Brain Plague

This question brought her back to reality. The doctor was still there, and Daeren watched her like a cat. She asked him, 'Do you go through this all day?'

For the first time Daeren smiled. 'I can't see your window, but, yes, I expect so. I'm used to it.'

'Do you ever tell them to shut up?'

'It's rarely necessary. They know me too well.' He leaned forward. 'Watch my eyes.'

'What?' Puzzled, she watched his irises, cat's-eye-brown with intense radial lines. Suddenly their rims flashed, a ring of blue light around each. Astonished, Chrys stared, her lips parted.

'The blue angels call us,' wrote her green letters. 'Tell the Lord of Light we've done well.'

So Daeren was the one they called the Lord of Light. Her mouth closed, and she drew back. 'Will my eyes strobe like that?'

'Only to contact another carrier. Otherwise, they'll stay dark.'

Other carriers? There must be a whole pantheon of human carriers, each with micros swimming in the cobweb lining of the brain, and flashing rings around their eyes, like a nightclub act. 'What keeps them from infecting your brain and making you sick?'

'They stay within the arachnoid layer, just outside the cortex. They never touch your neurons. They're only allowed a population of a million.'

That sounded like plenty. 'How can you be sure? You can't control a disease.'

'Your Plan Ten nanoservos monitor your brain. Besides, the micros control themselves. Even ordinary microbes, without intelligence, usually limit their occupation of animal hosts.

'If they don't make you sick, what do they do in the ... arachnoid?'

'Build homes and schools, raise their children. And help your work.'

Little candy-colored rings building schools upon her brain.

'Do I please you, Oh Great One?' flashed the infrared. 'What do you look like?'

'No, Poppy,' said Fern. 'To look on the face of God forbodes death.'

Microbial superstition. 'Here I am,' blinked Chrys. Her eyes downloaded her old self-portrait, from her sophomore year with Topaz. Her hair was lava flowing down her shoulders, and every vein snaked with anatomic precision along her face and breasts, out her arms and down to her feet.

'Our own God of Mercy, amid the stars,' said Fern.

The stars? What did that mean?

'A great road map,' said Poppy. 'We will get to know those veins well.'

Micro people swimming through her veins—enough to chill the blood.

'Only our own god can see her own veins,' Poppy added. 'Our god sees color beyond red, beyond other gods. Ours is indeed the best and greatest of all the gods.'

Typical priests. 'If I am so great a god, why should I take you in?'

The green one said, 'We are the People of Eleutheria. When our First World came to an end, and most of us died, the Blind God promised our children a New World, in a new arachnoid where no people ever lived before. We live by the lights of Truth, Beauty, Memory,...' The letters went on at length, about the various lights of virtue; Chrys lost patience after the third or fourth.

'Stop,' said Chrys.

The letters ceased. That was encouraging.

'What can you do for me?' Chrys asked. 'Can you help me create great art?'

'Our ancestors created dwellings for the gods themselves. We will create the greatest works ever seen.'

Modesty was not their strong point. 'What sort of dwellings?'

'The Lord of Light forbade us to speak of it, but to live only for one true God.'

She frowned. 'If I am your one true God, you must tell me everything.'

'Yes, Oh Great One,' said Fern, 'but the blue angels warned—'

'It shall be as you say!' Poppy's letters danced. 'I knew this was the New World for us.'

'What can you do with this?' Chrys downloaded her gallery piece, the lava fountain that turned into butterflies.

At first the volcano spurted and poured, just as it had for her fellow artists at the meeting. Then the visual began to change. The colors deepened, becoming more fantastic, until the hungry rivers swallowed themselves into abstraction. Then the abstract forms picked up the volcanic rhythms, returning in a cooler form; a volcano of ice. Chrys watched, her lips parted. All kinds of possibilities—she ached to get back to work.

The images faded. 'Today is the anniversary of our arrival,' came the green one out of the dark. 'Has the God of Mercy decided our fate?'

Chrys looked up. The doctor and the security agent were still there, waiting. The agent asked, 'What do you think?'

She drew back. 'I'll sleep on it.'

Daeren shook his head. 'They've already given you a whole year. They await your decision now.'

She glared at him suspiciously.

The worm face wiggled. 'A carrier needs to make life or death decisions quickly. But it is a lifelong commitment. So, if you don't feel comfortable, you should decline, and think it over. In the next year, we may have another culture ready.'

That was reasonable, but what if the next culture were less creative than this one? On the other hand, what if these caused too much trouble? She thought of something. 'Do these 'people' have ... legal rights?'

Daeren hesitated. 'They ought to. I've spent enough hours at the Palace on their behalf.' A lobbyist after all.

The doctor's worms stretched thoughtfully. 'Legally, Daeren, they're the plague.'

'They are not,' insisted Daeren. 'That's like calling all humans murderers.'

'She asked their legal status.'

He turned to her. 'Our micros will actually protect you from the real plague. As a carrier, you'll be safer than before.'

'If she maintains them properly,' agreed Sartorius. 'But if she ever gets in trouble with the law, the octopods can wipe her micros without a thought.'

Chrys watched this exchange with interest. 'So I could get rid of them at any clinic.'

A fleeting darkness crossed the agent's face, like an eclipse of the sun, a look of anger and disgust. But he quickly resumed his professional air. 'As the doctor said, you can wait till you're ready.'

The three of them froze, waiting, as if an eternity passed. Even the doctor's worms were still. At last Chrys let out a breath. 'I'll take them.'

She saw the agent relax. He had a lot at stake, she realized. Being the 'Lord of Light' must be a tough act for a college kid.

The doctor came alive, each appendage finding a task. 'First we need to transfer the Plan Ten nanoservos. They keep watch throughout your body.' His worms stretched into unbelievably narrow snakes that twined unnervingly. 'Just turn around and watch the holostage.'

Chrys turned. A white beach stretched to the horizon, a gentle surf rolling in, palms bobbing in the wind. She tried not to think of what the worms were doing behind her neck.

'Ob Great One, have you forgotten us?'

'We anxiously await your reply.'

She sighed. That's what you got for feeding stray cats. 'You're sure all this is covered? Who pays for it?'

Daeren said, 'The Committee pays for Plan Ten, until you're established. Most of us don't notice the cost.'