Brain Plague

most. New home for the Leader.'

She swallowed again, her throat hoarse. 'I want it back.'

'Why? No use to you.'

That was probably true, she realized, her heart sinking. The Leader had moved in, and by now all trace of Daeren's mind would be gone. But she had come too far to leave what was left of him. Better to take his empty shell then to have to see him in her dreams, as he would eventually be, his body exposed to unspeakable decay.

'Arsenic,' flashed Fireweed. 'They ask us for arsenic. They starve for it.'

She thought of the other slaves down the hall, and the other shells, others decaying behind other walls, and all the hapless slaves of Valedon. 'I can't. I can't betray my kind.'

'We know, Great One. It's just hard for us to see them starve.'

She opened the backpack, her hands so covered with sweat that the stage slipped from her grasp. Clumsily, she put up the projection posts and the light sources. 'Display,' she whispered.

The stage hummed, then shimmered into stars. It was the portrait of Rose. Rose, her pink filaments shimmering with the words of her final quest. Rose ... The tireless worker deserved her rest.

Daeren's eyes fixed on the star picture. Nearby, the two slaves approached. Six maggot-rimmed eyes stared into the stars, their patterns calling like the lights of heaven that had entranced thinking minds ever since the first ape developed a cerebral cortex.

Suddenly, the two slaves fell back. Daeren's lips demanded, 'Who is—this—pretender?'

The Leader was jealous of a rival. Chrys stood up, straightening her back. She put on her difficult-client smile. 'I will make a portrait of the true Leader, in the stars. A portrait to outshine this one, and all others. To spread word throughout the universe, in praise of Endless Light.'

The dead eyes flickered, eyes that had once shown blue as the palest sky. Could this Leader resist what had captivated Rose, the chance to project her will through eternity, calling all the people and all the gods to Endless Light?

'She agrees,' said Fireweed. 'She'll have to visit, Oh Great One; and who knows who else will come besides. But we are ready.'

Daeren's hand held the patch to his neck, then to her; a gesture hauntingly familiar, ever since the first morning he gave her Fern and Poppy. Now there was no doctor or hospital to help, only a faltering satellite run by microbial minds that craved her blood. But inside her grew Fern's descendants, a million strong.

'Fireweed? Is it all right?'

'So far. We'll keep them talking.' 'Them'—she did not like the sound of that.

A ring of filaments, white as bone, probing and tasting. Chrys shut her eyes to see better. She crouched before the stage on the floor. With a word she dismissed the display. The first fresh strokes of light slanted wrong; her hands shook so badly, and she was out of practice on this tiny stage. It was hard to believe, now, that she had ever managed to get anything out of a meter cube. She reset it to track her finger, one tip at a time. The ring of light took shape, filling the small volume. Then shadows and highlights, and subtle hints of color, just enough to deepen the mystery.

The maggot eyes watched. From the ceiling beyond, a cancer dropped to the floor, extending long strings of plast, the kind that could get into a circuit and short it out—and there must be hundreds of them. Bad news for the old satellite. Chrys stood and stretched her back. 'Is the client pleased? '

'Yes, so far. Keep on,' urged Fireweed. 'Time is on our side.'

The micros could not know what shape the satellite was in. What if its air system failed? Setting the animation, Chrys did a shortcut, just dimming and brightening the image to generate the Leader's 'words.' 'Is that enough?'

'Keep going. You can't expect a leader to make a speech short.'

She kept on, her fingers dimming and brightening, long and short, abrupt and slow-fading, according to what her eyes saw. 'Fireweed, the field stage can only store so much.'

'It is done.'

Chrys pressed the transfer port, letting the painting load into her eyes. Then she stood again. What next, she wondered suddenly. What would happen to Daeren, or his 'shell,' and where would the Leader go?

'Give him back,' she said aloud. 'You agreed.'

'We will go.' The letters in her window were white as ice. 'We will go. But you will keep some of my people, to see my enlightened form raised before all.'

Keeping some masters—this was not the deal. She fought against panic. 'Fireweed? Forget-me- not? Are you there?'

'I'm here,' came the infrared.

'I'm here too,' came the blue one. 'We've corrupted some of them, and put down two coup attempts from the rest. 'Annus horribilis,' history will say. But once the Leader's gone, they'll settle down.'

'Are you sure?' Chrys insisted. 'Are any of them false blue angels?'

'Probably. Who knows how many true blue angels once were false?'

Out of the shadows stepped Saf. Saf's face, now, was covered with broken veins, her nose bulbous, her eyelids swollen, half shut. This was the overrun host the Leader had relinquished.

'I go,' said the white words. 'You will show my stars for all to see.'

'I promise.' If Ilia's Gallery could handle it. Once again, Chrys took the patch from her neck and gave it to Saf. The touch of the vampirous finger made her wish she could wash her hands.

Saf's blanched eyes exchanged flickering with Daeren's. Then without warning, she bit him in the neck.

Chrys stifled a cry with her hand. The Leader was getting back her own people, she realized, all the little maggot rings that had infected Daeren—millions, perhaps billions; they overran a host, far too many to transfer by patch. For an eternity Saf stood there, her teeth in his neck. Then she let go. Daeren slumped to the floor.

'Take it and go,' Saf's voice rasped, barely audible. 'Before I change my mind.'

Chrys knelt beside him and shook his arm. 'Daeren? Can you hear?' She pressed her ear to his chest. A pounding, slow but solid.

'Let us visit,' urged Forget-me-not. 'Let's see who's left alive.' If not his own mind, at least some blue angels might survive, any those maggot rings had let live.

'First let's get out of here.' She pulled Daeren's arm behind her neck and hoisted him up on her back, making sure the head fell forward. 'Help me,' she called to the slaves.

The slaves did not answer, but Len started toward the doorway. Chrys got herself up and half carried, half dragged Daeren's body behind her, leaving behind the painting stage aglow, to keep the Leader entranced. To get out, away from here, before that slave forgot his errand, or the satellite lost power, or the Leader changed her mind.

Len took her out to a different ship, even smaller and more decrepit than the one that had brought them here. Chrys hesitated but saw no choice. She stepped through the locks, each sealing behind her. A six-seater, half the straps gone.

'Daeren,' she sighed, straightening his head on the floor. 'Are you still there?' She held open his eyelid to reveal any sign. At last a flicker of blue.

'Blue angels, or false,' said Fireweed, 'someone's alive. Sick and starving—they need help.'

Chrys put the patch back and forth, to send helpers and bring back the sickest of the blue angels. 'The Lord of Light—where is he? Is he still there?'

'The mind of God is there, but somehow shut away,' explained Fireweed. 'We don't know how to rouse it without risking further injury.'