Brain Plague

to Mount Dolomoth. What had worked for Rose, she figured, just might work for that Leader.

On her back the twenty-kilo pack felt like nothing, with her Plan Ten-conditioned muscles. She called for a lightcraft. The lightcraft took her up before the setting sun, its last rays pouring blood across the harbor. It set her down at the old tube stop.

In her eyes blinked the message light—Andra, alone, within a full bodysuit, face and all. 'Chrys, let us go after him. Don't you do anything rash,' she urged. 'Go home; it's a bad night in the Underworld.'

What else is new. 'What will you give them?'

The ship lights flickered off Andra's face screen. 'We'll move every damn planet to find him, that's all I can say.'

'Will you give them arsenic?'

'Of course not—and you can't either. Chrys, you're already in deep trouble; Arion knows what you did.'

How did Arion find out, Chrys wondered. For that matter, if Daeren did not warn the masters, who did—if not Eris?

'I'm risking myself, Chrys. The Committee can't afford to lose you too.' Andra's voice quickened. 'Chrys— there's more to this than what I told the Committee. More that would split us apart. Leave this to me. Don't lose yourself, and your people, for nothing.'

Chrys blinked to cancel. The sprite vanished. If she were really in trouble with the Elves, she thought, after she got Daeren back she could withdraw all her credits and flee to Solaris.

The tube plummeted to the Underworld. The Gold of Asragh was packed, the crowd more unruly than usual. A whiff of something burnt. Octopods crawled up, the usual pod of eight. Was there a raid? Lights circled crazily over the crowd, once momentarily blinding her. A fool's errand, she told herself, plunging through this world of night, desperately seeking Day.

At the slave bar, two customers pounded the counter demanding ace. Chrys made herself wait until they'd left. Then she leaned across the counter to stare at the slave who'd replaced Jay, who'd replaced Saf. 'Where is he?' Chrys demanded. 'Where's Day?'

The woman behind the bar looked and smelled as if she had not washed since the last time. She said nothing, but her eyes gleamed as wild as snakes.

'Arsenic,' said Fireweed. 'They're starving. We could help—'

'No.' Chrys held up a viewcoin, one of Jonquil's most scandalous. She faced the slave. 'Tell me.'

At first the woman seemed not to notice. Then her eyes widened. Her hand snatched involuntarily at the coin.

Chrys pulled the coin out of reach. 'Where is Day? Where are the blue angels?'

The eyes watched the coin while the mouth spoke like a puppet. 'Day chose Endless Light.'

'Chose,' indeed. 'Take me there,' Chrys demanded. 'Take me to the Leader.'

The eyes rolled, then came to rest looking just aside. 'Len?' she called.

A worker slave came out, followed by another. Their maggot-ringed eyes flickered, and the woman's flickered back.

Chrys held out another viewcoin to Len. This time she let him take it. 'Pictures in the stars.' She brought her face closer, nearly choking on his foul breath. 'Pictures for your Leader.'

Their eyes flickered at the viewcoin, then back to her. 'You're not ready.' Len handed her a transfer patch.

She stared at the patch as she would at a poisonous snake.

'We're prepared,' said Fireweed. 'The children and younger elders are sealed away. We're ready for visitors.'

Viruses and parasites—Chrys recoiled. 'Be prepared to clean up.' She put the patch of plague at her neck.

'Fireweed?'

'All is well,' the infrared assured her.

From outside came screams and more smell of burning. A bad night, Andra had said. Which was worse: the humans outside, or these foul invaders within?

'We've agreed on some joint ventures. Send them home.'

'Joint ventures'—Chrys did not like the sound of that, but she returned the patch to Len. Turning their heads, the two slaves seemed to reach a decision. Len nodded at Chrys to follow him down the back stairway, where she and Daeren had first brought the viewcoin when she was in training. Two more slaves joined them, on out through a maze of tunnels. What paid for all this— Lord Zoisite's fortune, no doubt.

They came at last to the ship, a small lunar shuttle. Chrys was surprised; this vessel couldn't go far. The shuttle traveled less than an hour, with no fold jumps. It must have stayed within the solar system; in fact, it could not have gone far off Valedon. It docked to something, and the apparent gravitational force lurched sickeningly.

Strapping the packed field stage onto her back once more, Chrys followed the slaves out the air lock. The lock opened into a satellite ring, the old-fashioned kind that rolled like a treadmill. The centrifugal acceleration was not quite standard. Chrys stumbled, catching herself on the floor.

A wavering bit of cancerplast, lava red, cast long shadows down the passage. As her eyes adjusted, the patterned design on the floor and crossed triangle logo on the doors looked at least half a century out of date. The air smelled stale, though not as bad as in the masters' planetary hideout. Perhaps the surviving hosts had not yet had time to die and decay.

'Where are we?' Chrys asked her people. 'Did they say?'

'A temporary shelter;' flashed Fireweed. 'The masters know they'll have to move on.'

The hallway glimmered with cancerplast from the ceiling; one blob dangled, trembling, as if about to crawl off in search of power. Chrys's eyes adjusted to the dim light. Shadows stretched toward worker slaves, their eyes all flickering white as they passed. Some pushed cots or wheelchairs containing human bodies, inert, with unkempt beards or bare breasts, eyes horribly staring. What if one of them were Daeren? Her heart pounded enough to burst. She rehearsed what she planned to tell Saf, the human mouthpiece of the microbial Leader.

Ahead of her, Len turned toward the wall. A doorway opened, parting with a tired screech, like her old broken-down apartment. Len stepped through, and Chrys followed, taking the pack off her back. She rubbed her shoulders where it stung, unaccustomed to the strap.

An oval room, the ceiling dotted with plugs of cancerplast, like stars pasted to the sky. In the center stood a figure she could just make out, facing away from her. It must be Saf. The figure slowly turned.

It was Daeren. Daeren alive, and well enough to stand.

'Daeren!' She took a quick step forward, then another.

Daeren's face held no expression. His eyes flashed white maggot rings.

Chrys screamed, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

His lips moved. 'I—am—the—Leader.' His voice had the same stilted rhythm as Saf had. 'Why do you come? Are you ready for Endless Light?'

Terror had driven any words from her head. She could only stare, transfixed, shaking.

'Say, 'No,' ' prompted Forget-me-not. 'Just say no.'

'No,' Chrys gasped, letting out her breath. 'That's not... what I came for.'

'Interesting,' said Daeren's lips. 'Your degenerate people say they can help us. You may visit.'

Forget-me-not could visit; that was part of their plan. Chrys took the patch and handed it to Daeren, choking on the memory of doing this many times.

'One True God, all is well,' Fireweed assured her. 'Our joint ventures are maturing.'

Chrys swallowed hard, recovering some of her nerve. Daeren— was he still there, inside, behind the deadly eyes? 'I want you—I want him back,' she said. 'The ... world that you took.'

'The—new—world chose Endless Light,' said Daeren's lips. 'This new world came to us in better shape than