Brain Plague

changing phase. Any moment Chrys expected the outfit to demand a raise and a two-week vacation.

'Chrys,' Opal exclaimed, pressing her arm, 'I'm so thrilled you're fixing the Comb. It will be wonderful to work without drip from the ceiling. We're all impressed. Everyone's dying to meet you.' She added pointedly, 'Despite the brain drain.'

The doorway of Olympus shimmered and expanded—into another world. Tree trunks arched into the virtual sky, then back to earth, like lava fountains frozen. The arched trunks were midnight blue, their foliage hung in green and yellow bangles, profuse enough to block the sun. Beside the looped foliage hovered a helicopter bird, its propeller buzzing. From beneath a tree's arch rolled a tire-shaped animal, headless and limbless, its suckers picking up from behind and rotating forward to catch the ground ahead. It took fright and sped off, like a wheel come loose from a wagon.

'Living wheels,' exclaimed Chrys.

'It's Prokaryon,' said Opal, 'where the ancestral micros came from. On Prokaryon, all the creatures are living wheels. It's not so strange. Even your own mitochondria are covered with rotating energy generators, like molecular pinwheels.'

'Those trees—are they wheels too?'

Opal nodded. 'Their roots loop across underneath, and their arches sprout loopleaves. Micros inhabit the singing-trees; they make the loopleaves flash colors, to transmit their signals long-distance.'

'Or they live in us, and use human eyes.' No wonder they invented the neuroports.

Opal's arm swung forward, and a magnificent curl of gems rolled past her breast. 'We humans make better transmitting towers. We're intelligent.'

In a clearing sat several Plan-Ten-polished people resplendent in gem-swirling nanotex, relaxing amid bowls of lambfruit and AZ. The chief of security glittered in pale green andradites, marching in rows around her waist. With her was an eye-stalked sentient; Sartorius, with his worms pulled in to look less repellent.

'The Terminator,' flashed Jonquil. 'Turn away. We don't like to see him.'

'Mind your manners. Where's Aster?' Chrys did not care much for the doctor either, but her people had better watch their step.

Opal and Selenite passed Andra transfer patches. Several carriers whom Chrys had not yet met held out patches to them, and to her. Everyone seemed to have their hands on someone, sending microbial visitors neck to neck. Plenty of talent to recruit, but it made Chrys uneasy, even if micros did keep the blood clean.

Out of the forest came a caryatid, taking slow, gliding steps. Its form was a young man, pale as an Elysian, perfectly proportioned, its gaze serene. Chrys admired the face; it was well done, more sophisticated than Xenon's handiwork. Its arm held out a platter of sculpted fruits, lamb and pork flesh grown on a stem, the sort of trifle one saw for a hundred credits behind thick glass on Center Way. Chrys took one, and the taste of it went straight to her head; she weakened at the knees. How the other half a percent eats.

Opal beckoned Chrys to sit. She and Selenite rested arm in arm beneath the brightly colored loopleaves. Selenite was already arguing with Daeren. 'I'm not sure micros really are individuals, like human people,' she insisted.

Daeren wore no talar, but his black nanotex pulsed with subtle geometric forms. His face was relaxed, but his hand clenched and unclenched. 'Of course they're individuals,' he said quietly. 'Each one has personality. A micro feels in one day what a humans takes decades to feel.'

'But they depend on us completely. Without us, they are nothing.'

'What are we humans without our planet, our atmosphere?'

Another caryatid glided forward. This one looked faintly familiar. Chrys frowned in puzzlement. Topaz; not exactly, yet it resembled her, a boyish version. Chrys's lips parted, then she shook herself. All these strangers had her confused. And she missed Topaz so badly. How had the show done? Topaz had not even called. At least Zircon had. She couldn't wait to see him again at Gold of Asragh.

'Even if micros are individuals now,' Selenite continued, 'evolution will make them degenerate. Look how fast they mutate. Like our ancestral mitochondria, they'll start out individuals, then eventually lose most of their genes and merge with our own bodies.'

Daeren shook his head. 'Mitochondrial ancestors were individual, but mindless. Mindless cells, like any ordinary microbe, at the mercy of natural selection. But micro people are intelligent. They breed their own children, correcting their genes.'

'Some of us breed them,' Selenite rejoined coolly. 'Some of us select which offspring to merge. We cultivate our strains for essential skills, while discarding less helpful traits. In the end, they'll merge with our own brains— true brain extensions.'

At that, Daeren did not answer. His face went blank, as if to hide his thoughts.

Opal leaned her head on Selenite's shoulder. 'The micros will change us too,' she warned. 'Even our mitochondria transferred their genes into our own chromosomes. On Prokaryon, the micro people bred the giant singing-trees to their desires. And now—'

Selenite frowned. 'Don't even say such things. The Sapiens will eat us alive.'

Chrys thought, she herself would eat those micros alive if they tried to mess with her genes.

Opal leaned away and put a hand on Daeren's knee. 'What about microsentients? Do you support them too?'

His mouth lengthened slightly. 'I do,' he admitted.

Selenite rolled her eyes. 'So every nano-cell in every bit of plast could be a person?'

Another caryatid approached Chrys. Servers of course were kept at a level of sentience just below what might 'wake up.' She admired this one's classic features. 'Some water, please?' The server obligingly produced a phial of clear liquid, the taste of a Dolomite spring. For a moment Chrys closed her eyes, back to her childhood on the ash-dusted slope, at once pleasant, yet achingly sad.

'Chrysoberyl?' Beside a singing-tree reclined Lord Jasper, his arm around a fair-haired gentleman in gray nanotex with one red namestone. Moraeg's Lord Carnelian, Chrys thought at first; but he was not. He must be Jasper's husband, Lord Garnet. Jasper rose to meet Chrys. 'My pleasure.' His thick simian brow gave him a permanently serious expression. Plan Ten could have reshaped his simian traits, but he hadn't; Chrys respected that. 'You manage Eleutheria most admirably, by all accounts.'

'The God of the Map of the Universe! When can we visit?'

Chrys hesitated, still shy about 'visiting.' 'They're good people,' said Chrys, her eyelids fluttering nervously. 'They take pride in their creation.'

'Keep your eyes open,' complained Aster. 'Shut-downs interfere with transmission. This is most important—'

'Be patient,' Chrys blinked back.

Jasper nodded sharply, like a man used to sizing up character. 'I'm glad they're back at work on the Comb. Perhaps they can salvage it after all.' He touched her hand politely, then put a transfer at his neck. 'As you know, the House of Hyalite had approached Titan about a ... major new project. Much bigger than the Comb. We believe he had just drafted a proposal, when he passed away.'

'How unfortunate.' What project, she wondered. What could be bigger than the Comb?

'Your people claim they saved the proposal, and have continued to refine it.'

It unnerved her when her micros knew what was going on and she didn't.

'Let's not keep Garnet waiting,' said Jasper. 'Garnet, this is Chrysoberyl of Dolomoth. Our new neighbor.'

Lord Garnet met her eyes, and his own sparkled gold. A younger son of the Hyalites, he had their high cheekbones and well-set eyes, but Chrys had heard little of him. He must have paid off the snake-eggs to keep him out of the news. Like Lord Carnelian, he wore only gray, and a namestone so small you could miss it. 'So you're the new Titan.'

'Oh, no.' Chrys shook her head. 'I'm no dynatect.' She added earnestly, 'I'm an artist. One of the Seven Stars.'

'The God of Love,' said Aster. 'His people love our nightclubs. Let them visit.'

Chrys touched his hand and offered him 'visitors.'