Suddenly Chrys felt her pulse pounding. She had vowed to keep quiet, but the mention of a lawsuit had changed her mind. "Excuse me, I know less about building than a cold germ, but I think you're missing something. The Comb is not a fixed structure, like the pyramids. It's a living being, like a redwood tree. If you had a redwood growing in the middle of Iridis, you'd have to prune it forever."
Lord Zoisite laughed. "A redwood in Iridis! That's it—that's the Comb."
The engineer tucked her worms back into her head. The Chair leaned back. "We'll get a second opinion, of course," he said, his voice easing.
Outside, alone together, Selenite took a deep breath. "We've done it, Chrys." She grinned. "We've convinced them we can do the fix."
The air from the sea swept Chrys's face, and the warming circuit of her nanotex kicked on. "I sure hope we can."
"My people are convinced, and so am I," Selenite assured her.
"Can we do it, Aster?"
The magenta voice hesitated. "We could use some help."
"We need to recruit talent," added Jonquil. "From the wizards, and from all different peoples, of different gods. The brightest children of every generation." No wonder they always begged to visit the God of Wisdom. She wondered what Opal thought.
"Where would I find other gods?"
"Olympus."
Chrys stared. She said aloud, "What's 'Olympus'?"
"The Club Olympus," said Selenite. "We'll all be there. We have plenty to celebrate."
Before the Club Olympus stretched a long colonnade of faux marble caryatids. Some of the draped figures had their arms outstretched; others held a piece of fruit to the mouth. All of their eyes swiveled eerily toward Chrys.
Selenite wore black, with red and gold flames lapping ever higher. Opal wore a talar of deep blue, her gems swimming across its folds in the form of an ocean wave rising to foam, with a white moon at her breast, gradually changing phase. Any moment Chrys expected the outfit to demand a raise and a two-week vacation.
"Chrys," Opal exclaimed, pressing her arm, "I'm so thrilled you're fixing the Comb. It will be wonderful to work without drip from the ceiling. We're all impressed. Everyone's dying to meet you." She added pointedly, "Despite the brain drain."
The doorway of Olympus shimmered and expanded—into another world. Tree trunks arched into the virtual sky, then back to earth, like lava fountains frozen. The arched trunks were midnight blue, their foliage hung in green and yellow bangles, profuse enough to block the sun. Beside the looped foliage hovered a helicopter bird, its propeller buzzing. From beneath a tree's arch rolled a tire-shaped animal, headless and limbless, its suckers picking up from behind and rotating forward to catch the ground ahead. It took fright and sped off, like a wheel come loose from a wagon.
"Living wheels," exclaimed Chrys.
"It's Prokaryon," said Opal, "where the ancestral micros came from. On Prokaryon, all the creatures are living wheels. It's not so strange. Even your own mitochondria are covered with rotating energy generators, like molecular pinwheels."
"Those trees—are they wheels too?"
Opal nodded. "Their roots loop across underneath, and their arches sprout loopleaves. Micros inhabit the singing-trees; they make the loopleaves flash colors, to transmit their signals long-distance."
"Or they live in us, and use human eyes." No wonder they invented the neuroports.
Opal's arm swung forward, and a magnificent curl of gems rolled past her breast. "We humans make better transmitting towers. We're intelligent."
In a clearing sat several Plan-Ten-polished people resplendent in gem-swirling nanotex, relaxing amid bowls of lambfruit and AZ. The chief of security glittered in pale green andradites, marching in rows around her waist. With her was an eye-stalked sentient; Sartorius, with his worms pulled in to look less repellent.
"The Terminator," flashed Jonquil. "Turn away. We don't like to see him."
"Mind your manners. Where's Aster?" Chrys did not care much for the doctor either, but her people had better watch their step.
Opal and Selenite passed Andra transfer patches. Several carriers whom Chrys had not yet met held out patches to them, and to her. Everyone seemed to have their hands on someone, sending microbial visitors neck to neck. Plenty of talent to recruit, but it made Chrys uneasy, even if micros did keep the blood clean.
Out of the forest came a caryatid, taking slow, gliding steps. Its form was a young man, pale as an Elysian, perfectly proportioned, its gaze serene. Chrys admired the face; it was well done, more sophisticated than Xenon's handiwork. Its arm held out a platter of sculpted fruits, lamb and pork flesh grown on a stem, the sort of trifle one saw for a hundred credits behind thick glass on Center Way. Chrys took one, and the taste of it went straight to her head; she weakened at the knees. How the other half a percent eats.
Opal beckoned Chrys to sit. She and Selenite rested arm in arm beneath the brightly colored loopleaves. Selenite was already arguing with Daeren. "I'm not sure micros really are individuals, like human people," she insisted.
Daeren wore no talar, but his black nanotex pulsed with subtle geometric forms. His face was relaxed, but his hand clenched and unclenched. "Of course they're individuals," he said quietly. "Each one has personality. A micro feels in one day what a humans takes decades to feel."
"But they depend on us completely. Without us, they are nothing."
"What are we humans without our planet, our atmosphere?"
Another caryatid glided forward. This one looked faintly familiar. Chrys frowned in puzzlement. Topaz; not exactly, yet it resembled her, a boyish version. Chrys's lips parted, then she shook herself. All these strangers had her confused. And she missed Topaz so badly. How had the show done? Topaz had not even called. At least Zircon had. She couldn't wait to see him again at Gold of Asragh.
"Even if micros are individuals now," Selenite continued, "evolution will make them degenerate. Look how fast they mutate. Like our ancestral mitochondria, they'll start out individuals, then eventually lose most of their genes and merge with our own bodies."
Daeren shook his head. "Mitochondrial ancestors were individual, but mindless. Mindless cells, like any ordinary microbe, at the mercy of natural selection. But micro people are intelligent. They breed their own children, correcting their genes."
"Some of us breed them," Selenite rejoined coolly. "Some of us select which offspring to merge. We cultivate our strains for essential skills, while discarding less helpful traits. In the end, they'll merge with our own brains—true brain extensions."
At that, Daeren did not answer. His face went blank, as if to hide his thoughts.
Opal leaned her head on Selenite's shoulder. "The micros will change us too," she warned. "Even our mitochondria transferred their genes into our own chromosomes. On Prokaryon, the micro people bred the giant singing-trees to their desires. And now—"
Selenite frowned. "Don't even say such things. The Sapiens will eat us alive."
Chrys thought, she herself would eat those micros alive if they tried to mess with her genes.
Opal leaned away and put a hand on Daeren's knee. "What about microsentients? Do you support them too?"
His mouth lengthened slightly. "I do," he admitted.
Selenite rolled her eyes. "So every nano-cell in every bit of plast could be a person?"
Another caryatid approached Chrys. Servers of course were kept at a level of sentience just below what might "wake up." She admired this one's classic features. "Some water, please?" The server obligingly produced a phial of clear liquid, the taste of a Dolomite spring. For a moment Chrys closed her eyes, back to her childhood on the ash-dusted slope, at once pleasant, yet achingly sad.