Brain Plague

He kept his eyes on her, as if he could read her mind. Then his irises lit up.

'They will live, Oh Great One. A great victory for love and mercy.'

Garnet smiled. 'You're very kind, Chrys. You were kind to key the servers to his form.' His old sly note crept in. 'But I know your real heart lies elsewhere.'

The following night the Spirit Table was full, nearing the end of the month when credit lines ran out. Sister Kaol's extra helper ran to the kitchen and back, and Chrys hoisted one pot of soup after another, putting her Plan Ten-enhanced muscles to use. She paused to push back her hair, damp with sweat. Men and women jostled in dead nanotex with strips peeling off, some with eyes overbright, high on one psycho or another. Some of the guests barely spoke, others argued, and one kept up a stream of dialogue with a demon only he could see.

Near the window, voices rose. A glint of metal, and a shriek.

Chrys vaulted over the counter and pushed her way through the crowd. Across a table lay a man streaked with blood while above him his assailant drew back the knife for another strike.

Chrys caught the arms of the assailant and yanked both behind his back. The man bellowed in pain.

The trouble sent all the customers to their feet, bolting to the exit. The Sister's assistant helped an elderly man to leave without getting trampled. Sister Kaol came to tend the victim.

'Oh Great One,' flashed Fireweed, 'we detect signals of injury in Your blood. The immortal God must heal.'

Something wet trickled down her arm; the assailant's knife must have grazed. Still holding onto him, Chrys blinked for public health. 'Plan One, someone's critical. Send help.'

A flat voice responded. Chrys tried to hear over the assailant's cries. 'Citizen identity?'

'Unknown.' If he'd had any better than One, the Plan would know it already. 'Look at him—you can see the blood.'

'Noted. Responding immediately.'

Sister Kaol raised her hand. 'You can release that poor gentleman; he seems hurt, too.'

The assailant fell, clutching his arm, which hung limp. The other Sister came and felt his shoulder. 'I think it's been dislocated.'

Chrys winced. She hadn't realized her own strength. Blood was seeping through her nanotex; she wiped her arm, where a gash needed skinplast.

'Oh Great One,' flashed Fireweed again. 'Jonquil is late getting back. We're concerned.'

'Check your nightclubs. The gods are busy.'

A medic entered, a smaller-sized sentient with just a couple of worms hanging down.

'Thank goodness,' Chrys exclaimed, pushing back her hair. 'This man was stabbed in the back; he's badly hurt.'

The worm-face reached her, pealed the nanotex off her arm, and slapped on some skinplast. 'Plan Ten only covers you.' So he wasn't Plan One; just Plan Ten, automatically alerted by her slashed arm.

The Sister gave the assailant something to quiet him and managed to reset his shoulder. Sister Kaol had the victim laid on his back and was pressing a first-aid sensor into his chest.

'When will Plan One get here?' wondered Chrys.

'Another hour,' said Sister Kaol, 'perhaps two. If they get here.' She shook her head. 'I fear this gentleman won't make it. He has internal bleeding.'

The Plan Ten medic still had his worms wrapped around her arm. Chrys asked, 'Can I pay you to treat this man?'

'There's a ten-thousand-credit premium for walk-ins. The first available doctor will get back to you.'

She watched the worm-face leave. Her breath came faster, and her arms shook. Would the damned city do nothing for a dying man? Who would help? She squeezed her eyes hard.

Daeren's sprite appeared, at home amid his sculptures. 'Can you tell me how to get help for an injured man?' Her voice rushed. 'Plan One won't get here, and Plan Ten won't even take a look.'

Daeren looked thoughtful. 'I might find a doctor. Just a minute.' The sprite winked out.

The assailant dragged himself up and staggered toward the door.

'Wait,' called the Sister after him. 'You need further treatment. ...' Call the octopods, Chrys thought. But the Sisters never wanted to scare off customers.

'Great Host,' flashed Rose. 'My apologies for disturbing you, but you need to know that Jonquil has been missing these past six months. She is presumed dead.'

For a moment the dining hall receded. Chrys closed her eyes to focus on her window. 'Jonquil dead? How?'

'We're not sure.' Rose's pink letters flashed against the dark. 'We've searched but found no remains. She was out patrolling the circulation, when we detected signs of trauma. We think you lost some blood.'

Jonquil was dead—lost in that rush of blood from her arm. Mopped up and gone forever. Chrys sank onto a bench and rested her elbows on the long table, sinking her head in her hands. 'I'm so sorry. I should have known.' Instead, she'd ignored them, just as the city ignored her calls.

'Jonquil had a long life. She was nearing her natural end.'

'She'll never get to see her portrait in the stars.'

'In my opinion,' said Rose, 'she saw more than enough 'portraits.' '

And now guess who was the high priest.

'The One True God never errs,' added Fireweed. 'Inscrutable are Her ways, but God is perfect.'

'Nevertheless, Great Host,' added Rose, 'those cultists are back to address you. You did say once a day.'

'Great One,' flashed the green letters. 'We long to set forth to found our perfect society in the wilderness. We pray you—let our people go, to the Promised World....'

'Chrys?' Daeren was calling gently, seated by her. 'Are you all right?'

Raising her head, she looked up at him through the hair across her face. 'Jonquil's gone. From the cut in my arm.'

'I'm sorry to hear that. There's nothing you could have done; the air kills them instantly.'

Would it have felt 'instant' for a micro, she wondered. She shook herself and took a deep breath. 'I shouldn't have called you like that. Your one night home.'

'But I told you, Chrys—anything you ever needed. Remember? What else are friends for?' A wonderful smile suffused his face. He had never looked so happy, as if she had done him the favor. 'You know Doctor Flexor.' The one who had helped Pearl. 'She's a friend of mine.'

The doctor had her face worms plugged into the man's chest. Already his color looked better. 'I'll do my best,' Flexor said. 'Cardiac's not my specialty, but I downloaded the basics.'

'Thanks,' said Chrys. 'I can pay.'

'Never mind. It's a change of pace for me.'

Daeren added, 'Flexor and I visit galleries.'

'I know your work,' Flexor told Chrys. 'Representational isn't my taste, but you do it well,' she added politely.

Sister Kaol clasped her hands. 'Won't you at least take some soup?' she asked Daeren. 'We have so much left over.'

'Sure, thanks,' he said. 'I think Chrys could use some too.'

'Your blood sugar is low,' added Rose. 'You need to eat more regularly.'

Chrys eyed the bowl of soup put before her, the potatoes she had peeled, the bulk-process meat she had diced. She still could not forget how Jonquil had died. So much overwhelmed her; the hopelessness of the slaves, the way even micros cast out their mutants, and how the heretic micros longed to leave her.

Meanwhile, Daeren spooned his soup as if he enjoyed it, as if he had counted on this meal. 'The Committee's