Brain Plague

'Look,' exclaimed Daeren, 'this was supposed to be a drug test, not a building inspection.'

'You pass.' She couldn't resist adding, 'Just barely.'

He got up and stretched. 'They'll have to polish their act. You can't treat your fellow Olympians like a convicted felon. Carriers are fussy; they'll demand another tester.'

'Be my guest—it wasn't my idea.'

He thought a moment. 'Garnet won't mind.'

'Lord Garnet? I'd just die.'

'Garnet likes Eleutherians. You can join us, on our next appointment, and we'll see how it goes.' Daeren lifted his hand; the music grew, shifting to a warmer tone. 'That Rose had to tell us all sorts of masters' tricks we hadn't known to look for, antigenic mimicry and so on.' He gave Chrys a look. 'Rose's ego is her one saving grace. We've learned more from her than any defector I know.'

'Well, that's something.'

'But don't trust her.'

Chrys spread her hands. 'So what can I do? Before long, she'll be my 'high priest.' '

'Priests only serve at your pleasure.'

Her head tilted curiously. 'Did you ever demote one?'

'I've never had to.'

She rolled her eyes. 'Sometime, dear, you're just too perfect.'

'In my line of work, I can't afford mistakes.'

'In my line, I learn nothing except through mistakes.'

Daeren thought a moment. 'I don't know,' he said. 'I hadn't noticed any mistakes in your work.'

At the compliment she flushed. 'You haven't seen Jonquil's latest.' She took out several viewcoins. 'Be honest—are these a mistake?'

They sat together, watching each sketch in turn. 'Sweet,' said Daeren, his face relaxed. 'We like that a lot. And this one—you can see how the children long to taste each other.'

'Yes,' she sighed. Jonquil had been so particular about getting the filaments right.

The next one drew silence, and the next. A very long silence.

'Well?'

'They're ... effective,' he admitted, his eyes still focused.

'Should I show them in public?'

'I don't know. You might get a reputation.'

'I knew it,' she exclaimed. 'I knew that Jonquil would have me peddling porn.'

'The children look okay,' he assured her. 'They're just doing what micro children naturally do. But elders—or elders with children—that's profoundly disturbing.'

'I'll be warned. No more riots.' She glanced at him sideways, then set the viewcoins on the table. 'They don't seem to hurt your perfect people. Take what you like—it's 'advertising.' '

'Thanks, Chrys.'

She watched to see which he took. He took them all.

Chrys celebrated her good fortune by treating Moraeg and Zircon at the most expensive restaurant on Center Way.

'A fantastic year for the Seven.' Zircon had picked rack of caterpillar, the stacked claws rearing outward in a circle. 'Even the Elves can't get enough of us.'

''Gems from the Primitive.' You'll be in the west wing.' Chrys sipped her glass, sparkling water from an Urulite spring. Urulite food was all the rage, now that it was genetically detoxified, but Chrys preferred lamb-flavored plums filled with goat cheese. The taste reminded her of home. 'Anyone else of the Seven included?'

A vague look came over Zircon's face, as usual when someone else's work was mentioned.

Moraeg picked at her Solarian salad. 'Topaz was hoping. Her portraits are too commercial, I think.'

'How is Topaz?' Chrys asked. 'I can't believe how long since I've seen her.'

Zircon and Moraeg exchanged looks. 'Topaz is managing,' said Moraeg. 'Pearl needs to get herself together.'

'And you, Moraeg—isn't your own show coming up? I was going to help.' Moraeg had eaten little and seemed distracted.

Afterward they strolled down Center Way, the wind blowing shrill from the harbor, the lava traffic flowing till streams of it dipped under. Just like the old days, the Seven getting all their works together for the next show. Chrys blinked for news. The brain plague—more ships hijacked. The latest scandal at the Palace. And the sentients of Elysium planning their new floating city. Chrys frowned. 'I don't understand these sentients. We humans are so dumb; why do sentients still need us? Why didn't they take over long ago?'

Zircon patted her head. 'Maybe they did—and we don't know it.'

'Nonsense.' Moraeg rubbed her arms and touched the temperature control on her nanotex. 'Machines have always threatened to take over, but they're not as smart as they think.'

A bubble popped open, and Zircon climbed inside to flow down home. Chrys was ready to call a lightcraft, but she wondered, whatever was eating at Moraeg? She watched her friend uncertainly, admiring the setting sun's infrared sheen upon her hair. 'Has Wheelgrass sold yet? I heard some great comments.'

Moraeg's chin was set hard. 'Chrys, I went to that clinic and passed all the tests. But that worm-face put me way down on the list. He said it would take months.'

Chrys blinked several times. She recalled her own screening at the hospital, all those tests with Doctor Sartorius, before he found the right culture. Titan's culture, though she hadn't known that then. 'It could take months—they told me the same. But then—'

'They don't want me, but they couldn't say why. I could tell.'

'They have to find the right culture.' She hesitated. 'I didn't know you decided to go through with it. What does Carnelian think?'

'What 'right' culture? What's wrong with me?' Moraeg demanded. 'And what's my husband got to do with it?'

Lord Carnelian discreetly patronized the arts; Chrys always remembered the time he advanced her a month's rent. But his lifestyle was conservative. 'Being a carrier is, well, an intimate thing. It kind of changes who you are.'

'You haven't changed.'

'Thanks,' said Chrys. 'But tell that to my friends.'

'I'm still your friend.' She said it almost accusingly, as if Chrys owed her something.

Chrys felt torn; she did not want to lose one of her last two friends from the Seven. 'Look, I'll tell you what...' Her pulse raced; she doubted this was legal. 'I'll let a couple of them visit you, just for a minute.'

''Visit'?' Moraeg was puzzled.

'Oh Great One,' flashed Jonquil, 'we will be thrilled to explore a virgin wilderness.'

'Very well. You and Fireweed may go. But be ready to return within a month— or all the people may die.' Five minutes with two elders; what harm could that do? She placed the patch at her neck, then offered it to Moraeg. 'Quick; don't let them dry out.' Dry out, or get caught by foreign microglia—a mistake, to put them at such risk.

Moraeg put the patch at her neck. 'Very well, but what use is it for a minute? I mean, there's no time to—' She stopped with a puzzled frown. 'Someone's sending me a message, in letters. Why don't they show themselves?'

'That's them. The micros. Make sure they're both okay.'

Her eyes widened. 'They sound like people.'

Chrys sighed. 'What else is new.'

'Religious people.' Moraeg laughed, and her teeth sparkled. 'Microbes—and they think God cares about them.'

In her window, the message light blinked. Chrys jumped out of her shoes. Had somebody caught her? Ridiculous, but still. 'Moraeg, they have to come back. Put that patch on your neck and make damn sure they've