Brain Plague

Chrys blinked. Her eyes came to rest upon the Comb.

'That's it! Fern, come quickly—call the others to see. ...'

The Comb's hexagonal facets shone as always, in shifting tones of gold, red, even lava. Curious, Chrys asked, 'What do your records say?'

'They say that we made the Comb.'

Chrys was taken aback. 'You made the Comb? How can that be?' The same strain as Titan's, Eleutheria. But had they come from Titan himself?

'It is true,' added Fern. 'Our ancestors designed the seed that grew the Comb. We have all the plans. We made it for The Blind God.'

'The Blind God?' Chrys asked. 'Not the Lord of Light?' She remembered what had puzzled her before: How could her own 'people' be so different from Daeren's, if they came from his own head?

'The Blind God was our world, before the great exodus, when the Lord of Light took us in.'

She stared, unseeing, her pulse racing. How could these micros have 'made' the Comb, and still have the plans? Who was the Blind God? What had those doctors not told her?

At the hospital again the next morning, Doctor Sartorius listened to the nanos reporting from Chrys's bloodstream. His worm-like arms extended to plug into the hospital wall. Chrys still couldn't help expecting flies. 'No sign of inflammation,' he said. 'The nanos are doing their job.'

Chrys eyed him skeptically. 'Nano-cells are 'intelligent,' but never as smart as people. How can micros be so smart? They're too small to have neurons.'

One of the worms flicked toward the holostage, extending like an antenna. 'Micros are about the size of a white blood cell. Each cell packs an array of polymers, with ten trillion units.' Above the stage glowed a cage of atoms, with links joining in all dimensions. 'Units connect by a 'spiro gate' that can twist in two directions. One twist allows current to flow across the link, the other not.' The model came alive with twisting connections, as if thoughts were flitting across them. 'These polymers transmit information, as surely as human neurons, or sentient circuits.'

She regarded the sentient doctor curiously. 'If micros that small can be 'people,' then why can't nano-cells be 'sentient,' like you?'

The doctor's worms retracted and were still. The spiro-gated molecules gave way to legal documents, the kind Daeren liked to quote, scrolling down the holostage. 'When machines first... claimed sentience, the Fold Council set a lower limit for size at ten cubic centimeters. Nothing smaller could be a 'person,' with 'personal rights.' '

'What?' Chrys spread her hands. 'How can you just decree what's a person and what's not?'

Doctor Sartorius returned to the holostage. 'If you have no further questions, the Plan Ten representative is here today, to inform you of your benefits.'

The Plan Ten rep was a human female, of model proportions, the kind all art students drew their first year. Her nanotex was modest gray, but it shifted subtly to highlight her perfect legs and ankles. Her curves were more than enough to remind Chrys how long it had been since she shared a bed, and to make her, just for a moment, rethink her resolution.

'Chrysoberyl, I'm here to answer any questions you may have about the Comprehensive Deluxe Health Package Plan Ten.' The woman's tone was professional, yet softly persuasive. 'You may call us anytime, of course; from anywhere, on any world.'

'Even the Underworld?'

The Plan rep smiled confidingly. 'Our competitors, up through Plan Eight, provide instant coverage only for the more convenient parts of the city. But with Plan Ten, our emergency response time everywhere is under five minutes. You needn't give up any of your favorite night spots.'

'I see.' Chrys patted her hair self-consciously, though it never would stay down.

The Plan rep nodded to the holostage. 'Now, according to our records,' she observed, 'you have yet to choose your age and appearance.'

'Excuse me?'

Upon the stage appeared Chrys herself, life size. Like a mirror, only without the usual mirror reversal; at first her own face looked askew.

'Plan Ten allows you to specify exact age, color, and so on. For most of our clients, age is the main concern. Have you thought about it?'

Chrys blinked. 'I've had other things on my mind.'

'Of course,' the woman nodded understandingly. 'Carriers always do. But think now.' She turned to the holostage. 'Our most discerning clients choose age eighteen to twenty.'

The virtual Chrys seemed to smooth out a bit, like one of Topaz's portraits. Chrys tensed and swallowed. She had not thought of herself as already having aged. But the Chrys in the holostage looked to her like a pre-teen. 'I'm too small to look young,' she observed, half to herself. 'People still pat me on the head.'

'Stature can be increased.' The Chrys on stage grew a couple of centimeters. 'As for age, how old would you like to look? Distinguished? Venerable? Mother of Ages?'

The virtual Chrys grew fine lines in her forehead, but still stood erect and authoritative. As the skin shrunk around her face and hands, she looked fierce, indomitable, an iron lady. At last she shriveled into a million wrinkles, her eyes still bright and clear. Like a saint who'd spent her life tending dying people in the street.

'You can always change your selection,' the Plan rep quietly observed.

Chrys clenched and unclenched her hands, and swallowed again, hard. 'To be real honest, I think I'd like to keep on looking exactly the age I am now.'

'Excellent—a very wise choice. Our wisest clients generally choose as you did,' the Plan rep assured her. 'Now, as to internal organs, of course, these can be optimized separately. Most clients simply take the age of optimal function—for the female, visual acuity peaks at age ten, muscle strength at age twenty, sexual response at age forty, and so forth. Is that fine with you?'

Chrys blinked. 'I guess so.' For her, health had always meant simply not being sick.

'And muscle mass.' The woman's dimples deepened apologetically. 'I'm sorry, this one is so complex. Some examples—' The virtual Chrys expanded and shrank, while the rep rattled on about upper body strength, a gymnast's flexibility, the balanced curves of a swimmer. 'For sheer strength, there's this.' The body grew hills all over, like a volcanic slope bulging with magma.

Chrys smiled suddenly. 'I'll take that.' Zircon would be in for a surprise.

'A bold choice,' the rep exclaimed, a bit too quickly. 'A client of your sophistication might be interested in our more advanced options. Would you consider a change of gender?' She leaned forward confidentially. 'Our competitor, Plan Nine, offers only one change of gender per lifetime. Can you imagine? What if you changed your mind, and couldn't switch back?' She shook her head. 'Our plan guarantees to switch you back, as often as you choose.'

Chrys's jaw fell. For a minute, she could not imagine what to say. 'To be really honest...' She thought of something. 'Gender change would be great, but there's something else I'd like even more.'

'Yes?'

'I'd like to sign away all my rights to, uh, change of gender, and use the funds saved to fix my brother's mitochondria. Could I do that?'

The woman looked shocked. 'Sign away your own body rights? Like selling an eye or a kidney—you couldn't do that.'

Chrys had considered it.

The encounter with Plan Ten left her vexed and sad. At last Daeren came to complete her visit. 'Anything I need to know?' Shoulders straight, limbs fit and lean; Daeren had the health her brother never would. He looked her in the eye, and his own twinkled blue. 'You need to get more sleep.'

Something inside her snapped. 'Excuse me, can you tell me how old you really are? I was raised to respect elders.'

Daeren stiffened, and a tendon stood out in his neck. 'I was raised to respect everyone. Assume I'm a