They call it the Icarus plague.
I can hear them whisper about it. The plague is spreading unchecked through the Authors of Truth, inflaming their minds, rekindling in their anesthetized hearts the fires of long cold WordSmithies. All through the Library, impervious to every attempt at ReVision, the contagion is fomenting a thousand micro rebellions against the Truth.
I start in surprise as my veil of thin, blue, MediTech curtains is wrenched aside and a grotesque face, bulging of eye and scowling of aspect, intrudes into my solitary haven of contemplation.
“As I live and breath! Here I was, fearing that malign forces had invaded my ward, and all the while there was a humdrum explanation for the shivery, ghoulish atmosphere.”
“Mistress Charybdis,” I groan, “As charming as ever.”
The caustic tongued MediTech scrolls through a screen next to my bed, a grimace slumping