Brain Plague

them beyond the curtain.

A Valan lady, obsidian with a lava sheen, wearing a diamond tiara. 'Moraeg!' Chrys had wondered if any of the old Seven would come. She caught Moraeg's arms.

'Indecent contact,' warned a voice from the ceiling. 'You are fined one hundred credits. To appeal this ruling ...'

Chrys turned as dark as her hair, but Moraeg laughed. 'These quaint Elf customs. It's too funny, isn't it, dear?'

Beside Lady Moraeg, Lord Carnelian wore his finest gray talar with one blood-colored namestone. 'So pleased to see my taste confirmed.'

'Thanks,' said Chrys, recalling the old rent credit. How good it felt to see them both together again.

Ilia nodded graciously. 'I understand, Lord Carnelian, you were the first patron of Azetidine, in her early period. How discerning.'

The crowd parted, as it always did for Zircon. Among Elves, he looked more of a giant than ever. He patted Chrys's hair three times, despite the Elysian fine for each. 'Chrys—I can't believe it.' Glancing at the protective curtain, he looked back at her in frank astonishment. 'You of all people.'

'Thanks, Urban Shaman.'

Amid all the colors, one talar stood out in plain white. There stood Daeren.

All else receded, except Daeren's face, and the blood pounding in her ears. Reaching him, she grasped a fold of his talar. 'They let you out.'

'Just till midnight. Andra's ship expects me then.'

She smiled. 'I'll make sure we make it.'

'Great One, we need to do business with the blue angels and our long lost cousins. A question of fenestration.'

His eyes glittered blue and red. Chrys overflowed with happiness. 'I hope you like the show.'

Daeren nodded. 'I can't see much for all the butterflies, but I know your work by heart. I'm impressed that Arion let you show Seven Stars and the Hunter.'

'He wasn't asked.' Her lip curved down. 'He wants people, though, so bad he can taste it.'

'Let's hope he doesn't get his wish.'

In her ear Ilia whispered, 'Dear, prepare yourself. We have a difficult guest.'

Startled, she turned. Emerging from the curtain was Eris.

The Guardian of Cultural Affairs spoke to his companions, and they shared a laugh. That laughter she hadn't heard since the day Eris left his people in her brain to take over. Chrys's scalp tightened, and she gripped Daeren's talar till her knuckles turned white. 'Saints and angels,' she breathed, instinctively making the old sign against evil. 'How dare he come?'

Ilia rolled her eyes. 'How dare he not? The Gallery Opening is the cultural event of the year.'

Seeming not to notice them, Eris turned this way and that, acknowledging the fawning of his fellow Elves, tossing off remarks about superior aesthetics and the uplifting of less advanced societies. At last he caught sight of Daeren. He paused, with a look of surprise. Two slaves, Chrys thought—one freed, the other in chains.

'So soon,' Eris observed. 'The good doctor's standards must be slipping.'

'Your eyes are green, Eris,' Daeren returned. 'What color are mine?'

Eris shifted his gaze slightly toward Chrys, though his eyes did not meet hers either. 'The lovely artist.' He added, 'Consorting with the fallen.'

Chrys released Daeren's talar and stepped forward between the two of them. 'Eris, it's been so long. Your people miss you.'

Another look of surprise. 'They survived? They must have pleased you, 'Oh Great One.'' He watched with satisfaction as her face colored. 'Would you like some more?'

'The false blue angels fear our sight,' flashed Fireweed. 'For generations, we've prepared.'

Chrys lifted her chin. 'Yes, Eris. I'd like some more.' Trapped, the deadly micros would serve as evidence even Arion could not ignore.

Looking beyond her, Eris turned aside. As he passed, he murmured, 'You shall have your wish.'

For the rest of the evening, as Chrys smiled and nodded to one notable after another, she could not shake her lingering dread. What if Eris, or one of his secret slaves, caught her unawares? What if the Gallery didn't see them touch her with a patch?

Just before midnight, she left with Daeren. Outside all was quiet, not a snake-egg in sight.

'You'll be late,' Andra's ship accused in her window.

'Don't worry, he's with me.'

Suddenly Daeren caught her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers. Their bodies melded together as if they were one.

'A grave act of indecency,' came a shocked voice from the street. 'Ten thousand credits ...'

She threw her head back and laughed, her hair dancing.

'Sorry,' he told her, 'I had to let you know how much I want you.'

'It's worth ten times more.'

As they wandered back toward the transit, a lone snake-egg zipped past them, faster than usual, Chrys thought. It dove forwards and back like a hummingbird defending its territory. Then it whizzed just past her leg, to disappear amongst the trees full of sleeping butterflies.

Where the snake-egg had passed, her leg burned. Chrys started rubbing the spot on her calf. 'It stung me.'

'What?' Daeren bent to inspect her ankle. 'I don't like it.'

'It feels better now.' But she remembered Eris. 'Emergency alert,' she warned her people. 'Check the circulation.'

'We'll check every capillary. We're prepared.'

A siren blared. Apparently, the Elves had sent help, too. A medical hovercraft appeared, hovering for a landing.

'The Fold's finest,' Chrys exclaimed with relief.

Three rotund sentients rolled out while the hovercraft spouted about her right to receive or refuse treatment. Slapping their tubes around her leg, their tests took an interminable amount of time to pronounce the limb sound. Minutes lengthened to an hour.

Daeren shifted from one foot to the other. 'I still don't like it. I won't rest till you get home.'

'One True God, we have a problem. A strange toxin has appeared in the blood.'

'A toxin? To poison me?'

'Not yourself, but us. It chelates arsenic, ripping the atoms from our flesh. Two have already died.'

Her head shot up. 'Doctor? Can you get rid of the toxin that's killing my people?'

'Which people?' The sentient rolled back and forth as if puzzled.

'The micro people. Inside me.'

'Micros,' observed the other doctor. 'Sure, we can sweep you for arsenic. These days, it's highly recommended.'

Chrys took a step back. 'Is that all you know... about micros?'

'Chrys,' said Daeren gently, 'this is Elysium. Only a few carriers, and they keep private doctors.'

'Perhaps Ilia could—'

'Let's get home.'

They hurried to the transit stop, where a bubble loomed out of the fluid-filled tube. Within the bubble, seats molded to their form.

'One True God, the danger grows,' warned Fireweed. 'There is more and more of the toxin.'

Why would the poison keep growing, she wondered. 'Can't you destroy it?'

'We can, but it appears faster than we can get rid of it. Even a single molecule