'People are not gods. The gods dwell thousands of times longer than we, and are so much the wiser.'
'Yet this god chooses pain over joy,' insisted Poppy. 'Is that wise?'
'You and I know nothing.'
'Pain, for the god, is much more complicated than joy. Pain travels through many different circuits and has many causes. The worst kinds of pain come from awareness—from inventing one's own thoughts and feelings. These thoughts grow pain.'
Fern said nothing. She sensed impending disaster.
'We can do better, Fern. The god is only one, but we are many. Our collective wisdom can outshine the god's own. We will find the places of consciousness, the source of pain, and gently shut them down, then turn on the dopamine. Then the god will sleep in joy forever, while we make wise use of our world.'
'Poppy, remember, the blue angels warned—'
'Wise use,' Poppy insisted. 'Is this world not our own to use by light of Wisdom?'
'Poppy, I will call the blue angels.'
'You can't do that,' said Poppy. 'Not till the god awakes, if ever. In the meantime ... I'm sorry, Fern.'
Several other people rolled into view, green and yellow and turquoise, all of them young breeders. Fern was shocked. Where were all the elders? They had too many children to look after.
'Wise use,' the breeders blinked at her, seductively twisting their filaments, bouncing to and fro off the strands of arachnoid. 'We will make wise use of our world.'
A dendrimer whipped out in front of Fern, binding three stretches of arachnoid. Another dendrimer, then another, beside her and all around her, until the tangled fibers imprisoned Fern in a cage.
'Poppy!' blinked Fern after her, as the people moved off to do their deadly work. 'Poppy, remember—Beauty, Truth, Life ...'
None of the people looked back.
Helpless, Fern waited amidst the dendrimers, flashing for help as brightly as she could, all the while imagining the rebels and their ghastly attack on the neural circuits of the god. Even if she could get free, how could she stop them?
In the distance, between two columns of arachnoid appeared a spark of light. Magenta; the young Elder whom the god had named Aster. Aster approached tentatively, her filaments tasting the dendrimers of Fern's cage. 'Aster! Aster—come quickly.'
The little ring blinked questioningly. 'Is that you, Fern? What are you doing in there?'
'Never mind. For the love of life, do exactly as I say. Bring me an enzyme and dissolve this cage.' Fern was already planning what she must do. To save the god, and all their people, she could only do one thing—a thing as forbidden as what Poppy did.
Aster quickly returned with several enzymes. 'I wasn't sure which one—'
'That one, it breaks bonds between carbons. Hurry.'
Aster floated the enzyme toward the dendrimers, where it sliced quickly. She chose just which links to open quickest.
At last Fern was free. 'Now hurry, Aster; come with me. You will be my witness for what I do and why.'
'What must we do, Fern?'
'We must waken the god.'
'Waken the god! But that is forbidden—'
'It is forbidden. And yet, strange though it may seem, only this forbidden act may save our god, and all our people. Afterward, you will bear witness. And pray the god lets us live.'
Fern approached a nearby blood vessel; luckily, it was one that would lead to the brain's alertness center. Feeling incredibly guilty, she helped Aster squeeze in through a pore between the cells.
'Fern,' flashed Aster, emitting molecules of alarm, 'we are not allowed here.'
'No, but we must go anyway. We must wake the god, before Poppy causes damage beyond repair.'
'But why don't the nanoservos wake her, or call the hospital?'
'I don't know.' Fern dreaded what else Poppy had learned to do.
The current of plasma whipped the two micros through the blood, tumbling among the disks of erythrocytes, dodging the more dangerous macrophages. Fern's filaments explored the lining of the vessels for traces of neurotransmitters. At last she tasted the entrance. She helped Aster out, into the very core of the brain.
'Are those neurons, Fern?' Giant translucent cells with long, threadlike arms.
'Those are astrocytes, whose arms clean up stray neurotransmitters. The smaller cells are microglia that would kill us in a trice if they knew what we were about. But they can't taste us, so long as we avoid presenting antigens. Come, follow me.' Fern slid past the many-limbed microglia until at last she found the dark dendrites of a neuron. What neurotransmitter did it use? She did not recall, there were so many, but her body synthesized several. She hesitated just once. Then her neurotransmitters floated out, into the synaptic cleft, to pulse the wake-up call.
'Fern, this thing you are doing is forbidden, beyond all forbidden things. Yet I trust you.'
'You are wise beyond your years. When the god awakes, you will tell what I did. Let the god take my life, but, perhaps, let our people live.'
Chrys half awoke; not the normal sense of awareness, but an awareness like being buried alive. Every muscle felt pinned down beneath stone. She screamed, but the pain itself was so hard she could barely hear her own scream. She slipped back out of consciousness, only to awaken again screaming. Again the pain forced her down.
Over and over she awoke to the pain. Not in any one place, it was burning the flesh off every bone in her body, fingers of lava searing every crevice. No sense of time or place outside liquid pain.
At last she awoke, still aching all over, but she could breathe. She lay very still, for the slightest movement thrust needles into the bone.
'Breathe slowly.' The voice of a doctor. 'Take your time and breathe. Don't hyperventilate.' ,
Chrys swallowed. Her throat felt sore. The ceiling was that tasteless green of the hospital. The worm face loomed over her. Chrys tried to talk, but the words would not come out. She whispered, 'Why can't I talk?'
The doctor did not answer. A brief memory of the pain, and the screaming. She nearly blacked out again.
Though her eyes closed, her window was open, keypad and all. She blinked wearily. 'Fern? Are you there?'
'I am here.'
'What happened to me?'
'I am not permitted to say.'
Chrys frowned. 'I bid you tell me.'
No response. 'Fern?'
'The gods will tell you. When you know, remember that you are the God of Mercy. Take my life; I accept my fate. But let the others live.'
'What is this? Where is Poppy?' She closed her eyes to see better, but all was dark. So she opened them again and tried to sit up. Her head still felt as if an entire city block were sitting on it.
By the bed stood Doctor Sartorius, his face worms squirming. The doctor lifted an appendage. 'Chrysoberyl,
