In the studio behind him towered the crossed bars and virtual cantilevers of his centerpiece for the Elf exhibition, "Gems from the Primitive." His brow wrinkled further. "I'm not sure. I just get all these messages in colored lights. I thought at first it was a prank from someone out there, so I played along. But now—"
"Ever get headaches or feel high?"
"I tried some new psychos, but they didn't even work. In fact, the colored lights made some prissy comment on it." His eyes widened. "Chrys—tell me the truth. Am I a vampire?"
She skipped the first three unsuitable responses that came to mind. "We'll be right there to find out." By now she had learned to check the medic list on call and pick a sympathetic one, if possible. Flexor—she was in luck.
Zircon had moved down to level six, not exactly vampire territory, but the streets could use a trash pickup. Chrys wondered why his Elf lover did not provide better; Zircon had barely mentioned Yyri lately. "Okay," she said, looking up to his face. "Just look into my eyes a moment."
The giant grinned. "Sure, anytime, Chrys." His eyes held steady. Around his irises flashed rings of gold, not unlike Garnet's.
"They want to visit," reported Rose. "They say they're accountants."
Zircon's grin faded. "Is it really bad, Chrys?"
"I'm not sure." The Elf strain—was this their latest trick? "Rose, what do you think?"
"Accountants are the tool of a degenerate society."
"But are they masters?"
"Only one way to find out."
Chrys took out a transfer patch. "Zirc, I'm sending a couple over to visit."
"A couple what?"
"Never mind. Just hurry up and put this on your neck, right here." She showed him the best spot.
"Weird." He took the patch and looked it over.
"I said, hurry. Not that side—the microneedle side down."
She watched his eyes again, until a flash of pink told her Rose had made it. She let out a sigh. "How long have you had the 'messages'?"
Zircon shrugged. "One week, maybe two. They keep asking me to let them manage my money, which would be great if I had any. Then they tell me I'm the lord of creation."
She rolled her eyes. "Lord of the rings. Look, Zirc—you're infected all right, but it's not a typical case." She blinked to call in Flexor, waiting outside. "The hospital will need to check you out."
"Hospital? You know I can't stand worm-faces—I have a phobia."
Doctor Flexor approached, worms neatly coiled upon her head. At the sight of her, Zircon's face twisted in sheer terror. He backed to the wall, shoulders knotted, sweat running down his forehead.
"It's okay," Chrys told him soothingly. "We won't hurt you or them; just checking."
Zircon swallowed, and his eyes blinked rapidly at the doctor. "They call you the Terminator."
A couple of Flexor's worms pointed out toward the sculpture. "I know your work," she told him. "The vanguard of heroic formalism." She moved closer to inspect it. "Tell me about this latest piece. I might consider a commission."
While Flexor at last coaxed him into getting examined, Chrys managed to get her people back. "Pure degeneracy," reported Rose. "Shaving credits here and there, cutting taxes, taking deductions. And half the lot are children—merging all over the place. They'd better get their hormones down."
"Any other trouble?"
"No sign of what you'd call trouble," Rose assured her. "Except perhaps your own finances. They claim someone is anonymously padding your credit line. They think you're taking bribes—"
Chrys stepped outside with Flexor. "A civilized population," the doctor confirmed. "They could only have come from a carrier."
"But how? Why?"
"All it takes is a transfer patch."
As for why, she could well imagine. "But—don't the people need training? From Daeren's blue angels?"
"That's always safer," Flexor agreed. "These made it on their own, so far. Their population has reached the turning point; they'd better get their hormones down, or they'll crash."
"Zirc can't be a host," she exclaimed. "He drinks, he takes nanos—"
"They'll detoxify it all. They keep their environment clean."
"And he plays headball!"
The doctor considered this. "They'll have to reinforce their homes for skullquakes."
Chrys put her hands on her hips. "Then why did I have to answer all those damned questions?"
"Because you were part of the approved program. Our success rate has to approach a hundred percent. Believe me, your friend is very lucky. But for carriers, this means big trouble. What would your neighbors think if they knew you could pass on micros just like that?"
"We're attempting to identify the source," Andra told the Committee, another emergency meeting, the virtual members partitioning Chrys's holostage. "If the carrier is found, they get ten years in prison, after their people are wiped."
In the partitions, all wore long faces. "How could you ever prove such a thing?" wondered Pyrite. "Even if they keep records over a dozen generations, their accuracy—"
"This is no small matter." Andra's voice was grim. "This is just the sort of thing to spark a lynch mob."
"The recipient seems pleased enough." Pleased as punch, especially with Chrys "testing" him every day. Inwardly she fumed. What would Moraeg think now?
Doctor Sartorius answered. "We can't always count on such luck. If we don't put a stop to unauthorized transfers, we could lose our authorized program."
Opal said, "Perhaps we need to relieve some pressure. Resume the authorized program."
"I second that," said Pyrite quickly.
"And reward misbehavior?" objected Selenite.
"Reward our own good behavior." Perhaps Chrys wasn't the only one whose head held eager migrants.
So green Pteris and her sect at last got their wish. It took several passes of the patch back and forth to Daeren, to transfer them all. Chrys felt relief, mixed with regret. "Despite everything, I'll miss them," she admitted.
"We'll train them well," promised Daeren, relaxing in her studio. "They'll learn to handle phagocytes and microglia, without compromising their host's immune system. Even how to neutralize toxins from the Elf strain; a new course we've started." Based largely on intelligence from intrepid Rose.
"Who will receive them?" Chrys asked.
"That's confidential."
"What about Lady Moraeg? She wants creative ones. Why can't she get on the list?"
"Lady Moraeg and Lord Carnelian," he reflected. "Good philanthropists. If she's your friend, that's a plus. I'll talk to Sar. On the Committee, you know, I have to keep quiet." The Olympians all loved Daeren, yet they always feared he'd put the micros ahead of humans. "Chrys, since you've just passed on a few, might you have openings? A couple of blue angels wish to join Eleutheria."
For migration between established worlds, the rules were left up to the micro populations. "It's fine with me," Chrys said.
"So long as they pass the entrance exam."
"What? Never mind—"
"Let them take the damned test, so your people don't look down on them." He caught himself. "I'm sorry; every world has its obsessions."
"Intelligence tests," she admitted. "The little rings, they think they're so smart."
He smiled in a way he hadn't for a long while, the kind of smile she could just drown in.
Taking the transfer patch, Chrys welcomed the immigrants. One was a particularly pretty sky-blue. "I call you Forget-me-not."
"I try to forget nothing," flashed the lilting blue letters. "I will write the entire history of the Seven Lights of Eleutheria."