"But they need you." Daeren turned the lights down. On the holostage, in the darkness, the green filaments twinkled, Fern, the first one, generations past, flashing her last words of wisdom for Eleutheria. "As we would receive mercy, so must we grant it in turn. ..."
The vision roused her, as if from a trance. For a moment she was back on the day Fern first came to visit, then to stay. She swallowed, her mouth dry. "Let me see just one."
The first flicker of yellow in her eye. "Cheers!" flashed yellow Lupin. "There's no place like home. When's your next show?"
Slowly she smiled. It was going to be all right.
"The children, next," offered Daeren. "With a few blue angels to help them resettle. It's what they're good at."
Throughout the evening, the Olympians came back, each returning their share of the lost generation. Opal kissed her on both cheeks. "They've founded another new school of something or other; I hope you don't mind," she added. "And that RNA plasmid—that won't fool us again."
Chrys found herself laughing, almost giddy with relief.
Selenite returned hers. "They weren't so bad," she assured Chrys. "Hypercorrect, in fact. But I wasn't fooled." She grinned. "I know their tricks now. We'll get on so much better."
Jasper patted her arm. "They certainly know how to flatter their host," he agreed. "I foresee a long and prosperous business relationship."
"We'll miss them," sighed Garnet. "They brought so much palladium, and spent it all."
"They're outrageous!" Zircon actually looked alarmed. "No offense, Chrys, but—do you know what your people did? They made their own ethanol and got drunk in all our restaurants."
"And who encouraged that?"
"My people abstain," the giant assured her, patting her head. "But that's okay. We tolerate the vices of others."
Pyrite returned his, and Moraeg hers. By now the mood was getting festive; it almost felt like the old times at Olympus.
"God of Mercy," called Forget-me-not. "Please—half the children are missing, still unaccounted for. What became of them?"
Chrys frowned, trying to think. She counted off all the Olympians. Then her head shot up. "Saints and angels. The last place I want to go back is—"
There stood Ilia, her virtual butterflies fluttering out over the sapphire pool. "Hope I didn't keep you waiting."
The laughter died, everyone's attention caught by the diminutive Elysian. Regally, she approached to hand Chrys the last transfer. "Truly a unique aesthetic experience," she observed. "And to think I'd always found all your 'people' so ..." Her gaze swept the group, coming at last to rest upon Andra. "... conventional."
"Thanks, Ilia," said Andra. "We'll remember."
She turned to Chrys. "You heard, of course, about your show."
"Heard what?"
"The Guard closed it down."
"Oh, no."
Ilia's eyes gleamed. "For violating public standards of decency, morality, and security."
"I'm so sorry."
She waved a hand dismissively. "We appealed and got it reopened within an hour. Now the lines to get in stretch for three blocks." She added triumphantly, "And I've been called to testify before the Guard. That hasn't happened to the Gallery since our first millennium."
"I see."
"We'll all see," promised Ilia. "If Arion won't take a stand, perhaps someone else will."
At last all had left for the night, except for Daeren, who sat perusing one of his legal documents on the holostage.
"We'll remember," promised Forget-me-not. "The poisoned veins, the sacrifice of Fireweed, and our flight to the ten worlds. And in our Great Diaspora, we have learned some things about the true meaning of Eleutheria."
"I've learned, too," Chrys reflected. "I would have taken the false ones—anything. The virgins are right; we are addicted."
" 'Independents,' " Daeren corrected, without turning around. "They're addicted to oxygen."
"Carriers share everything." She whispered, "But Daeren, it's different with you."
He half turned, his face set hard. "Are you sure?"
He was actually jealous. She went to him and knelt, crossing her arms in his lap. "You're still my one Lord of Light."
Daeren's face softened. He picked her up and carried her off to bed, kissing her madly. This time, at last, they both had their fill. "God of Mercy," he whispered. "I live or die at your pleasure."
In the morning, Andra brought bad news. "Someone told the Palace. We're all summoned—Sar and I, and both of you."
Across the pool flooded the virtual rising sun. Heaven was always too short. Chrys sighed. "So what do we do?"
Andra put her hands together. "I cut a deal." As usual. "Sar goes to the Palace for interrogation. They'll rake him over, but they owe him for Zoisite. The rest of us go to Arion."
"Arion?" asked Chrys. "Why?"
"The first Elf children have succumbed to plague." Andra let this sink in. "Now, at last, Arion swears he will hear the truth."
"We've told him nothing else."
"The whole truth," Andra emphasized.
"Do you believe him?"
Andra was silent. The silence expanded, like ripples on the pool. "Until now, I have. Now, for the first time . . . I'm no longer sure. His eyes did not quite meet mine."
Chrys closed her eyes as if to shut it all out. Then she forced them open. "Do we have a choice?"
"You have one other choice."
Into her window sprang a virtual ticket. A starship ticket to Solaria. Exile.
Daeren must have seen the same. He looked down. "Chrys, I'm in your hands. Wherever you go, I will follow."
Chrys turned to Andra. "If we leave, what will become of you? And Sar?"
Andra looked down. "We'll manage. We always have."
And the other Olympians, and Ilia, and all the hapless citizens in the streets. She thought it over, eyeing the ticket. "Solarian nightlife's the best. Can we have, like, a rain check?"
TWENTY-FOUR
The terror of the flight from poison would never be forgotten, especially by the children swept out into new worlds. And still, Forget-me-not knew, worse was yet to come. Somewhere out beyond the familiar gods walked others, gods who could dissolve people with as little care as for a mindless virus floating in the blood.
But the Eleutherians who returned from the Diaspora were a different people than before. Some individuals had stayed behind to dwell with their new gods, while many strangers had left their own gods to join Eleutheria. The newcomers brought their own ways, but in the end most took up the great challenge of the past generations. And this time they made sure their work would outlast even death.
"Fear not," Forget-me-not told the god. "Fear not the future. Whatever becomes of us, Eleutheria will remain. We have stored all of what we are, our history and our works, for whoever will find it after we are gone—in all the different worlds to which we fled. For in truth, Eleutheria is no genetic race, nor a physical place, but a way of being, a path of endless life. All those who seek to build in truth and memory shall find our way."
The three carriers went in to see Arion, flanked by octopods. So much for peaceful Elysium. The Guardian of Peace sat there behind a conference table, live butterflies flitting outside the window beyond. Beside him sat his brother.
Chrys stopped to let her pulse subside. "It's all over."
"Not yet," said Forget-me-not. "Another year's as good as ten. So long as we live, we live free."
Eris did not even pretend to meet their eyes. He studied his hands, clasped before him on the table, as if to say, this was none of his affair. Beside him, Arion looked on as before, his features the color of alabaster, his eyes penetrating. "Seat yourselves, Citizens."