"Sorry, Homo. The psychology's your job."
Zoisite's residence was as imposing as Garnet's, but at least the door was better behaved. Lady Zoisite dismissed her caryatids and nodded curtly to Chrys. "He's upstairs in the study. He just got back from the Underworld. His account lost ten thousand; he never drops that much, even at the gaming table."
Chrys followed the Lady upstairs. The intimate quarters of the family; she felt acutely embarrassed. In the library, several stages displayed law texts scrolling down. In their midst, Lord Zoisite was seated in his dressing gown. He turned slowly, then stood and smiled. "Our lovely new dynatect. An unexpected pleasure."
Chrys stared back without smiling. Her fingers flexed nervously—what was the point, she wondered. "My Lord, I've been called to help you. If there's anything I can do . .." She trailed off aimlessly. The Lord faced her straight, with complete composure; she could not help but feel foolish.
"I've had enough," his wife exclaimed. "You'll get to the clinic this time, or I'll—I'll call the Palace."
"My Lady," he told her, "you're overwrought. You can spend the night at your mother's."
"We still can't get a fix on him," complained Rose. "Get hint closer."
His gaze of course did not quite meet her eye. Chrys took a step closer. "Excuse me, my Lord—may I ask a few questions?"
"Certainly, my dear."
"Tell me the color of my eyes."
He gave her a cultured laugh. "What a question, in front of my wife."
"Answer," ordered his wife, her voice full of aristocratic chill. "Answer, or I'll call the Palace."
Chrys made the sternest face she could and raised her arms to show the muscles. "It's different this time," she bluffed. "If you can't answer, we haul you in."
Zoisite's face changed to a look at once strange, yet familiar. She had seen that look before, somewhere. "So," he observed with interest. "You'd like a few people, wouldn't you. 'Save' a few from the holocaust, shall we?" His smile made her hair stand on end. "Let's trade. A few of yours for a few of mine."
Eris. Eris had sounded like that, when he tried to take her over. Her heart pounded furiously. "The false blue angels," she warned her people.
"I knew it," flashed Rose. "Let me over there—I'll handle them."
"They'll torture you to death."
"Look, I've been planning this date for generations. First, soften them up a bit: Show them your dirty pictures."
There was a thought. She blinked to open her private gallery, then downloaded one of the more scandalous ones into her eye. Jonquil's taste had developed considerably, she recalled, since the one that attracted Eris. Loading the artwork into a viewcoin, she held it up before the Lord's face.
At first Zoisite looked uncomprehending. Then his eyes widened, and his hand rose as if to grasp the coin. Chrys withdrew the coin, just out of reach. "There's more where that came from. Tell them."
"I—I don't understand." Zoisite's eyes and mouth seemed to struggle between two wills.
"Accept treatment. Let mine visit." She hoped Rose knew what she was doing.
His eyes still fixed on the coin. "All right," he whispered.
Chrys pressed the patch to his neck. Then, between her and his wife, he managed to get downstairs to the waiting medic. At the sight of the worm-face, he let out a cry and collapsed.
"Rose!" exclaimed Chrys. "I have to get Rose back." While the worms twined all over him, Chrys pressed a patch to his neck. On the second try, at last Rose came home. Chrys let out a long breath.
"I had them fooled," bragged Rose. "They know you, Great Host. They want you so bad they can taste it. You won't believe the chemical arsenal they gave me, to take you over."
The medic raised a worm and curled it toward her. "You'll have to spend the night in observation. The Elf strain—How in hell did you get to them?"
She thought of Titan. "They, too, have their weakness."
In the morning Chrys awoke in the hospital, her brain full of internal sensors while others trained on her from instruments around the bed. On a pedestal by her shoulder, a vase contained a single red rose. The natural scent filled her with pleasure. Someone knew her well. It came from Opal.
A blink at her keypad found Opal already hard at work in her lab. "Chrys—I can't believe all we're learning on that Elf strain— and we've barely scratched the surface." Her dimples deepened. "All their toxins," she exclaimed. "We can build dendrimers to fight them. I'm sure they'll make others, but it's a step." She nodded. "If the Committee had medals, you'd earn one."
"Thank Rose." Chrys relaxed back in bed. For once, somehow, she didn't mind a break from work. She ought to take vacations, she thought, like Moraeg.
That morning, there came unexpected mail from Dolomoth: a holo clip from her brother. "Hello, Chrys—wherever you are! Thanks for the pretty green star picture." Hal's recorded voice was strong and full, a note deeper than she had heard before. "Chrys, look what I can do." Taking a deep breath, the boy hurled himself forward into a cartwheel. He caught himself full on his feet, glowing with health as a boy his age should.
She played the clip over, then once again. At last she uploaded it to the holostage by the bed, setting it to loop continuously. From a distance, he almost looked like a micro child tumbling through the arachnoid. She showed Daeren when he stopped by.
Daeren smiled as if in recognition. He caught her hand, and for a long moment their eyes met without words, only flashing rings. Then abruptly his head turned, as though she had spoken amiss.
"Something wrong?" "Were you polite?" she demanded of her people.
"Of course, One True God, we are always polite."
"That was good thinking," he told her. "The color of your eyes—we never thought of that one."
She shrugged. "It didn't work."
"Not for Zoisite, but it would rattle an Elf. Elves are so sensitive to aesthetics." He hesitated. "Did you ... see the news?"
In her window the news opened. A private Elysian ship had been boarded, and the two occupants vanished. No distress signal; no hint of explanation from the ship's brain. An event without precedent, no Elf had fallen to piracy since the Great Sentient Uprising, two centuries before. No sign of the pirates, but to Valans, the circumstances appeared drearily familiar.
The Elysian Prime Guardian himself made a rare public appearance. A small man with a talar of gold-spotted butterflies, face of alabaster. "An event so barbarous is unknown in modern times." Unknown to Elves, Chrys mentally corrected. "Fear not; the entire resources of the Guard will ensure the safety of our peaceful citizens."
After the Prime came his Guardian of Peace, Arion. Arion's face was grim as death, but he retained every ounce of his superiority. "Make no mistake," he warned. "We of Elysium are a civilized people, but we shall not rest until we solve this heinous crime. The perpetrators of this deed shall be found, and the source of their evil annihilated." Strong words, for an Elf. Good luck finding the Slave World.
Next to pontificate was the Protector of Valedon in his gem-studded talar. Raising his fist, he managed to look fierce yet smug all at once. "Even our ocean-dwelling neighbors are not unmolested by the brain plague—"
Chrys shook her head. The Valan minister of justice was in the clinic, and Arion's "brother" ought to be. What great shape the twin worlds were in.
"—Henceforth," the Protector proclaimed, "the Palace octopods have their orders: To round up and quarantine every carrier of the infernal brain plague."
"Good idea," said Chrys. "Why didn't they round them up years ago?"