Into her window popped a human sprite. It was Daeren. "Chrys! Oh god, Chrys—are you all right?" His face looked more scared than she had ever seen. Within minutes he boarded, with Doctor Sartorius.
Daeren caught her in his arms and pressed her head to his chest. "Chrys, whatever it is—it's okay. We'll do what it takes, Chrys." She took a deep breath. The scent of him was like heaven. "We'll soon reach the hospital."
Suddenly she sat up. She tried to speak, but her throat would only let her whisper. "I have to paint."
Her looked at her, puzzled, irises flashing sky blue. Behind him, the wall of the ship had puckered in, becoming a tunnel to the medical rescue vessel.
"She's in shock," said the doctor.
"I tell you," she insisted, "I have to paint her portrait."
"Yes," Sartorius agreed, in a different voice, more soothing than usual, "you'll feel better at home."
"Chrys," exclaimed Daeren. "In heaven's name, where were you?"
She took a viewcoin from her pocket and squeezed. Then she blinked to transfer all the records of her journey. It took some minutes. Without a word she gave it to him.
At the hospital, they set up a painting stage; the doctor called it "therapeutic." Chrys traced her sketch of Rose, hurrying while the memory was fresh. She worked without speaking, heedless of the doctor's face worms still probing her health. Daeren said nothing more, but he approached to pat her arm now and then, as if to make sure she was still there. Andra arrived to share the contents of the viewcoin.
At last, the portrait was completed. The eternity that even Rose gave her soul for. The people's cocaine.
Chrys sank back, exhausted, unable to lift her arm again. Someone bent toward her, and she tried to focus her blurred vision. It was Chief Andra. "Can you hear me, Chrys?"
She nodded.
"I'm sorry, but I must ask. Is the double agent still alive?"
She shook her head. The homeless mutants had lost their voice. The chess team was on its own.
"The others—you have an hour to decide."
A face worm from the doctor touched Chrys on the forehead. She withdrew as if spooked. "Let her sleep," the doctor said.
The Committee met at Olympus, seven carriers and two doctors, seven million people, huddled alone upon the vast ocean. The branches of the virtual raft had sprouted fragrant orange flowers, spreading pollen out to sea in all directions.
"So there is no fortress," observed Andra, as if confirming a point. "Only sick and dying people. And their hosts."
"They fail to regulate their own growth," said Doctor Sartorius, "just as they do in the vampires. As each host dies, the masters need a new host to move into."
"So they kidnap new ones," Andra concluded.
Chrys sat with her hands still, watching the horizon, a blue wash against gray. "What actually happens to the slaves when they get there?" she wondered. "Why do they just lie there until they rot?"
Doctor Flexor said, "We'd have to examine them, to be certain."
"True," said Doctor Sartorius, "but from what we see in your recording, the micros must turn on the dopamine center continuously. The intensity of the experience overwhelms any objection from the host. Gradually all other mental functions shut down, until the host loses sentience, a shell of flesh."
Recalling Rose's threat, Chrys shuddered. "If that's how it works, then why did Saf—I mean, the Leader, inside—why did she insist I had to say 'yes'?"
Daeren looked up. "They don't want trouble. They can barely manage their own hosts, let alone fight a free human."
"They could infect the human, as a vampire does," Chrys pointed out.
"They could," said Daeren. "But the easiest way is to take someone already infected. Someone whose eyes say yes."
Chrys's eyes widened. "You mean ... they only kidnap people that are already infected?"
Selenite agreed. "We know that, though we can't prove it. Some victims actually collude with their captors—let them know their travel plans." All for an endless rush of dopamine.
"Be careful," warned Opal. "Our models always prove too simple.
Pyrite crossed his arms. "The nuclear radiation," he pointed out. "How do you explain that?"
Chrys had received high levels of alpha emission from radioactive dust in the air; levels high enough to kill her within a year. It took special nanos from Plan Ten to reverse the few hours' damage.
Andra nodded. "We've detected trace alpha emitters before. Mainly plutonium."
"So they are building nukes," exclaimed Pyrite.
"We have a different theory, which we'll check with Arion."
In the Nucleus of Helicon, Chrys sat in her talar, her bare feet uncomfortably aware of the floor, Daeren at her side. Once again they faced Guardian Arion.
The fair-haired Elf regarded her curiously, an archway behind him revealing the foliage of a swallowtail garden for daily meditation. Internally, he interrogated Fireweed and Forget-me-not, along with a couple of blue angels. "So you took a break from your building designs." That Silicon Board meeting with all the sentients felt like years ago. "You took the Leader's invitation after all. Without advance planning. And the double turned triple."
Beside her Daeren's hand nearly touched hers, but he caught himself. "Guardian, you know it was not like that."
"Was she not 'abducted' like the others?" Arion emphasized the word.
Chrys narrowed her eyes. "Plan Ten for all of Dolomoth, you said."
"We shall see." Arion's fingers drummed on the table. "We must check this intelligence. If confirmed, it represents our biggest breakthrough against the brain plague."
On the back of Daeren's hand the muscles rose taut. "Guardian, do you realize what this 'plague' is? People—ignorant, even savage, but people nonetheless. They need contact—they need our help."
Arion turned to him, his face noncommittal. "So your people tell me."
"Then listen," urged Daeren. "Surely all the wisdom of Elysium can be brought to bear to make that contact—to help those people, and keep them from hurting us."
"Indeed."
"You know what we've told you," Daeren added, "how migrants from the masters have joined our own populations, sharing diverse talents and virtues."
"And betrayal."
"Look at Eleutherians, whom your own citizens chose to design your next city. Half their population descends from 'masters' of the brain plague."
Arion's lips tightened. The reference to Silicon was unhelpful, Chrys guessed. "Noble sentiments," the Guardian concluded. "But first things first. We must deal with the plague's source, this world of 'Endless Light.' "
Chrys asked quickly, "Could you identify it? From the geography, and the writings on the wall?"
Arion hesitated. "Your chief drives a hard bargain. Yes, in strictest confidence, we know the planet." He whistled a phrase, like the song of a bird. "That's what the locals called it, some ten thousand years ago." The medieval period, when world warred against world. "The planet was known for birds, exceptional in number and variety. Of course, no birds live there today. Destroyed in the Brother Wars—no vertebrates survive. Today, the residual radioactivity still excludes human life. Even Plan Ten could not keep you healthy there more than five years."
Daeren nodded slowly. "So that's what caused the radiation exposure. The 'enlightened' people seemed unaware. They never can keep their hosts alive long enough for it to matter."
"Our investigators, of course, had marked that world 'uninhabitable.' An oversight."
Placing his hands together, Daeren took a breath. "Now that you know where they are, Guardian, what will you do?"
Arion assumed a slightly paternal air. "We'll do what needs to be done."
Daeren continued gazing at him, as if asking, did you hear our people at all? Then he looked down at his hands, ashamed. Chrys wondered what kind of death the bird world would die this time. Not nukes, that would be medieval.