Brain Plague

TWENTY-ONE

From the world of Endless Light, hundreds of defectors from the masters had swarmed in, all at once—desperate elders smuggling sick children, as well as agitators and infiltrators. Even years later a few more, unrepentant, were rooted out of hiding in the bone marrow, preparing their secret poisons.

The judges in purple emitted volumes of disgust, enough to permeate the arachnoid. 'Such lack of judgment we have never seen,' they proclaimed. 'You can never know you've found them all; there could be others even we did not find. You should be arsenic-wiped.'

Fireweed was about to say that Eleutherians had investigated themselves more thoroughly than did the judges, but she thought better of it. 'We are eternally grateful for your assistance— and so are our new citizens.' Those who came for a better life had settled in. Engineers and mathematicians, some of them brilliant. In the closed society of Endless Eight, lacking resources as well as freedom of speech, the greatest minds embraced mathematics. The Leader's loss was Eleutheria's gain.

'And your population is in excess again,' the judge added. 'You're fined ten thousand atoms of palladium.'

'We're correcting the problem, as you can taste.' The pheromones had been reset to encourage development of elders.

'And next time, don't induce all the foreign children to merge prematurely just to prevent their deportation. It's indecent.' Eleutheria had done this for generations to keep the most genetic benefit from immigrant talent.

Fireweed emitted placating pheromones of the highest quality. 'Anything else? Surely we can continue this discussion in the nightclub, over AZ.' Most people consumed azetidine as quickly as they could absorb it from the blood, but Fireweed had learned Rose's trick of saving some for special occasions.

'Eleutheria!' The judge emitted molecules of exasperation. 'You people think you know everything, but you were fooled once. Don't think you won't be fools again.'

Her night passed in fitful slumber; she could not awake without remembering and crying herself to sleep again. In the morning, her message light blinked insistently. Chrys roused herself, her eyelids sore, her back aching from strain. Wearily, she fetched a disk of nanotex. The material spread smoothly up her arms and down to her toes.

The sprite was a stranger, an Iridian gentleman with a few modest agates swimming in his talar. 'You went to the Slave World. Did you see my son?' A still image followed, a young man in thick nanotex with gem-cutting tools at his side. His short-cropped hair stood up like a brush, and his smile had that half scared look of someone just getting used to adulthood.

The news must have got out. Chrys swallowed. 'I—I'm sorry, I can't help you.'

'Please—it's been a year since they took him. I know he would send word, if he could. Can't they even let their slaves send word home? Why doesn't the Palace negotiate?'

Her mouth opened, but she could not think what to say.

'Send me your recording,' he demanded. 'I'll recognize my son.'

'It's classified,' she said quickly.

The man's face brightened. 'So there is a recording. Release it.'

Chrys sighed. 'Believe me, it won't help you.'

'I'll sue to get it released.' The man's voice softened. 'Please—my only son. He was to take over the stonecutting shop this year, when those plague-ridden pirates got him.'

She bit her lip. 'If there were anything I could do, believe me, I would. Every week I take my shift in the Underworld, helping folks like your son—'

The man stiffened. 'My son never went near the Underworld. He was clean-living, until he was kidnapped.' He raised his hands. 'Can you go? Negotiate his release? I'll pay ransom.'

'No,' she whispered. Then aloud, 'I can't go back, ever.'

'You got your own back! Help me!'

The rest of that morning, the calls came—a daughter, a brother, a grandson lost, the year before, the previous month, or just that week. Several that week, in fact. A lot of good it had done, boiling the world of Endless Light.

In desperation she forwarded all calls to Xenon. Her own work had fallen behind, and the following day she was due to meet Ilia at the Gallery Elysium to preview her exhibit. But when she sat at the painting stage, all she could do was stare.

'New ideas,' flashed Lupin, a new elder whose lemon yellow reminded her of Jonquil. 'We have new ideas—for advanced compositions. ...'

Her hand, as if on its own, traced a ghostly outline of Daeren's forehead. No good—she was never any good at humans. With a flick of her hand, the shape dissolved in white—pure, even light that filled the entire cube of stage. One more piece, she needed for her show; but what could it be? What pattern of pixels could begin to express what she had undergone?

'Chrysoberyl,' called Xenon. 'Chief Andra is trying to reach you.'

Darkness surrounded Andra's eyes, as if she had not slept much either. 'I've spoken with Arion.'

'About what?'

'Your treason.'

'Oh, right.' Tipping off the slaves, though Eris already had.

'If Arion tells the Palace, the Palace octopods will haul you in. Arsenic-wiped first, questions later.'

Passage to Solaria; she had to look up the schedule. Solaria was several days journey, with numerous jump folds.

'For now,' Andra told her, 'Arion agrees to overlook your indiscretion. I traded valuable intelligence—some of the best we ever received. Daeren's brain held high-level defectors, including advisors to the Leader.'

'I see.' Chrys bit her lip. 'You know where that intelligence will go.' Straight to Eris.

'I know well enough,' Andra coldly replied. 'I bought your people's lives, do you understand?'

Chrys looked away. Her heart beat faster. 'How is Daeren?'

'The Committee will see.'

Above the virtual leaves and the flying fish, someone had set the sky gray, with a fine mist of rain. The Committee members sat close together, humans trading patches all around but avoiding each other's eyes. Sartorius and Flexor both had their worms pulled in, barely twitching.

Opal embraced Chrys. 'Thanks,' she whispered. For what, Chrys wondered bitterly.

'Why, Andra?' Pyrite shook his head in puzzlement. 'Why did he do it?'

Andra looked around the circle. 'Ask yourselves. Ask your own people.'

Opal looked away, her face deeply creased. Pyrite held his head in his hand as if it ached. 'My people were stunned, by the ... by what happened to the Slave World.'

'Concerned.' Jasper spoke in a low voice as he held Garnet's hand. Garnet looked away without speaking. 'We were concerned,' Jasper admitted, 'about what we heard. We had ... questions.'

Chrys stared until her eyes swam. Anger, outrage—all the micro people had turned on Daeren, gave him no peace for helping Arion destroy the Slave World.

Selenite lifted her chin. 'Mine were not concerned. Mine had nothing to say about it. The Slave World was an abomination. Daeren did what he had to. I was impressed.' Small comfort, thought Chrys. On top of everything, why had Andra made him send half his people to the Deathlord, to be bred into mitochondria?

Jasper's hand tensed, and his throat dipped as he swallowed. 'No matter how bad things get, you don't just run to the masters. Think of Andra and Chrys. He must have known we'd risk our lives.'

'And all his own people,' added Opal. 'What became of them?'

'He made a devil's bargain,' Andra explained. 'The masters took over, but they let the blue angels alone. The masters took most of the arsenic, of course, letting his own people slowly starve. They destroyed the pleasure center, but the blue angels protected his central memory and personality longer than usual.' Andra swallowed, her