Brain Plague

endless white light.

In the corner of her eye a light pulsed red. A call from Dolomoth—it must be her parents, at last. 'Be dark, all of you.' She jumped out of bed, startling Merope who had been curled up on her feet. Grabbing a disk of nanotex, she pulled a comb through her hair. The nanotex stretched and slithered around her skin. 'Okay,' she said aloud, her head still spinning as she blinked back at the keypad.

The two Brethren appeared in their dust-colored robes. Beyond them the window of the calling station framed Mount Dolomoth, the wisp of smoke rising tranquil from its peak. Her father as always wore his long beard that used to tickle her face. Her mother's eyes still shone like blue drops of sky amid the wrinkles. A twinge of guilt—Chrys herself would never have those wrinkles. But her brother, at least she could help him.

'Chrysoberyl,' exclaimed her mother. 'Are you all right?'

'Of course, Mother. My work has taken off; I've made it big.' She winced, realizing, how could she tell them more? 'How is Hal?'

The fold of her mother's robe stirred faintly in the breeze. 'All the saints and angels pray for you.'

'Did you get my message?' Chrys asked eagerly. 'Plan Six—it will fix his mitochondria.'

Her parents stood at the station, not speaking. Then her father slowly shook his head. 'How can a man eat his fill when his neighbors go hungry?'

Chrys frowned. 'What's the matter, don't you believe me? Look, I know you can't understand, but—I've made good, honest. People are buying my stuff. I can afford to help my brother.'

The two hooded heads faced each other. Then her mother looked at Chrys, a sad, pitying look; the look that Chrys dreaded, as if her mother could see everything to the bottom of her soul, although Chrys learned long ago that she could not. 'The boy next door had pneumonia for a month, and baby Chert was born with a limp. Who shall help them? Shall our son walk among them like a god?'

Her mouth fell open. 'You mean . . . you refused the Plan?'

'The saints will provide,' her father assured her. 'The saints provide the most precious gift of all: Sacred love.'

'But I love my brother. That's why I want to help him.'

Her mother's eyes opened wide. 'Oh Chrys, I see a dark path ahead of you. A path empty of light and love. Beware, Chrys; beware of false angels—'

Chrys squeezed her eyes shut, and her parents vanished. Then she burst into tears and fell back on her bed, sobbing. How many years, she had ached for her brother, and now that she had a chance .. . did her parents hate her so much for leaving the hills?

'Excuse me.' Xenon's voice startled her. 'Pardon if I intrude, but is there anything I can do? Any problem with the house?'

Chrys shook her head. 'Even you can't fix my parents.'

'I have no experience of parents, but I'm a student of human nature. May I try?'

She looked up skeptically. 'Go ahead.'

'How many children are in your parents' village?'

'About thirty,' she guessed.

'Could you cover them all?'

There was a thought. From each according to ability, to each according to need. 'If I had the ability,' Chrys pointed out. 'I'm not as rich as Garnet.'

'You're certainly getting there.' Her credit line had reached eight digits.

'Vapor cash.'

'Sell off half your speculation, and let the other half grow.'

There was a thought. She sighed. 'I still don't think they'll take it.'

'Of course not,' said Xenon. 'Don't tell your parents a thing. Let me handle it—an anonymous donor. My study of human nature tells me it's much harder to turn down a gift from Anonymous.'

She grinned. 'Thanks a lot, Xenon. You're worth twice your pay.'

'You might consider that,' he replied, 'now that you have the ability.'

It was sad to count a paid sentient as your best friend. Her mother's last word left her unsettled. Who was left to love her, in this anonymous city? Love was cruel; cruel on the mountain, cruel in the city. Topaz had loved her and cast her off. Zirc might care, when not consumed by his own genius; and Opal was friendly, though maybe she just wanted the Comb fixed. Even Merope mainly wanted milk in her dish.

'Oh Great One,' flashed Aster. 'Do we please you today?'

She remembered her morning dose of AZ. 'Aster,' she replied, putting the wafer on her tongue, 'Do the people love me?'

'How can I say, Oh Great One? How could we not love life itself?'

There was an honest answer. 'Does anyone love me for myself—not just to stay alive?'

'That kind of love is rare, rarer even than the trace metals, gadolinium or ytterbium. But there was one who loved the god for the god's sake: that was Fern.'

Fern, the first little green ring. Where was she now? Chrys looked fondly up at her sketch of Fern, still twinkling her last words to her people. Next to her in the studio, now, hung Opal's favorite, and Garnet's, and the blue angel Dendrobium. Chrys planned to expand and develop them, deepening their character. What would the patrons think of them amid the volcanoes, in her next show?

The question was, how to display them to the best advantage. A cramped room in a gallery would not do. The twinkling filaments would just look like a mess of light.

Then she had it. 'Xenon? Can you build a dome up on the roof?'

'Certainly, Chrysoberyl. A clear dome?'

'For a clear night, yes, to let in the stars. For now, project them.'

Once the dome was erected, Chrys placed her portraits there, one by one, constellations shining down from heaven. At night they filled the urban sky, amid the sky signs and the flitting lightcraft.

Jonquil was ecstatic, exclaiming over their power and beauty. Even Rose, still chained in dendrimers, was impressed. 'The gods are a fiction,' Rose said, 'but truly the Great Host has developed fiction to a high art.'

'What about the children?' reminded Jonquil. 'The merging children? We can't wait to see them.'

'I'm working on that.' The coupling children had proven a bit much for Chrys's grasp of geometry. Two rings merging was not so hard, but coming apart afterward in three—she had to get the proportions right. And then to get the feel of it, what it meant for the micro people, an experience so alien to her. No humans who ever 'merged' came out so transformed.

'And the God herself?' remembered Aster. 'Legend tells that the God herself was once portrayed in the stars.'

Mystified, Chrys thought back. That old sketch from her school days—she had shown it to Fern. She couldn't show that in public; the critics would laugh. But at home was okay. 'Xenon, put my old self-portrait here.' She blinked at her letters to pull the sketch out of storage. Veins glowing, and lava flowing melodramatically from her hair, she looked nothing like the stars, more like an apparition from hell.

'What is this, Great Host?' demanded Rose.

'The God herself, Unbeliever,' replied Jonquil. 'In my opinion, it could use some work. The brain, for instance; I can't make it out. Where is the Cisterna Magna?'

'That's quite enough.' And yet, Chrys thought... the possibilities. Humans were so fond of their own brains; why did they never portray them?

Unfortunately, she had to let this thought simmer while she uploaded her people's latest calculations on the Comb. Then her people had to view the resulting simulations in 3-D, as well as endless plans and sections. The sectional views showed the interior of the Comb remaining intact, with floors and ceiling growing in proportion.

She was pleased to show Selenite, at their next meeting. 'Much better,' Selenite admitted, sipping Xenon's exquisite green tea and teacake. Taking Xenon's hint, Chrys had found that hospitality significantly smoothed their conferences. 'We've completely transformed the model. Where'd they get the math to do that? The wizards?'