Brain Plague

Zircon hesitated. 'I heard you had a bad trip.'

She gritted her teeth. Was that how the Seven would write her off—'She had a bad trip.' 'Why don't you visit? I'm not contagious.'

'That's not what I heard. You of all people.'

A chill came over her. If even Zircon wouldn't touch her, who would? 'You big chicken.'

'See my feathers.' The sprite leaned closer. 'Actually, Chrys ... was it worth it? The high, I mean.'

Chrys rolled her eyes. 'You're the 'urban shaman.' You don't need help to be a genius.'

'Well, tell me about it sometime. I'll try anything once. See you at the gym.'

She smiled and felt better. But how could she go back? What if one of the tougher customers disliked the look of her eyes? 'I have to work on the Comb. They already paid me a megacred.'

Zircon whistled. 'In that case, you can treat me at the Gold of Asragh.'

'The Underworld? Didn't they get trashed?'

'The octopods looked after the night spots. How could Lord Zoisite get by without caterpillar dancing?'

That evening Chrys tore herself away from her painting to meet Opal and Selenite at the Comb. As she departed, she found her entrance hall transformed into a broad spiral staircase flanked with gargoyles and caryatids, the draped figures holding up scalloped capitals while stepping out of the wall, their eyes following her down the stairs. She would have to talk with Xenon, tactfully, about his decor.

She strolled past the towers of rainbow cake fenced with stunplast. In the street glided bubble cars, a tributary of the lava river of Center Way. Coming toward her was a lady in stylish swirling nanotex with mirrored heels.

'Keep dark,' Chrys warned her micros. 'No need to scare people.'

'People won't be scared,' assured Aster. 'We need to contact new people.'

'Not all gods have people. Stay dark.' The lady passed without incident. Chrys felt her pulse subside.

One block, then another, on her way to the tube stop. As she reached the next block, the elegance faded. A crack appeared in a wall; once slice of building actually slumped, its sentience gone. Then the sentient homes gave way to more modest shelters of brick and cellulose, some with windows nailed shut. People on the go liked a short walk to the tube, but not right next door. And there, between two boarded-up shops, was a brightly lit window with a painted sign—The Spirit Table.

A soup kitchen. Right here, on Rainbow Row, just a ten-minute walk from the mansion of Lord Garnet of Hyalite. Chrys laughed, though her chest tightened. She had eaten at a soup kitchen once, when the rent took her last credit.

'Oh Great One, what is that source of light?' Micros were suckers for anything that sparkled.

'A place for gods too poor to feed themselves.'

'Gods who don't feed themselves? How distasteful. How can this be?'

Her jaw tensed. Maybe these 'people' could use an education. She paused at the cellulose door. It had a handle and creaked on its hinge.

It was early for customers, but a Sister appeared in a hooded robe of alpaca wool; it could have been carded and spun on Mount Dolomoth. 'Sister Kaol, at your service, my dear. You're most welcome.' The Sister gestured toward a table. 'The soup's nearly done.'

Chrys shook her head. 'I'm new on the block, and I was just wondering, could you use a hand now and then?'

Sister Kaol raised her hands. 'Saints and angels preserve you, dear. Of course, we have regular volunteers; and we always need donations....'

She left feeling better, yet half a fool. All she needed was another distraction from her work.

'Would you ever not feed yourself, Ob Great One?' asked Aster. 'Remember, your food feeds us, too.'

'So long as you keep all those digits in my credit line, you needn't worry.'

'How could the gods lack food? How could a god be powerless?'

Suddenly Chrys felt reluctant to be quite so candid as she had with Poppy. How far should their education go? 'It's a mystery. Mysterious are the ways of the gods.'

As she entered the tube, she realized she'd heard no news for a week. Now that she no longer was force-fed hourly newsbreaks, the world could go up in smoke without her knowing. She blinked at her keypad.

There stood Lord Zoisite, the minister for justice, proclaiming his shock and outrage over the carnage he let happen in the Underworld. No talk of reconstruction. From Elysium, the marble-faced Guardian Arion expressed his concern. 'The democracies of the Fold cannot excuse unchecked criminality.' Arion's fine Elf phrasing barely masked his contempt.

Nothing new on Titan's murder, let alone Chrys's cat. The news quickly moved on to the coming solar eclipse. The eclipse would make exciting effects of light and shadow; Chrys would not miss it. Yet it saddened her to hear the Underworld dismissed in the same tones as an eclipse: an event wholly predictable, yet nothing to be done.

As the sun neared the horizon, its last rays ignited the Comb with gold, scarlet, and poppy, matching the cheerful crimson of Chrys's nanotex. She blinked to store a few snapshots. Beside the hexagonal entrance stood Opal and Selenite.

'Ob Great One,' flashed Fern, distracting her. 'A new elder asks for a name. Please—'

'What? Not now.' Chrys signaled the letters quickly with her eyes, hoping Selenite would not notice. The Deathlord would expect her to have her people under control; they needed to make a good impression.

'Please, God of Mercy; it's most important. I will explain

later'

'All right, hurry up.' She would have to give them a talking-to; they could not interrupt just any time.

Opal caught her hand. 'Your people must be excited to see the Comb; I'm sure they've got lots to talk about.'

'I am here, Oh Great One.' Brilliant yellow. 'I will design and create for you. I believe in Beauty and Power, the power of great new ideas—'

'Jonquil,' Chrys named her. 'Now be dark.'

Selenite nodded, her own eyes rings of flame. 'They have a plan to fix the windows.'

'The micros? Already?'

Selenite touched Chrys's hand and passed her a patch. 'Remember, my people met with them yesterday and gave them memory cells of how the Comb grew. From her conception and germination, down to the latest millimeter of growth. Titan lost interest after the first month. But now, your Eleutherians have had a generation to work—as long as it took ancient humans to build the Pyramids.'

Chrys drank in the sight of the hexagonal windows spiraling upward and around, like a snake slithering up around a trunk, disappearing into solar gold.

Opal sighed. 'Seeing her the first time, you could just faint.'

'What an ancient monument,' Jonquil said of the year-old building. 'I'm amazed it's not yet in ruins.'

'Fern?' Chrys was anxious to reach someone with a better attitude.

'Fern feels unwell,' replied Aster. 'She asks leave to rest.'

Chrys stopped. Fern was sick? '7s there no 'Plan Ten' for micros?'

A moment's hesitation. 'I will visit the Deathlord to share our model with the minions.'