"What is it?" demanded Aster. "Tell us, what are these curious colors?"
"The sun falls behind a moon. Watch—in a moment, night will fall." Chrys smiled, remembering. "The ancients were struck with terror, forsaken by their angry gods."
"The gods themselves have gods?"
The disk of Elysium sprouted wings of dark. The wings darkened all the sky, until they revealed the stars. Chrys watched, still except for the pounding of her heart. Even though she knew the minutes would pass, she could feel the prayer rising to her lips. How the ancients must have shrieked and wailed.
At last, after interminable minutes, the light returned, as every thinking being knew it must. The blackened moon, though, would remain a while longer, cutting into the sun. Strange, to imagine that turquoise moon of the Elves transformed to a thing of evil.
"What if our god became angry? Will you ever forsake us?"
"Of course not, Aster." Whatever were they up to now, she wondered.
That evening, Selenite stopped by to conference about the latest plans. But there was something else on her mind. "Chrys, we work well together, I'll give you that. There's just one small problem." She paused.
"Yes?"
"You're holding one of my people. You can't do that, you know."
Mystified, Chrys stared at her. "Whatever do you mean?"
Selenite's black curls lifted in the breeze. "Minion-six-twenty-five. You've held her back. You can't ever do that; you must always return visitors on demand."
"On whose demand?"
Selenite's face hardened, like the Chair of the Board. "Each of us maintains order in our own way. You can't subvert the authority of another carrier."
Chrys looked aside. "Aster, are you there? What's all this about?"
"Minion-six-twenty-five emigrated to us. She applied for citizenship and was granted."
"Why does the Deathlord want her back?"
There was a slight pause, long by micro standards. "She was sentenced to death."
"Death? For what?"
"For writing a play disrespectful of the gods."
"Disrespectful? How?"
"It shows the gods striking their own feet with a thunderbolt."
Chrys looked up at Selenite. "If you didn't want her, why do you need her back?"
"She's a danger to you. To all carriers."
"Aster? Why did you accept her?"
A pause. "Will you condemn everyone who writes such stuff?"
"Is it dangerous?"
"If it is, the fault is mine for failing to govern better."
Chrys sighed. Those nightclubs were probably worse than the Gold of Asragh, but she little cared for censorship. "Some of them write trash," she admitted, "but I just got tested and had no problem."
Selenite's eyes sparked red. Whatever sparked from Chrys's eyes in turn, it only deepened her frown. "I think you should get a second opinion." She often disagreed with Daeren, but this frank assessment caught Chrys by surprise.
"Look," said Chrys at last, "I don't mean to subvert your, um, authority, but, like, I have to keep my own as well. I mean, I'm their 'God of Mercy'; they expect it of me."
"Mercy, or indulgence?"
Chrys started to reply but thought better of it. She spread her hands. "If you kill the minion, that's the way to make your whole population read her stuff. Believe me."
"Your population," Selenite corrected. "Mine know better. Very well, you may keep her—but if she ever returns to my arachnoid, she's dead."
Zircon met her as promised at the tube stop in the Underworld. Chrys felt light-headed, it was so good to see him again. The streets were still darkened with soot, but the vendors were back selling caterpillar-claw necklaces and imported nanotex, the bright colored disks stacked upon building roots. Others illegally tapped the roots' power to steam squid with exotic herbs. A stray cat padded silently past the disabled trash cycler. Chrys remembered that Merope could use a new companion. On the sidewalk, one sim pushed another in a wheelchair, while a better-off couple passed cloaked in air-conditioned chinchilla from head to toe. Only a long look down a side street revealed the haze, where housing units and building roots had melted into ruin.
"I'm so glad you came," she told Zircon. "I thought none of the Seven would ever touch me again."
Zircon flexed his arms, proud of himself. "They're all scared," he agreed. "They're waiting to see what happens to me."
She had figured, but hearing it out loud cut to the bone.
The well-built artist looked down at her. "You see, I'm not the biggest chicken."
"You're the rooster." Stepping behind him, she locked her arms around his waist, bent at the knees, and just managed to lift him off the ground.
"What the devil—" Zircon turned and caught her up, flipping her over before he set her down again. Chrys laughed so hard she lost her breath. "I get the message," he added. "You're healthy— I'll let them know."
Chrys caught her breath and sighed. "I do miss Topaz, and Moraeg."
"Moraeg and Carnelian left for Solaris right after the show, as usual." Solaris, the number one leisure world, and the most remote in the Fold. No wonder Moraeg had not called. Chrys felt better. "Topaz has more clients than she can handle," Zircon added, "but Pearl seems a bit off."
"And Yyri?" Zirc's lover; he had not mentioned her.
"She and Ilia are planning their fall season at Gallery Elysium. 'Gems from the Primitive.' "
Primitive Valan art, starring the urban shaman. "Good luck to you."
"Who is this virgin god?" asked Jonquil. "He tastes good."
Startled, Chrys drew away from Zircon. The micros couldn't transfer without a patch, but she would take no chances. "Never mind what you taste. Keep to your own world, or you're dead."
"So who do you hang out with now?" he asked.
"Carriers. They're all nuts," she exclaimed. "It's a relief to be back with someone sane."
"Someone like me? Mind if I keep that and play it back?"
"We're rebuilding the Comb."
He stared. "Little you? Rebuilding the Comb?"
"Say, look, there's Lord Zoisite. He's on the Board; I met him." The patrician Board member passed with his octopod, ignoring a maimed simian with a cup. There were more homeless than ever; even up-level on Rainbow Row, the Spirit Table was full.
Zircon nodded. "Zoisite's a regular."
"Besides the Comb, I've done fantastic things for my new show."
"I know, I've checked it out. You'll have to explain to me those 'portraits.'"
"Those are them. The micro people."
Zircon opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. "These other carriers—are they artists too?"
"No, but they're all rich as Elves."
"No Elf would ever be a carrier."
"Ilia is."
"Ilia? The Elf gallery director?" He stared at her. "I don't believe it."
"I tell you, I saw it in her eyes. Her people contacted mine."
'"Her people?'" He shook his head. "You really have gone round the bend."
"It's the truth."
Zircon crossed his massive arms. "Why would Elves carry tiny people in their heads, when they're already engineered to do just about anything?"
"Nothing beats having a million worshipers in your head."
He thought this over. "Elves think they're gods already." Elysium had no crime or disorder of any kind. Its bubblelike cities floated on the ocean, perpetually safe and clean.