Brain Plague

'Everything.' Ilia's gaze circled the hall. 'Everything of your 'microbial' period, as well as representative works from your primitive past. Our patrons adore tracing creative development.'

'So 'Gems from the Primitive' is your main exhibit next year.'

Ilia waved her hand dismissively. 'That's the west wing. The main exhibit will be Azetidine alone.' Her irises flashed. 'Or should I say . .. Azetidine, collectively.'

Chrys's face felt hot, and her hands shook.

'Just remember one thing,' Ilia moved closer, and her voice intensified. 'I want everything—you understand? No holding back your best for someone else.'

'What? No, of course not.'

'Even the most controversial.' Ilia nodded. 'Remember, Elysians have sophisticated tastes. Our patrons expect the Gallery to be controversial, even shocking.'

'I see.'

'That Endless Light,' Ilia whispered regretfully. 'You already let it go. How unfortunate.'

Chrys turned cold. Even Ilia was not immune.

'You're working on another, perhaps?'

'No,' Chrys said flatly. 'No more of that... type.'

'I expect the owner will lend it for our show.'

'Oh no—that won't be necessary.' Chrys wanted no ties to that Elf slave. 'Actually, I... I am working on another. Not the same, but just as. . . controversial.'

Chrys was in such a daze she barely knew how she got home. At the top of her house she lay back on her chaise with Merope in her lap, and looked out on the twinkling harbor below, still trying to grasp her good fortune. 'Jonquil,' she called.

'Yes, Oh Great One. What is your pleasure?'

She swallowed an AZ. 'Jonquil, the people have done well, and I am most pleased. Ask any favor, and I shall grant it.'

'God of Mercy, we live or die at your pleasure. If it please the god, I ask only that you complete a more advanced composition of the highest sophistication.'

Chrys frowned. 'Are you sure it's legal?' The last sketch she did for Jonquil had caused a riot in the Cisterna Magna.

'Of course, Great One. Our laws have been liberalized considerably over the last three generations.'

'Very well, I grant your wish.' At least Jonquil's ideas could make interesting compositions. While commissioned portraits paid the rent, they grew tiresome; clients got upset about how their filaments were depicted, and others had to include accessory molecules. Jonquil's ideas, though, might even interest Ilia.

'Our people, too, are most pleased. May we not serve the height of the god's pleasure? Surely by now, technology must allow—'

'No.' She sighed. They still asked; they'd never give up. That's why carriers needed all the damned testing. But who could test the testers? They might end up like Eris ...

Never mind. The Gallery Elysium—she had to tell Zircon and Lady Moraeg; they would be amazed. And her family—but how could she tell them? The thought was a knife in her heart.

In her studio she loaded Fern's portrait into a palm-sized holostill to send to her brother. 'Dear Hal,' she recorded. 'I finally made it in the art world. Here is something from my show. I hope you think it's . . . pretty.' She could barely finish her sentence and just restrained herself from attaching ten thousand credits for pocket change. Xenon's Anonymous would do better.

In the morning Chrys called Daeren. His sprite appeared between two colossal pillars of the Justice Ministry, wearing gray like the Palace bureaucrats. Chrys made her face frown. 'Just making sure you'll be home.'

'Don't worry, I'll be at your studio on time.'

'Nope. Your place, remember? I'm testing you.'

'That's right.' Daeren grinned. 'You've done your homework.'

'If you really were in trouble,' she quoted, 'you might 'forget' to come.'

Daeren lived in a top-level neighborhood, but she passed his entrance twice before finding it. No caryatids, no doorstoop—just the palest trace of a window. A good idea, she thought; avoid tempting vandals.

'We're testing the Lord of Light,' she warned her people. 'Are you ready?'

'Great God of Mercy, I live only for You.' The reply flashed infrared, from Fireweed. 'There is no other God.'

Chrys sighed. This Fireweed was turning out even harder to deal with than Rose. 'I love you too, Fireweed; but if you love me, love my people. Right now my people have a job to do.'

'I will do so, with all my heart.'

'Where the devil is Jonquil?'

Rose answered. 'I myself will lead the investigation. You can depend on it— not a master will escape alive.'

One unrepentant 'master' investigating others—Chrys nearly turned back and went home. But then, if this practice test went badly, Andra might relieve her of the chore.

Daeren's door opened. 'It's good to see you, Chrys.' In his sitting room the drapes merged seamlessly with the lights, punctuated by shapes of red and gold. Either Daeren or his house had a good eye for color, less conservative than she expected. By the window rose a sinuous black sculpture, like the eye of a galaxy. On a table, a virtual piece sprouted golden hexagons, rising as if to break into flight.

'That one's early Titan,' he told her. 'I have another of his, up there.'

At the ceiling, a mobile of ephemeral shapes turned in a slow dance. 'Titan started with installations,' Chrys recalled. 'His work ... sings.' A sad song. She looked down again. Daeren's shoulders had filled out a bit; he must have been working out, unless he had called Plan Ten. His black nanotex polished his form as hard as any sculpture.

'Can I offer you anything?' he asked. 'Orange juice?'

She remembered just in time. 'No thanks.'

'Well, you didn't come to admire my collection,' he said. 'Please proceed.'

'Rose, it's time.' Aloud, she told him, 'I'm supposed to ask if there's anything I need to know.'

He studied her eyes. 'No, thanks. And no, we don't need to 'give ourselves up now, rather than later.' '

She flushed. 'Rose, remember your manners.' Daeren's eyes flickered blue, responding to Rose's interrogation. It seemed to take forever; Chrys was hard-pressed to keep from blinking.

'We see no problems,' Rose admitted at last. 'So far.'

'Okay?' Chrys asked him doubtfully, putting a transfer at her neck. 'I can't vouch for how this will go.'

'No one ever can.' Daeren took the transfer, then sat with his arms crossed. Chrys sat back, hearing a music she had not noticed before. A quiet melody, deceptively formless, with no phrase repeated twice. She tried to keep her eyes on his, but somehow today she kept stealing a glimpse of the rest of him, his well-sculpted shoulders and below. So long, she thought wearily; it had been so long since she knew someone worth knowing. But humans weren't worth the risk; their mistakes lived too long.

'All right, enough,' he snapped, abruptly sitting up.

Chrys raised an eyebrow. 'I'm supposed to decide that.'

'Well, get on with it.'

'Rose is flashing the signal, Great One,' came Jonquil. 'She is ready to return.'

Chrys took back her investigators. 'Did they pass?'

'We issued numerous citations,' began Rose. 'Insufficient clearance in tunnels to the capillaries. Deferred maintenance on infrastructure. Outdated cancer detectors—'