"Andra and the good doctor are a pair."
"What?" exclaimed Chrys. "You mean she's a worm lover?"
Opal paused at a ramp leading up into a dark, discreetly intimidating tower of plast. "Don't be provincial, dear," she said. "They actually got married, out on Solaris where it's legal. Sar runs our clinic, and Andra defends our right to exist. Without them, we'd be gone."
Chrys was repulsed. "How could anyone stand it?"
Opal shrugged. "How he looks, alone with her, is anyone's guess."
Chrys followed Opal up the ramp. The ramp began to rise; Chrys had to catch herself.
"Watch your step, Ladies," breathed the building. Plast all over; rather live plast for her taste. Chrys hoped its roots below were healthy.
"Keep still," advised Opal. "The house knows where we're headed."
The live walkway carried them inward and upward. Light revealed a vast virtual wilderness—a forest of redwoods, taller than the eye could see, their canopy crowding out the sky. Amazed, Chrys caught herself on a soft railing.
Opal guided her to an artfully placed tree branch that offered drinks and plates of AZ. Out of the forest emerged a petite woman with black curls. Her nanotex pulsed black and gold, and her jewels swam attractively around her waste. Opal clasped her arm and gave her a kiss, while they exchanged a patch at the neck.
"Chrys, I'm Selenite." A dynatect, Opal had said. "How's Eleutheria?" Selenite's delicate fingers held out a patch; the standard ritual, Chrys realized.
"The Deathlord," Fern told her. "This god puts all dissenters to death."
Chrys blinked. Deathlord? The woman had fine, delicate fingers, no muscles to speak of. Her pupils twinkled reddish orange.
"The Deathlord's minions want to visit us. Is it safe?"
"She's a dynatect. Don't you want help with your work?" Hesitantly Chrys raised the patch to her neck.
"We never need help with our great work. Others seek help from us, but we are too busy."
Microbes with attitude. Maybe this "Deathlord" would give them a scare. "I bid you visit them." She held the patch to Selenite's neck.
"Remember to touch my hand first," Selenite warned. "To make sure of consent."
Opal waved her hand. "Chrys is just learning. Relax, we're at home."
"She won't always be at home. Chrys, we're so glad you pulled through. I know it's a challenge to manage Eleutheria." She sounded doubtful that Chrys was up to it.
"Have something," Opal urged.
A drink emerged from a shelf in the "tree." Blended fruits, like the first bloom of summer. Chrys savored the taste on her tongue. "Where do all the . . . gods' names come from?"
Selenite motioned to a seat, disguised as a polished stump; its plast molded gracefully to seat her. How the other half-a-percent lives. "I earn my name."
Opal's dimples showed. "The micros know us remarkably well." Well enough to flatter, Chrys guessed. "They name their populations, too."
"Like 'Eleutheria'?" asked Chrys.
"Eleutheria is our formal name for your strain. It means 'free spirit.' But micros call other strains by informal epithets, such as 'wizards' or 'blue angels.' "
"What do they call mine?"
"It's rather crude, I'm afraid."
Selenite said, "A loose translation would be 'libertines.' "
Opal explained, "It means they let their children mate with any kind of people."
Chrys narrowed her eyes. "Any bright enough." Just what she needed—microbes with a reputation.
Selenite's eyes had been flashing busily. She drew closer. "Chrys, your people tell me they kept all the plans of the Comb."
"So I hear."
"Amazing," whispered Selenite, shaking her head. "Listen. I have this contract for structural improvement."
"Improvement? On the Comb?"
"It ought to have been Titan's job, but Titan, shall we say, took little interest in ..."
"Maintenance," finished Opal.
Maintenance on the Comb, the work of genius. Chrys eyed Selenite with new interest. "His death left me in a fix," Selenite explained, "because, it turns out, the only complete set of plans was in his head."
Chrys nodded slowly. "What sort of maintenance would the Comb need?"
Opal looked askance. "What doesn't it need."
Selenite frowned. "She's a great building. Just a small problem of fenestration."
"Of what?'
"Fenestration. The placement of windows—Titan's spiral fenestration was legend. But unfortunately—"
The Comb appeared, growing absurdly amid the redwoods. Her form expanded, appearing larger and closer, until the ground level came into detail. "The Comb, like all Titan's buildings, grows from the bottom up," Selenite explained. "So the top execs never need change their office; they just keep rising upward. Whereas below—" She pointed. "Here is the youngest ground level. Look closely."
The legendary windows soared beautifully up the honeycombed chambers. But in the bottom row, nearest the ground, each window was cracked. Fine grooves ramified through every pane.
"You see?" said Selenite. "If the newer floors all come up like that, it's a disaster. No easy fix, either. Whatever we do has to go in from the roots up."
"I see."
Selenite clasped her arm. "Here's the deal. We'll subcontract your people for a megacred. It's not much, but they'll get back in touch with the business and reconnect with customers. What do you say?"
A megacred? Seven digits? Chrys's mouth fell open. "Fern? Aster? What's this about?"
"The Deathlord's minions seek our genius," replied Aster, such pretty magenta. "But the Comb is an ancient monument. We build for the future."
The two carriers were watching her, testing her nerve. What did they expect her to do, send a thunderbolt? "The future becomes the past," she told Aster. "The past needs restoration. Is the job too hard for you?"
That must have got them. She counted the seconds.
"The Deathlord offers too little. Ask more."
Chrys looked up. "They want more money."
Opal exclaimed, "You mean they'll do it?"
Selenite frowned. "Let me negotiate, dear. Okay, one-point-five and that's final."
"Okay," said Chrys, before anyone could change their mind. "We'll take your offer."
Selenite put another patch at her neck. "We'll send you our memory cells detailing the recent pattern of development."
In the corner of Chrys's eye, her credit balance expanded by several digits, spreading across the screen.
"How's it look?" asked Selenite. "Did the funds transfer okay?"
Seven digits. One point five million credits, plus her last three-digit sale. "It takes up the screen," Chrys observed. "I need to reduce the font size."
For a split second there was silence. Then Opal collapsed laughing. " 'It takes up the screen!' "
"Stop it, Opal," said Selenite, trying not to smile.
Opal pressed her hand. "Chrys, you're going to be so good for us."
Chrys closed her eyes. Then she forced them back open. "Look, I really am grateful, but it's a lot to think about." A million credits; she could pay her brother's health plan and then some. A new painting stage ... Yet how the devil were micros inside her head supposed to fix a building? "I need to get home and sleep on it."
"You'll sleep here tonight," said Opal. "We promised Andra."
"What?"
Opal smiled. "Tomorrow we'll go house-hunting. I know just the place for you; you'll love it." The Comb disappeared, replaced by an elegant townhouse with an upsweeping facade and a pair of caryatids holding up the terrace.
Chrys raised her hands. "Saints and angels—I am getting back to my cats and my work."