Brain Plague

'Just barely. She can still see. All of us can see and marvel at this miracle.'

Perhaps she could animate it. 'Show me her flashing. Show her telling about the Eighth Light.'

The filaments darkened and brightened, telling of the Eighth Light of Mercy. At last Chrys loaded the sketch into a viewcoin, then she raced upstairs to the roof.

Before her all around spread the urban panorama, the ceiling of stars above, universal and human-made, the even brighter carpet below, altogether a veritable feast of lights. Chrys blinked at her window and up came the lights of Fern. A new constellation joined the heavens.

'A miracle,' flashed Aster. 'A miracle never known before among all the people. People amid the stars—this event marks a new dawn of history.'

Microbial history. Chrys sighed. 'Xenon?' she called. 'Could I have a chaise or something? I'll spend the night out here.'

'Certainly, Chrysoberyl. If you like, an entire seraglio setting for your pleasure—'

'One chair will do.' She lay back and watched the green star of mercy, looming large above the others in her eyes. 'And wake me every two hours.'

In the morning Chrys awoke, tired but at peace. She had gotten her people through the death of their leader and put them to work renovating the Comb. She was back in control and could return to her pyroscape. With the vast virtual canvas, it took her longer than usual to block in the dark masses of rock and shadow. No color yet, but the dark parts were crucial. You could only raise brilliant color against abyssal dark.

'God of Mercy, I call on you.'

'Yes, Jonquil.' Aster must be out again, at one of her Council meetings. She was always harried now, like poor Fern used to be.

Fern ... Chrys kept Fern's sketch hovering with her color studies at the upper right corner of her studio, the green twinkling filaments forever cycling Fern's message of the Eighth Light.

'May I ask a question, for information?'

'Of course, Jonquil.' Chrys plucked some dark to deepen a canyon in the foreground, before the distant volcano.

'Even though it might offend the gods?'

'I'm not offended.'

'Can you explain why it's forbidden to touch the Center? You are the greatest god that ever lived; why can we not reward you in full?'

Chrys's arm fell, and a streak of charcoal gray marred the foreground. What could the yellow one be thinking? Was history to repeat itself every generation? 'Look what happened to Poppy.'

'True, but it's been three generations since. Who knows? There's always new technology.' Jonquil sought a rational response to a rational question. Why was it so hard to answer?

Chrys thought carefully. 'Reward is power. People lack the wisdom for such power. Control the gods, and you destroy yourselves. '

'Thank you, Oh Great One; that helps. You are truly the greatest of gods.'

This was a hint for AZ, and Chrys promptly placed a wafer on her tongue. 'Remember Fern,' she added, and darkened the studio until only the sketch was lit. For a moment she watched the green star reciting; it always calmed them.

Xenon chimed. The sound startled Merope, who leaped down from the china closet. 'We have a visitor, dear Chrysoberyl,' Xenon announced. In her window appeared Daeren, standing expectantly between the outer pair of caryatids. 'It's your testing day, remember?'

She clapped a hand to her head. 'Oh, right—I'll get to the hospital.' What a damned nuisance.

'We make house calls from now on,' Daeren told her. 'It's more comfortable all round.'

'Well, all right then. Send him up,' she told the house, recovering herself. 'And could you put out some refreshments?' she added. 'The blue angels are here,' she warned Jonquil. 'No more questions.'

Daeren came up the flowing stairs between the rows of gargoyles and caryatids, their eyes swiveling after him. Chrys winced. 'Xenon does our decor.'

'I'm sure as an artist you contribute.'

Chrys shook her head. 'I'm an outdoors kind of person.' That's why she ended up trapped in this city, she told herself sarcastically.

Then she recalled Opal's house full of redwoods. Ideas flooded her head; she could really do her bedroom. But for now, she faced the blue angels. 'Aster? The Lord of Light is here. Will you visit, and keep Jonquil dark?'

'How's it going?' asked Daeren. 'Anything I should know?'

'Not that I can think of. Here, won't you have something?' Next door, Xenon had prepared an entire banquet table, from canapes to carved roast, including several expensive wines. Chrys looked away, embarrassed.

'Thanks, but we don't accept anything on the job.' Daeren looked her in the eye, and his irises flashed blue fireworks. His expression changed. 'I'm sorry about Fern. You should have called someone; Opal would have slept over.'

Chrys lifted her chin. 'I handled it myself.'

Daeren handed her a patch. She placed it at her neck, then handed it back. Daeren said, 'I just wish I could have seen her before she died. I must have sounded angry most of the time, but actually I was quite fond of Fern.' Opal was right, he really did get attached to the little rings. 'You've done well,' he said at last. 'But they worry that you won't eat enough.'

'What?' Damn that Aster—no sense of discretion. 'Where'd they get that idea?'

'You're not anorexic?'

She stared frankly. 'Do I look it?' Then she remembered. 'The Spirit Table. They had questions when I started serving there.' Maybe the Sisters could use Xenon's banquet.

Daeren's look softened. 'The soup kitchen? The one at the tube stop?'

'I gather these Eleutherians led a sheltered existence.'

He nodded. 'We're careful what we let them see. They're supposed to think all gods are omnipotent.'

'That's bullshit.'

'It's committee policy. The theory is, they'll be easier to control.'

'Like I said.' Though she herself had not been entirely candid about the weakness of the gods. 'How do you control yours?' she wanted to know. 'I mean, how do you make them obey?'

'That's a very personal matter. You have to work out your own way.' He hesitated. 'There's always Selenite's way.'

'Executions?'

'She sends in Sar's nanos to make an example of one, every generation or so.'

That petite woman with the black curls, a serial killer. Chrys shuddered. But then—what was the God of the Brethren, if not a serial killer? She'd try that one on her parents sometime. 'Is that what you do? Executions?'

'Mine don't give much trouble. They're mature.' A likely story, pretty boy.

Her youngest brother, Hal, she remembered suddenly. She had enough funds now to get him Plan Ten. But how long would it last? Xenon's salary alone would drain her in six months, unless her people got another contract. She had no idea how to manage money. 'I hate to sound backwoods, but, what do you gods do with your credit? I mean, like, investing?'

'You need a financial planner. Try Garnet. He lives just around the block.'

That was Lord Garnet of Hyalite. The Hyalite mansion took up several blocks. Hyalite was the most ancient of the Great Houses, having endured twenty-five centuries since the War of Purple. Chrys doubted whether Lord Garnet would care to see a starving artist. Especially one whose microbial symbionts built such shoddy buildings.

After Daeren left, Selenite called. 'Chrys,' her sprite announced accusingly, 'we've got a problem. Your people have uncovered a more serious structural defect than we expected.' The face with the neat black curls looked grim as death.