Ilia met her eyes, but the rings were absent. Chrys hesitated. "Are we—"
"Later, dear," Ilia whispered. Then Chrys realized, Yyri was not a carrier. "Let's review your catalogue from start to finish. First, your early work."
Yyri clapped her hands. "I do love a historical approach. Discern the seeds of genius in one's crudest beginnings."
The first pyroclastic flow Chrys had clumsily attempted, sophomore year, and the one awful self-portrait; these Ilia had insisted on. Pieces that Chrys would have been mortified to reveal to any Iridian dealer now shown in Helicon as signs of incipient genius.
"Lava Butterflies," Ilia nodded to Yyri. "The colors struck my eye." Her first piece with Eleutherian collaboration, signed with the molecule Azetidine.
"She was your find, my dear." Yyri's eye savored the more recent volcanoes, the lava flowing upward into arachnoid stalactites, all bearing Chrys's Eleutherian nom d'art. "The form oscillates between the macrocosm and the microcosm. Imponderable imagination."
Ilia leaned toward Chrys, a gleam in her eye. "Silicon—is it final?"
Chrys caught her breath. She had yet to give Jasper the bad news. She made herself smile. "Still negotiating. You know how ... sentients are."
"We'd love to include the model. We'll save a place for it."
Yyri clasped her hands. "Quite a coup, Ilia. Silicon—radical concept—people are just beside themselves."
The cerebral landscapes and portraits followed, taking up the bulk of the show. Little colored rings careening through the arachnoid, tasting their nightclubs and their calculator cells. Ilia nodded at each, as if at a familiar neighborhood.
"An otherworldly universe," exclaimed Yyri. "I've never seen anything quite so ... alien."
Ilia's hand swept toward Fern, the ring of green filaments twinkling the commandments of Eleutheria. "Let's bring her out front, like a greeter. She looks so friendly."
Fern, Aster, Jonquil. It was harder than Chrys had expected to face them, world-sized, exposed to public view. She had wanted to show only portraits from the other carriers, but Ilia had insisted these were the best. So here they all were, spaced at intervals against a black dome, constellations within some foreign galaxy. Chrys felt overwhelmed, as if in a crowd of a hundred people talking.
Yyri smiled more broadly than ever, though her eyes looked puzzled. Then her face relaxed. "Of course, dear, I see. Such extraordinary rendering of personality."
The next hall contained Jonquil's inspirations. It made Chrys's palms sweat to see them, all those off-color depictions of children merging and worse, all together in one place, but Ilia had insisted on every one. Yyri smiled politely, then suddenly stared as Ilia's sixth sense reached her. "Oh my," she exclaimed. "How exquisitely provocative. Though perhaps . .. some might take exception, do you think, dear?"
Ilia's eyes gleamed. A moment's silence, then two heads nodded. "A curtain at the door, and a warning."
"We Elysians take children very seriously," Yyri added, as if Chrys might think otherwise. Elf children were raised in precious nurseries deep within each city, with every conceivable resource showered upon them, from education to entertainment for fifty years.
"And here," Ilia added, "we have political statement." In a place of prominence beside a dramatic ornamental fountain, Ilia had placed Mourners at an Execution and Seven Stars with the Hunter.
Yyri clasped her hands. "Our Guardian of Peace will have a stroke."
Ilia murmured, "Perhaps it might knock some sense into his head." Then she turned to Chrys. "Your latest works? We've expanded another hall."
Chrys cleared her throat. "I wanted to show you in person, for your approval." She blinked at her window to download the scenes from the masters. Cadaverous micros crowded the brain of a half-dead host, like worms in rotting flesh. After much thought, she had placed Rose's portrait here, next to the towering, obsessively monumental vision of her beloved Leader.
Ilia sucked in her breath. Beside her, Yyri at first looked puzzled. Then Yyri's creamy complexion paled, revealing every vein. A brief glance at Chrys, as though the artist had gone mad. "I don't know, Ilia. You're right, the citizens need to know, but..."
The minutes of silence lengthened, while the Leader's interminable speech kept flashing. At last the two heads nodded. "We'll need to hire ..." Ilia paused dramatically. "... security."
"The Gallery hasn't needed . .. security," Yyri added, "for a hundred years."
"A hundred twenty," Ilia corrected. "That Solarian performance artist, remember?"
Yyri waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing compared to this. The very foundations of our society, shaken to the bone."
Ilia took a deep breath, then turned to Chrys. "You promised us another Endless Light."
"Oh, right." She quickly downloaded the block of pure white, the one she had stared at after Daeren's rescue, unable to do more. "There you are. Endless Light."
Yyri clapped her hands. "Of course." She sounded relieved. "Minimalism. Your talent is so versatile, dear."
That night the snake-eggs interviewed Eris, the Guardian of Cultural Affairs, about the Gallery's upcoming exhibit. Eris—She had not seen Arion's deadly "brother" since the day he left his false blue angels hiding in her brain. His sprite in her window made her hair stand on end.
"Our season's premiere exhibition will prove more controversial than usual," the secret slave admitted, his voice at its most charming. "But educational," he stressed. "In these difficult times, we Elysians must learn to master and bend to our will the forces that threaten us from less civilized realms."
The snake-egg bobbed in his face. "So you support the judgment of the gallery director? Will this 'educational' exhibit be safe for the classes of school children that tour every fall?"
Eris smiled condescendingly. "Of course I support my gallery staff. I myself have acquired a first-class Azetidine for my personal collection." Another word, thought Chrys, and she'd head for the sink.
"And now," said the snake-egg, "for a view from Valedon regarding the cultural contributions of microbes, we bring you the Palace physician."
The Palace physician, a worm-faced advisor to the Protector, draped himself like a lord. "The brain plague endangers all law-abiding citizens," the doctor proclaimed, emeralds and adamants glittering beneath his worms. "Even regulated 'carriers' are essentially slaves to their microbial masters. In the long run, their supposed contributions to culture will be viewed in the same light as the psychedelic delusions of humans under the influence of toxic neurochemicals." A couple of worms raised for emphasis. "Fortunately, we can help the all plague carriers overcome their addiction and modulate their minds with our own pharmaceuticals."
Slaves in Elysium, mind-suckers in Valedon. Chrys made the Dolomite hand sign against evil.
She took the night off to escort Lady Moraeg to Olympus. Lord Carnelian was still absent, put off by her micros, but Moraeg would give no one the satisfaction of a sign of grief.
"Keep your eyes off the caryatids," warned Chrys.
Moraeg regarded one with disdain. "That old trick."
"Carriers are really very nice people," Chrys hurried to add. "They just have, um, unusual customs."
"Moraeg!" Opal embraced her. "So good to see you. That diamond," she exclaimed. "Such an distinctive cut."
Moraeg smiled. "An original, from the jewels of Ulragh."
"I thought as much." Opal's eyes flashed colors. "May we visit?"
Chrys turned away, seeking Andra. How was Daeren?—It had been two days since his blue angels came home.