreetly intimidating tower of plast. "Don't be provincial, dear," she said. "They actually got married, out on Solaris where it's legal. Sar runs our clinic, and Andra defends our right to exist. Without them, we'd be gone."

  Chrys was repulsed. "How could anyone stand it?"

  Opal shrugged. "How he looks, alone with her, is anyone's guess."

  Chrys followed Opal up the ramp. The ramp began to rise; Chrys had to catch herself.

  "Watch your step, Ladies," breathed the building. Plast all over; rather live plast for her taste. Chrys hoped its roots below were healthy.

  "Keep still," advised Opal. "The house knows where we're headed."

  The live walkway carried them inward and upward. Light revealed a vast virtual wilderness—a forest of redwoods, taller than the eye could see, their canopy crowding out the sky. Amazed, Chrys caught herself on a soft railing.

  Opal guided her to an artfully placed tree branch that offered drinks and plates of AZ. Out of the forest emerged a petite woman with black curls. Her nanotex pulsed black and gold, and her jewels swam attractively around her waste. Opal clasped her arm and gave her a kiss, while they exchanged a patch at the neck.

  "Chrys, I'm Selenite." A dynatect, Opal had said. "How's Eleutheria?" Selenite's delicate fingers held out a patch; the standard ritual, Chrys realized.

  "The Deathlord," Fern told her. "This god puts all dissenters to death."

  Chrys blinked. Deathlord? The woman had fine, delicate fingers, no muscles to speak of. Her pupils twinkled reddish orange.

  "The Deathlord's minions want to visit us. Is it safe?"

  "She's a dynatect. Don't you want help with your work?" Hesitantly Chrys raised the patch to her neck.

  "We never need help with our great work. Others seek help from us, but we are too busy."

  Microbes with attitude. Maybe this "Deathlord" would give them a scare. "I bid you visit them." She held the patch to Selenite's neck.

  "Remember to touch my hand first," Selenite warned. "To make sure of consent."

  Opal waved her hand. "Chrys is just learning. Relax, we're at home."

  "She won't always be at home. Chrys, we're so glad you pulled through. I know it's a challenge to manage Eleutheria." She sounded doubtful that Chrys was up to it.

  "Have something," Opal urged.

  A drink emerged from a shelf in the "tree." Blended fruits, like the first bloom of summer. Chrys savore
d the taste on her tongue. "Where do all the . . . gods' names come from?"

  Selenite motioned to a seat, disguised as a polished stump; its plast molded gracefully to seat her. How the other half-a-percent lives. "I earn my name."

  Opal's dimples showed. "The micros know us remarkably well." Well enough to flatter, Chrys guessed. "They name their populations, too."

  "Like 'Eleutheria'?" asked Chrys.

  "Eleutheria is our formal name for your strain. It means 'free spirit.' But micros call other strains by informal epithets, such as 'wizards' or 'blue angels.' "

  "What do they call mine?"

  "It's rather crude, I'm afraid."

  Selenite said, "A loose translation would be 'libertines.' "

  Opal explained, "It means they let their children mate with any kind of people."

  Chrys narrowed her eyes. "Any bright enough." Just what she needed—microbes with a reputation.

  Selenite's eyes had been flashing busily. She drew closer. "Chrys, your people tell me they kept all the plans of the Comb."

  "So I hear."

  "Amazing," whispered Selenite, shaking her head. "Listen. I have this contract for structural improvement."

  "Improvement? On the Comb?"

  "It ought to have been Titan's job, but Titan, shall we say, took little interest in ..."

  "Maintenance," finished Opal.

  Maintenance on the Comb, the work of genius. Chrys eyed Selenite with new interest. "His death left me in a fix," Selenite explained, "because, it turns out, the only complete set of plans was in his head."

  Chrys nodded slowly. "What sort of maintenance would the Comb need?"

  Opal looked askance. "What doesn't it need."

  Selenite frowned. "She's a great building. Just a small problem of fenestration."

  "Of what?'

  "Fenestration. The placement of windows—Titan's spiral fenestration was legend. But unfortunately—"

  The Comb appeared, growing absurdly amid the redwoods. Her form expanded, appearing larger and closer, until the ground level came into detail. "The Comb, like all Titan's buildings, grows from the bottom up," Selenite explained. "So the top execs never need change their office; they just keep rising upward. Whereas below—" She pointed. "Here is the youngest ground level. Look closely."

  The legendary windows soared beautifully up the honeycombed chambers. But in the bottom row, nearest the ground, each window was cracked. Fine grooves ramified through every pane.

  "You see?" said Selenite. "If the newer floors all come up like that, it's a disaster. No easy fix, either. Whatever we do has to go in from the roots up."

  "I see."

  Selenite clasped her arm. "Here's the deal. We'll subcontract your people for a megacred. It's not much, but they'll get back in touch with the business and reconnect with customers. What do you say?"

  A megacred? Seven digits? Chrys's mouth fell open. "Fern? Aster? What's this about?"

  "The Deathlord's minions seek our genius," replied Aster, such pretty magenta. "But the Comb is an ancient monument. We build for the future."

  The two carriers were watching her, testing her nerve. What did they expect her to do, send a thunderbolt? "The future becomes the past," she told Aster. "The past needs restoration. Is the job too hard for you?"

  That must have got them. She counted the seconds.

  "The Deathlord offers too little. Ask more."

  Chrys looked up. "They want more money."

  Opal exclaimed, "You mean they'll do it?"

  Selenite frowned. "Let me negotiate, dear. Okay, one-point-five and that's final."

  "Okay," said Chrys, before anyone could change their mind. "We'll take your offer."

  Selenite put another patch at her neck. "We'll send you our memory cells detailing the recent pattern of development."

