Brain Plague

The holostage whined. Above the stage flashed a molecule, a hexagon of atoms with two claws and a tail. 'Dopamine,' repeated Daeren with emphasis. 'The central molecule of reward. Dopamine enters the neurons to create pleasure. Everything humans do—loving, dying, killing—they do for dopamine.'

Chrys regarded the molecule curiously. 'Even enjoying art?'

'Even art,' he said. 'But the plague micros trap the dopamine in your synapses, until you're good for nothing else. Like cocaine— smart cocaine.'

Chrys stared again at the molecule; it looked like a scorpion. A normal part of the brain; and yet.... 'These micros could turn into plague.'

'Your elders will keep things in hand,' he assured her. ' Once you get past the second week, elders outnumber children again, and the population stabilizes at a million. Then they have nothing to do but help your work.'

Chrys shuddered. 'Well, let's hope Fern keeps the kids in line.'

The poppy-colored letters returned. 'Oh Great One, do our people please you?'

'Yes, I am ... pleased.'

'Then please, send us a sign of your mercy.'

Chrys looked up. 'They want a 'sign.' What do I do, raise the dead?'

Daeren took a look at the medical monitor. 'The nanos say they're doing okay, keeping their kids out of the cortex. They deserve a reward.' Daeren took out a packet of small blue wafers. He handed one to Chrys. 'Here, take this. Hold it on your tongue for a moment, then swallow it.'

Chrys eyed the blue wafer suspiciously. 'What's in it?'

'Azetidine acid.' The holostage showed a new molecule: a simpler structure, only seven atoms. A group of four with a tail of three, like the seven stars.

'A—what?'

'Azetidine, AZ for short. An amino acid, common in plants. It does for micros what dopamine does for us.'

Microbial cocaine? 'It doesn't sound right. Why should I drug them?'

'If you don't rule them, they'll rule you.' Daeren smiled. 'It's just a low concentration. It gives them a buzz, like champagne with chocolates.'

'I don't drink. You made a big point of it.'

'They're different. They live fast.'

Chrys put the wafer in her mouth. It tasted like a potato chip.

'Thanks for your blessing, Oh Great One! We will make wise use of your world, and sing your praises forever.' A starburst of red and lava.

Fern added, 'It is good to please our God of Mercy, for we live or die at your pleasure.'

Chrys thought, even priests like good food and drink.

As the micros multiplied, the holostage listed their growing population. On the first day the total did not increase much, but the 'children' doubled, and none became elders. Every hour or so the elders asked for a 'sign.' It always sent them into raptures, like catnip. Then Fern hurried off to keep the kids out of trouble, but Poppy at least could be persuaded to stay a bit and play with colors. Colors of mountains, sky, and ocean; at Chrys's suggestion, Poppy sprayed them out, from the green gold of meadows to the gray violet of distant hills. Familiar vistas turned strange, as if by the light of a foreign sun.

The hourly newsbreak jarred her teeth. Titan's corpse, for the hundredth time—still no leads. If micros were people, then Titan's murder was more than a hate crime; it was genocide. Meanwhile, slaves had snatched another ship, in Elysian space. No Elves were ever taken, though, only a 'mortal' Valan.

In her window the Protector pounded his fist, demanding the Elves help locate the Slave World. The Elf Prime Guardian did not deign to reply, but his Guardian of Peace, Guardian Arion, appeared in his butterfly train. Guardian Arion stood straight as a caryatid, his face marble white. 'The brain plague and other addictions need not trouble our advanced society,' the Elf purred. His bearing and diction underlined the superiority of a world without crime. As opposed to inferior Valedon.

Chrys lay back in the hospital bed. 'Poppy, no more news for me. I'm closing the window.'

'But what if we need you, Oh Great One?'

'If I see that corpse once more, I'll go mad.'

'Change the setting.'

That took her by surprise. 'What setting?'

'Advanced Options, function nine; Social Setting, alternate six; Alert Status, key three....'

Following each step, Chrys focused on the hovering keypad. The Plan One clinic never told her about this.

'The gods are not omniscient,' Poppy observed. 'They can learn from us.'

Chrys smiled. 'Yes, we can learn from you.'

That evening Daeren stopped in. For a moment he froze; his brows wrinkled and his eyes scanned, as if reading bad news in the window. Then he looked at her and smiled. 'Time for an eye check.'

Chrys had been sketching a shield cone on a windless day, a wisp of smoke rising. She blinked it away and focused on the agent's eyes as they flashed blue. A minute or so passed before her own flashed in response.

'They should always keep someone on watch,' he told her. 'Remind them. And remember to set your alarm at night, every two hours.'

'What for?'

'While you sleep, eight years will pass. The young won't know you, and the old may forget. Plan Ten would wake you if anything went wrong, but prevention is better.'

She stretched, missing her workout with Zircon. Yet oddly she felt exhausted, as if she had traveled a thousand years. 'I can use a good night's sleep.'

'Remember to keep your window open.'

Poppy had turned off the news and ads. That alone was nearly worth the hospital stay.

That night, she woke every two hours to give the micros their 'sign' of AZ. Each time they responded with rapturous pyrotechnics. By morning, she tossed in her sheets, unable quite to sleep, too tired to waken.

'Fern? Are you there?'

'I am here, Oh Great One.'

In the dark she felt as if she were one of them; she could almost reach out and touch the whiskers of the little ring. 'Fern, I need sleep.'

'So do I. But at last we've built our first city.'

'Your city?'

'In the arachnoid, in the great Cisterna Magna.'

Out of the darkness grew columns of light. Fibroblast cells connected floor to ceiling, a vast colonnade extending in all directions like a scaffold across the firmament of the brain. Between two arachnoid columns hovered Fern. Her green projections twinkled as they rotated, propelling her forward. Chrys's view followed her.

'Our arachnoid is largely wilderness, as yet uninhabited. But now we approach the Cisterna Magna, where the brain linings diverge, creating a great space for our city.'

The floor fell away sickeningly, while the ceiling soared out of sight. Across the cellular columns stretched struts and braces of all different colors, in complex pulsating structures. The struts built fantastic stellated dwellings, with micro rings tumbling in and out of hidden portals. This was the city they had built in their New World.

Her mind floated upward, toward the ceiling where the columns stretched to meet the outer lining of the brain. An opening appeared, flanked by micros of various twinkling colors, sentinels on guard. The opening extended into a tunnel, smooth and white.