Brain Plague

The pair moved politely through the portraits, Chrys and Moraeg and the other Seven Stars hovering about at a discreet distance. Only Topaz had the presence to venture a remark. 'Zircon's latest work is truly pathbreaking,' she told Yyri.

Yyri clasped her hands. 'An urban shaman—he plumbs the depths of modern humanity, in ways the more refined artist cannot.'

Director Ilia had moved on to Moraeg's flowers. At Asters at a Neutron Star, she nodded. 'Charming.'

'Who is this strange god? Our ancient history tells that we once visited—'

'Stay dark.' No Elf would get infected by micros. Chrys's eyelids fluttered, exhausted from staying up the night before to put the last touches on the turquoise moon. If she could just get through this evening, it would all be over.

At last Ilia reached the pyroscapes.

'Chrys's vision is unique,' offered Topaz.

Ilia watched the lava butterflies. Her eye widened. 'Intriguing color.' Then she stopped at the spattercone. She watched the infrared lava rise to spread across the sky like a web of arachnoid, while the moon sprouted filaments like a micro. The color scheme changed; Ilia waited till it cycled back. She watched, and everyone else quieted to watch her.

The director caught sight of the molecule next to the cat's eye, and she leaned forward for a closer look. 'Indeed.' She straightened, then turned slowly, her virtual train swirling behind her, the swallowtails dipping and swaying. She took a step toward Chrys, much closer than Chrys expected.

Rings flashed around each iris—like Daeren's, only these flickered gold and red.

'The God of Many Colors! Her people want to visit.'

'Please, Oh Great One, let us visit. Our history tells—'

Chrys stared in shock.

'What's the matter?' Moraeg caught her hand. 'Chrys, sit down a minute.'

Ilia nodded. 'I understand. Give my best to Andra.' Turning, she moved on to the next hall.

Pearl brought a chair. 'There, Chrys. You probably haven't slept for days.' She leaned close and whispered. 'We didn't know you had connections. Who is Andra?'

Something was wrong. If microbial 'brain enhancers' were just a cheap alternative to Elysian genetics—why would an Elf carry micros?

When the last guests were gone, and the last crumbs cleared by the scurrying floor servos, Chrys left the Gallery with Topaz and Pearl. Past midnight, Center Way was dark and still, the sky misted over. As the damp air cooled her face, her head throbbed. At last she could drag herself home.

Pearl's fingernails lifted like fireflies. 'It is our best show ever,' she exclaimed, still high on the excitement.

'The best attended opening,' agreed Topaz, nodding at early press reports in her window. 'Ilia said the Gallery Elysium is planning a show on Valan art.'

'She sure noticed your work, didn't she, Chrys?'

The encounter had left Chrys shaken. But then, if even the Elf gallery director carried micros, just like Chief Andra, how bad could they be?

Topaz sidled closer. 'How'd you do it?' she quietly asked. 'How'd you fix those colors?'

'Did this Andra help?' asked Pearl. 'Who is Andra? You got an Elf patron, like Zirc?'

'Certainly not.' After Topaz, Chrys had had girlfriends, and boyfriends, but like Topaz they each managed to leave her just when she needed them most. The last thing she needed now was another one. Her steps slowed. 'You know, that gallery director ... she's got brain enhancers.'

'Well sure, she's an Elf.'

'No, I mean our kind of brain enhancers. The same kind as Titan.'

Topaz frowned. 'How would you know?'

'Because I have them too.'

Pearl's eyes widened, and she sucked in her breath. 'You have micros? Like a vampire? Chrys— how could you?'

'Pearl, it's not like you think—'

'You're contagious!'

'I am not contagious. I mean, I'd have to—'

'Those plague micros—Topaz, I can't believe it.' Pearl fell back, trying to pull Topaz away.

'Pearl, just cool it.' Catching Pearl's arm, Topaz glared at Chrys. 'Why didn't you tell us?'

'I did tell you. Look, even Ilia has them—'

Topaz shook her head violently. 'Elves are different. Look, Chrys, you're in trouble. You're provincial; you don't understand these things.'

Pearl exclaimed, 'Topaz, don't let her touch you.'

'Oh hush.' Topaz blinked, calling at her eye windows. In the street a ruddy bubble rose and expanded, gliding toward her. 'Come on, let's get home.'

The two of them hurried off, leaving Chrys alone in the deserted street. Alone, and stunned. Would she lose every friend and acquaintance she had, for what lived in her brain?

'So many stars this year. We are inspired, especially by the work of the god Zircon.'

'Inspired to begin our own work, the dwellings of the gods. But where are the gods to call for us? '

No lack of 'friends' inside, in colors of green, poppy, and everything inbetween; even if they did like Zircon's work better. But Chrys slowly shook her head.

She had answered all the doctor's questions at the hospital, but she had not told the whole truth. She was addicted to one thing: people. She loved people, longed for them, good or bad, friend or stranger; she could probably fall for anyone except a sentient. The city surrounded her with a blanket of people, and that was good. But to lose Topaz and Pearl, and the rest of the Seven— it was like losing her right arm and leg.

'Find the Thundergod,' urged Fern. 'The Thundergod will help you.'

Chief Andra's purple button would not help. But Chrys knew one place where she could always find human people.

Blinking for a bubble car, she entered the liquid street. The bubble closed her in, and the street flowed forward to the end, where it plunged down the tube. Down past the fashion district, down past the bank level, and the food market within the bank's root. Down past the homes of chic young professionals, down past the working- class sims on their way up. Down past her own level, the cheapest decent housing you could get, to the last level at bedrock. The Underworld.

No sign of the Sapiens' rampage; Palace octopods kept the entertainment district intact. Spice and decay, stale wine and costly perfume, breathed through the streets. Vendors from Urulan laid stacks of nanotex and gameplast upon roots of nanoplast that glowed suspiciously. Chrys spied one blob just starting to crawl away from its root. She held out her wand and fried it. The plast sizzled and shattered, but two little energized blobs glided off into the dark, just missing a couple of simian pre-teens tossing stickplast up at a broken street light.

Weaving in among the locals, Palace notables made their way to the shows; Lord Zoisite was a regular. They generally had an armed octopod in tow. Chrys spotted one and strolled discreetly behind it, an old trick when she came alone.

The octopod and its bejeweled lord entered Gold of Asragh, her favorite, one of the tonier clubs with the slave bar hidden in back. They must have remodeled, for the bar was now right up front by the entrance, a plague- ridden slave hawking ace in plain sight. So much for the Protector's war on the brain plague.

Behind the bar, the woman lifted a hand. 'Char,' she called in a low, hollow voice. 'That you, Char?'

You could tell the voice of a mid-stage slave, flat and toneless, like a sentient gone wrong. Not yet a vampire, and not quite ready for the Slave World. Chrys nodded. 'Hi, Saf.' Sapphire, her name might have been once; slaves forgot all but the initial sound of human names. They gradually sold all they had for arsenic to serve their microbial