Brain Plague

Chrys frowned. 'Look, we know our own problems. I myself put Zoisite in the clinic.'

The guardian did not respond but continued to face Daeren. He did not mean Zoisite, Chrys realized. He meant Andra.

At Olympus, only the sea was quiet, the wind hushed through the virtual branches.

'He all but accused you,' Daeren told Andra. Selenite listened, arms folded. Chrys watched, her brain dulled by lack of sleep.

'A well-kept wilderness,' Fireweed described Arion's brain. 'Paradise.' The window filled with Fireweed's view of the elegant fibroblast columns of Arion's arachnoid.

'Not exactly 'virgin,' ' observed Rose. 'We call him the Hunter.'

'He hunts for people,' agreed Fireweed.

'He barely let me go, with our chess game half finished. He wants people so bad, he can taste it.' Chrys closed her eyes, then forced them back open.

'So he accuses,' Andra coolly returned. 'Can you prove him wrong?'

'Of course I can,' exclaimed Daeren. 'I test you, and so does Selenite.'

'Suppose I went bad. What would you do?'

'I'd offer you help.'

'Like you did Eris?'

Daeren's face darkened. 'You think Selenite and I don't make plans for that?'

Andra nodded. 'The less I know, the better. But suppose we all went bad. What non-carrier could sort us out?'

He blinked without speaking. Selenite's eyes narrowed.

'Perhaps,' reflected Andra, 'we need a non-carrier on the Committee, like a miner's canary.'

Daeren threw up his hands. 'Forget worst-case scenarios. The worst case is there—in Elysium.'

'Agreed, though they might point to our streets full of vampires. But suppose Arion does want to stop Eris. How should he do it? Who takes Eris's place as chief tester? Suppose the mole has prepared his own successor?'

Silence. A flying fish dove into the sea. Selenite shifted restlessly. 'So what do we do? Give up?'

'Of course not,' said Andra. 'For now, we play it Arion's way. He gets on well with Daeren and Chrys.'

At the sound of her name, her eyes flew open.

'Chrys has done enough,' said Daeren. 'Let her work on her show. Her art does more good for carriers and micros, and for public understanding.'

Andra exchanged a look with Selenite. 'That's another matter,' Selenite observed cryptically. 'A matter for the Committee.'

'What do you mean?' demanded Chrys. 'What's wrong with my art?'

'What do you think makes us different from Zoisite?' asked Selenite rhetorically. 'Micros make good servants but bad masters.'

'So?'

' 'Mourners at executions,' protesting 'capital punishment.' Next thing you know, a religious revival— 'The end is near! Repent! The One True God!' I've never heard such drivel.'

Chrys sighed wearily. 'I'm sorry.'

'With that Elf strain around, you realize how much executing we'll have to do? Call it genocide if you like— we've got to do it.'

Daeren did not look well. Perhaps he needed sleep even more than Chrys did.

The visit to 'the Hunter' rekindled Eleutherian interest in exploring virgin worlds. Migration fever raged, and the ranks of Pteris's sect swelled. The sect distressed Chrys. While Eleutherian pride in their 'god' could embarrass her, she was mortified to realize how many now longed to leave. Love was cruel, and fickle, she told herself for the hundredth time. On the street she found herself watching passersby with the eye of a vampire, imagining how easily some lucky host could relieve her of her trouble.

One night she heard from Zircon. In the window of her eye, the muscle-bound sprite frowned anxiously. 'Chrys—you know all about the brain plague, right?'

Chrys put a hand to her head. 'Zirc, what's wrong?'

In the studio behind him towered the crossed bars and virtual cantilevers of his centerpiece for the Elf exhibition, 'Gems from the Primitive.' His brow wrinkled further. 'I'm not sure. I just get all these messages in colored lights. I thought at first it was a prank from someone out there, so I played along. But now—'

'Ever get headaches or feel high?'

'I tried some new psychos, but they didn't even work. In fact, the colored lights made some prissy comment on it.' His eyes widened. 'Chrys—tell me the truth. Am I a vampire?'

She skipped the first three unsuitable responses that came to mind. 'We'll be right there to find out.' By now she had learned to check the medic list on call and pick a sympathetic one, if possible. Flexor—she was in luck.

Zircon had moved down to level six, not exactly vampire territory, but the streets could use a trash pickup. Chrys wondered why his Elf lover did not provide better; Zircon had barely mentioned Yyri lately. 'Okay,' she said, looking up to his face. 'Just look into my eyes a moment.'

The giant grinned. 'Sure, anytime, Chrys.' His eyes held steady. Around his irises flashed rings of gold, not unlike Garnet's.

'They want to visit,' reported Rose. 'They say they're accountants.'

Zircon's grin faded. 'Is it really bad, Chrys?'

'I'm not sure.' The Elf strain—was this their latest trick? 'Rose, what do you think?'

'Accountants are the tool of a degenerate society.'

'But are they masters?'

'Only one way to find out.'

Chrys took out a transfer patch. 'Zirc, I'm sending a couple over to visit.'

'A couple what?'

'Never mind. Just hurry up and put this on your neck, right here.' She showed him the best spot.

'Weird.' He took the patch and looked it over.

'I said, hurry. Not that side—the microneedle side down.'

She watched his eyes again, until a flash of pink told her Rose had made it. She let out a sigh. 'How long have you had the 'messages'?'

Zircon shrugged. 'One week, maybe two. They keep asking me to let them manage my money, which would be great if I had any. Then they tell me I'm the lord of creation.'

She rolled her eyes. 'Lord of the rings. Look, Zirc—you're infected all right, but it's not a typical case.' She blinked to call in Flexor, waiting outside. 'The hospital will need to check you out.'

'Hospital? You know I can't stand worm-faces—I have a phobia.'

Doctor Flexor approached, worms neatly coiled upon her head. At the sight of her, Zircon's face twisted in sheer terror. He backed to the wall, shoulders knotted, sweat running down his forehead.

'It's okay,' Chrys told him soothingly. 'We won't hurt you or them; just checking.'

Zircon swallowed, and his eyes blinked rapidly at the doctor. 'They call you the Terminator.'

A couple of Flexor's worms pointed out toward the sculpture. 'I know your work,' she told him. 'The vanguard of heroic formalism.' She moved closer to inspect it. 'Tell me about this latest piece. I might consider a commission.'

While Flexor at last coaxed him into getting examined, Chrys managed to get her people back. 'Pure degeneracy,' reported Rose. 'Shaving credits here and there, cutting taxes, taking deductions. And half the lot are children—merging all over the place. They'd better get their hormones down.'

'Any other trouble?'

'No sign of what you'd call trouble,' Rose assured her. 'Except perhaps your own finances. They claim someone is anonymously padding your credit line. They think you're taking