Brain Plague

face appeared, floating in the sea of dark, and her two hands shaped the dendrimer arms, resetting an atom or two. 'But there are limits. The good doctor wants these dendrimers to detect the new strain of the masters—essentially, to tell good people from bad. The oldest project of history. How can mere molecules do that?'

Chrys shook her head. 'Even an artist can't do that.'

'And yet, a simple human can tell.' The darkness receded, and the walls went up, revealing the cancerlike experimental creatures of plast. Opal picked up one in her hand to examine, then adjusted the settings on the cage of another. Chrys's hair stood on end. 'A human who knows and cares,' Opal added. 'Our best defense is still just that. That's why Selenite and I do so well together.'

'You 'test' each other?'

'Not formally, but our people can visit each other, around the clock, at any hour of any micro 'year.' Selenite's more ornery ones can escape execution, while mine can be threatened to ship to her.'

Chrys thought it over. 'Jasper was so upset....'

'Because he blamed himself for missing Garnet's downfall. He's such a perfectionist. But he'll manage. He'll do more for Garnet than your Watchers.'

'Daeren's not a couple.' It slipped out, though she wished it unsaid.

'Daeren does things his own way. We all fall in love with him—most of us got our people through him. But he only had eyes for Titan.'

The thought chilled her. She remembered Titan's sculptures at Daeren's home.

'Whereas Titan...' The formidable dynatect had been obsessed with women, especially women already attached. Opal shrugged. 'There's no accounting for taste.'

Yet Daeren had tested Titan. How could he be 'objective'? He certainly hadn't been objective when he pressed his teeth into the dying carrier's neck.

In her studio now Chrys had more than a dozen collaborators in her head. Besides the color specialists, there were experts on line and form, texture and value. She had linked their signals at her optic nerve directly to the painting stage. A cavernous landscape of arachnoid, lit only by the luminous rings that dwelt there. The details of the microbial filaments were below the resolution of light visible to humans, but the micros could translate their chemical-sensed details into light and shadow.

'A new composition,' proposed Fireweed. 'One with profound emotional impact.'

Dark as a nightscape, with only hints of lurid flame in the distance, like a forest fire at night. 'I can't see much,' Chrys told her assistants. 'More definition. Where's the focus?'

A small group of ring people, russet and gray-blue, their filaments trembling. 'More contrast,' ordered Chrys. The little rings came to life, yet their colors remained strangely subdued. Puzzled, she asked, 'What is this?'

' 'Mourners at an Execution.

Chrys blinked. 'Is this a political protest? '

'Of course not,' Fireweed assured her. 'God's will is always just.'

Chrys was not convinced. But then, the Elf gallery director wanted something controversial. Better politics than porn.

That evening she was on call. The first call came from a lady with a family tree's worth of gems on her breast. 'You must get here at once,' insisted the lady imperiously. 'He hides it, but I know he's infected again.'

The case file scrolled down. Lord Zoisite.

The minister of justice had a lengthy file, including two previous stays at the clinic, with six months between. Now it had been six months since the last time, and several contacts had already been made. Chrys took a deep breath. 'My Lady, according to our records, he's refused help twice in the past month.'

'Well, this time, you have to do something.'

By now, Chrys had handled enough calls to echo some of Selenite's more sarcastic commentary. Instead, she put on her difficult-client smile.

Outside, the lightcraft touched down in minutes. Chrys skipped downstairs past her caryatids to meet it. The medic on call, a new one, raised a face worm languidly. 'Old Zoisite again. Does he really still run the justice department?'

'Last I heard.' Chrys barely got herself strapped in before the craft lurched upward.

The medic twirled his face worms in a rude gesture. 'Humans,' he exclaimed. 'It's a wonder you ever got off your birthworld.'

Not one of the sympathetic ones. Just her luck. 'Look, Doc, if you know so much, can you tell me how to get to him? What can I do that's not been tried?'

'Sorry, Homo. The psychology's your job.'

Zoisite's residence was as imposing as Garnet's, but at least the door was better behaved. Lady Zoisite dismissed her caryatids and nodded curtly to Chrys. 'He's upstairs in the study. He just got back from the Underworld. His account lost ten thousand; he never drops that much, even at the gaming table.'

Chrys followed the Lady upstairs. The intimate quarters of the family; she felt acutely embarrassed. In the library, several stages displayed law texts scrolling down. In their midst, Lord Zoisite was seated in his dressing gown. He turned slowly, then stood and smiled. 'Our lovely new dynatect. An unexpected pleasure.'

Chrys stared back without smiling. Her fingers flexed nervously—what was the point, she wondered. 'My Lord, I've been called to help you. If there's anything I can do . ..' She trailed off aimlessly. The Lord faced her straight, with complete composure; she could not help but feel foolish.

'I've had enough,' his wife exclaimed. 'You'll get to the clinic this time, or I'll—I'll call the Palace.'

'My Lady,' he told her, 'you're overwrought. You can spend the night at your mother's.'

'We still can't get a fix on him,' complained Rose. 'Get hint closer.'

His gaze of course did not quite meet her eye. Chrys took a step closer. 'Excuse me, my Lord—may I ask a few questions?'

'Certainly, my dear.'

'Tell me the color of my eyes.'

He gave her a cultured laugh. 'What a question, in front of my wife.'

'Answer,' ordered his wife, her voice full of aristocratic chill. 'Answer, or I'll call the Palace.'

Chrys made the sternest face she could and raised her arms to show the muscles. 'It's different this time,' she bluffed. 'If you can't answer, we haul you in.'

Zoisite's face changed to a look at once strange, yet familiar. She had seen that look before, somewhere. 'So,' he observed with interest. 'You'd like a few people, wouldn't you. 'Save' a few from the holocaust, shall we?' His smile made her hair stand on end. 'Let's trade. A few of yours for a few of mine.'

Eris. Eris had sounded like that, when he tried to take her over. Her heart pounded furiously. 'The false blue angels,' she warned her people.

'I knew it,' flashed Rose. 'Let me over there— I'll handle them.'

'They'll torture you to death.'

'Look, I've been planning this date for generations. First, soften them up a bit: Show them your dirty pictures.'

There was a thought. She blinked to open her private gallery, then downloaded one of the more scandalous ones into her eye. Jonquil's taste had developed considerably, she recalled, since the one that attracted Eris. Loading the artwork into a viewcoin, she held it up before the Lord's face.

At first Zoisite looked uncomprehending. Then his eyes widened, and his hand rose as if to grasp the coin. Chrys withdrew the coin, just out of reach. 'There's more where that came from. Tell them.'

'I—I don't understand.' Zoisite's eyes and mouth seemed to struggle between two wills.

'Accept treatment. Let mine visit.' She hoped Rose knew what she was doing.

His eyes still fixed on the coin. 'All right,' he whispered.

Chrys pressed the patch to his neck. Then, between her and his wife, he managed to get downstairs to the