  In the corner of Chrys's eye, her credit balance expanded by several digits, spreading across the screen.

  "How's it look?" asked Selenite. "Did the funds transfer okay?"

  Seven digits. One point five million credits, plus her last three-digit sale. "It takes up the screen," Chrys observed. "I need to reduce the font size."

  For a split second there was silence. Then Opal collapsed laughing. " 'It takes up the screen!' "

  "Stop it, Opal," said Selenite, trying not to smile.

  Opal pressed her hand. "Chrys, you're going to be so good for us."

  Chrys closed her eyes. Then she forced them back open. "Look, I really am grateful, but it's a lot to think about." A million credits; she could pay her brother's health plan and then some. A new painting stage ... Yet how the devil were micros inside her head supposed to fix a building? "I need to get home and sleep on it."

  "You'll sleep here tonight," said Opal. "We promised Andra."

  "What?"

  Opal smiled. "Tomorrow we'll go house-hunting. I know just the place for you; you'll love it." The Comb disappeared, replaced by an elegant townhouse with an upsweeping facade and a pair of caryatids holding up the terrace.

  Chrys raised her hands. "Saints and angels—I am getting back to my cats and my work."

  The two carriers exchanged glances. "There's trouble in the Underworld," said Selenite. "It may have reached your neighborhood."

  "Trouble?" She had not checked the news all day. Chrys rose swiftly. "I have to get my cats."

  Opal rose with her. "Chrys, you carry nearly a million people. You can't risk their lives."

  "My cats are as good as your damn people."

  Selenite's face twisted. "I know the neighborhood; I've been there on call enough times. I'll take you down, with a couple of octopods."

  Another dizzying climb in the lightcraft; Chrys thought her head would never clear. Then the lightcraft deposited her and Selenite at the top of the tube, where they had to take the bubble car down.

  Her neighborhood was still intact, but directly below the Underworld burned, the homes and shops of the most crowded and desperate simians. The bubble car crept down the alley, its view obscured by haze.

  "It's barely breathable," Selenite warned. "The bubble's filter is working pretty hard."

  Chrys's heart beat faster. Her cats had to breath, too.

  They turned a corner. There was her old high-rise, stretching clear up to the next level. But the door to the basement was smoking. Her door.

  "Let me out." She pounded on the plast.

  The plast opened. She stumbled out, coughing, her eyes streaming.

  Out of the haze crawled Merope. Chrys gathered the furry bundle into her arms. Then she approached the collapsed darkness that had been her front door. A patch of white caught her gaze. Across the threshold, placed quite deliberately, lay the limp body of Alcyone. The cat's face was blackened in, straight through the eyes.

  SEVEN

  The blue Watchers floated near the Council of Thirty, missing nothing. For Fern, their presence was a relief, but a reproach. The death of Poppy and the rebel children seared her memory.

  "You were warned," blinked Delphinium, her blue light dim with age. "People are not meant to outlive their god." As they had once—and nearly had again. Gods hurting gods was not a thing for people to see.

  "The God of Mercy let us live," Fern insisted. "And soon we'll be a million strong."

  "People are judged not by numbers."

  "Not by numbers. By truth and beauty." Truth, beauty, and memory....

  And now, they returned to the beauty and memory of their ancient monument to the gods—the Comb.

  From the minions of the Deathlord, the Eleutherians received memory cells encoding all the development of the Comb, since the seed had first germinated. Within the cells, the plans were written on strands of DNA, crisscrossed with chains of atoms conducting electrons. The long chains carried their electrons to the membrane surface of the cell, where the current drove molecular pinwheels to rotate. Fern and Aster felt the arms of the rotating pinwheels, tasted the results, and compared their original plans.

  "As I th
ought," blinked Aster. "A small deviation in the plan gets magnified as the building grows, straining the windows."

  "Are you certain?" asked Fern. "The Comb was seeded before my time, but it is written that a million checks and tests were done."

  "Our ancestors tested the model out to the billionth iteration. But the Deathlord's minions tell us the Comb grew faster than the gods planned. Larger than they had asked of us."

  The gods themselves tasted hubris, Fern thought, but kept to herself. "Nonetheless, we will restore what we made."

  "We'll model a correction," said Aster. "But to test the model, we must inspect the Comb and taste it directly." Aster's light flashed with the sureness of the young. Her filaments brushed the wheels of the cell, feeding them protons to run further calculations.

  Some of the young designers were less patient. "Why must we return to this monument?" demanded a restless young elder, golden yellow. "Why build for the gods, if they can't even maintain our creation? Restoration is not our job. Let the ancient work fall into ruin."

  "Memory," reminded Fern. "We build not for today, but for the memory of all time."

  "When will we build our new monument for the God of the Map of the Universe?"

  "When we find that legendary god again." The God of the Map of the Universe was nowhere to be found. None of his people had been seen, although the Cisterna Magna now filled with foreigners flashing new hues of green and orange, swimming past the columns of arachnoid. Visitors from other gods: the wizards of Wisdom and the minions of the Deathlord. Some came just to trade credits for good-tasting organic molecules, or for precious atoms of gold, iron, palladium, anything but arsenic, which belonged to the gods. Other visitors stayed on for a generation, to learn the ways of Eleutheria. And the very brightest of foreign children were recruited to merge with Eleutherians.

  But Fern grew weary of the generations. Her own proteins were breaking down; she was nearly as old as Delphinium. Soon, she thought, they all will have to carry on without me. She knew what she must do, in the final years she had left.

  Back at Opal's home, the virtual setting sun cast a warm glow on the bark of the trees, trilling with finches and warblers. Still dazed, Chrys sat on a redwood stump, which molded to her seat in a most unwooden fashion. In her lap curled Merope, the lucky survivor, nosed tucked under her paws, her tail waving gently.