Keeping some masters—this was not the deal. She fought against panic. "Fireweed? Forget-me-not? Are you there?"
"I'm here," came the infrared.
"I'm here too," came the blue one. "We've corrupted some of them, and put down two coup attempts from the rest. 'Annus horribilis,' history will say. But once the Leader's gone, they'll settle down."
"Are you sure?" Chrys insisted. "Are any of them false blue angels?"
"Probably. Who knows how many true blue angels once were false?"
Out of the shadows stepped Saf. Saf's face, now, was covered with broken veins, her nose bulbous, her eyelids swollen, half shut. This was the overrun host the Leader had relinquished.
"I go," said the white words. "You will show my stars for all to see."
"I promise." If Ilia's Gallery could handle it. Once again, Chrys took the patch from her neck and gave it to Saf. The touch of the vampirous finger made her wish she could wash her hands.
Saf's blanched eyes exchanged flickering with Daeren's. Then without warning, she bit him in the neck.
Chrys stifled a cry with her hand. The Leader was getting back her own people, she realized, all the little maggot rings that had infected Daeren—millions, perhaps billions; they overran a host, far too many to transfer by patch. For an eternity Saf stood there, her teeth in his neck. Then she let go. Daeren slumped to the floor.
"Take it and go," Saf's voice rasped, barely audible. "Before I change my mind."
Chrys knelt beside him and shook his arm. "Daeren? Can you hear?" She pressed her ear to his chest. A pounding, slow but solid.
"Let us visit," urged Forget-me-not. "Let's see who's left alive." If not his own mind, at least some blue angels might survive, any those maggot rings had let live.
"First let's get out of here." She pulled Daeren's arm behind her neck and hoisted him up on her back, making sure the head fell forward. "Help me," she called to the slaves.
The slaves did not answer, but Len started toward the doorway. Chrys got herself up and half carried, half dragged Daeren's body behind her, leaving behind the painting stage aglow, to keep the Leader entranced. To get out, away from here, before that slave forgot his errand, or the satellite lost power, or the Leader changed her mind.
Len took her out to a different ship, even smaller and more decrepit than the one that had brought them here. Chrys hesitated but saw no choice. She stepped through the locks, each sealing behind her. A six-seater, half the straps gone.
"Daeren," she sighed, straightening his head on the floor. "Are you still there?" She held open his eyelid to reveal any sign. At last a flicker of blue.
"Blue angels, or false," said Fireweed, "someone's alive. Sick and starving—they need help."
Chrys put the patch back and forth, to send helpers and bring back the sickest of the blue angels. "The Lord of Light—where is he? Is he still there?"
"The mind of God is there, but somehow shut away," explained Fireweed. "We don't know how to rouse it without risking further injury."
Daeren's mind was still alive.
A sudden wrench sent Chrys spinning, floating in zero gravity. "Ship?" she called, not knowing its name. "What's going on?" The ship had not even greeted them, not even to strap down. "What's wrong?"
No response. Her stomach lurched as she tumbled, her hair swinging around her face. Finally she grabbed a handhold and steadied herself.
In her window blinked a ship contact button. Shutting her eyes, she winced at her window. Three contact points appeared for the ship's brain, two of them marked "inactive."
"Oh my god." The slave had put her on a dead ship. Whether on purpose or not, the result was the same. To get so far, only to die out in space ... Her head and arms went numb. But she took a deep breath and made herself think.
The one active contact was for distress call. She blinked hard once, then again. Her eye muscles must have registered, for the spot started flashing red. Reserve power, enough for SOS. But it could be hours before anyone found her. Or days.
"Fireweed? I'm not sure how long we'll last."
"Years, at least. Have faith."
"You must sleep," added Forget-me-not. "Conserve oxygen."
Daeren's body still floated, unaware. His shoulders, his chest, his face that Plan Ten had shaped—still perfect. Yet who was left inside? "You could have stayed last night," she whispered. "Instead of getting caught in the Underworld." The tears floated away from her. Closing her eyes, she brought up the image of her brother turning cartwheels.
Health for all the children of her village—the one truly good thing she had ever done in her life. Now she herself was going to die, without ever having children of her own. Why did she never think of that? The micros, with all their crazy projects, never forgot their children. Now it was too late.
She closed her eyes, trying to sleep while keeping her arm locked to the handhold. For an endless time she dozed, half waking for a few minutes at a time, her people flickering. If she ever did get out alive, she vowed, she would go home and see Hal. And she would have her own children, if she had to get them off the streets of the Underworld.
The ship slammed her against the wall. Something had docked, hard. Sparks flew from the door as it ground open. Two octopods came in, their black limbs slithering over the floor.
"What the—" Chrys knew better than to argue with octopods. They hustled her out into the docked ship. Long worms of plast extended from the ship, emergency medical. In their midst, in white hospital nanotex, stood Andra.
Andra ignored Chrys, her attention fixed on Daeren, now strapped to a stretcher. Doctor Sartorius instructed the octopods, and the extensions from the ship, silently of course, but one could tell. The worms from his face stretched into long threads that wrapped all around Daeren's head. Then Andra leaned over him, pulling back his eyelids to check.
Chrys strained forward, but the octopod held her back. "Andra?"
Daeren's head moved ever so slightly. Then his eyes flew open, and every muscle strained as if to burst. He let out a deafening cry. His left arm came loose from the strap and jerked violently, hitting the wall.
"Too soon," murmured the doctor. Daeren's eyes closed, and he went limp.
Andra nodded. "He feels pain. That much of him's left."
The ship extension felt around his arm, the one that had hit the wall. "A clean fracture," the ship announced. Its limb slapped nanoplast around the arm. Then an octopod wheeled Daeren out.
Chrys strained forward. "Andra—let me stay with him."
The octopod extruded a thin black needle, a finger of death. The needle pressed to Chrys's neck.
The chief turned and brought her face within an inch of Chrys. "What are you?" Her eyes flashed deadly purple. "What are you, that you can come and go from the masters?"
She swallowed, feeling the needle at her neck, but her eyes did not flinch. "I gave them no arsenic."
"Then what?"
"Nothing you would want."
For an eternity Andra stared. Then she nodded at the octopod to remove the needle. She put a patch at Chrys's neck. "You'll give them up, every one," she ordered. "Any masters, and any of his blue angels."
A few of Daeren's blue angels had stayed with her to heal. "Not the blue angels. They were sick—they've been through so much."