Now Kriti stared at Helen in undisguised horror. "What's wrong?" Helen asked.
"These things," Kriti told her, sweeping her arm to encompass the room with its hundreds of scrawled drawings and equations. "These things are wrong. No. Wrong is not the word I'm looking for. These are... they're... gibberish. Helen, I am so sorry."
Helen's throat tightened. "If you'll just let me walk you through the central theorems--"
Kriti shook her head. "No. I should not humor you. It is cruelty." She turned to leave, but Helen rushed to her and grabbed her by the arm.
"Don't go!" Helen pleaded, yanking her around. "You don't know what we have here! Just give me time to... Damn it, this is the fundamental theorem of consciousness! This is what we've been looking for!"
Kriti stepped forward, and hugged Helen tight to her. "You are like a beloved sister to me," she said in Helen's ear. "I wish I knew how to help you."
Helen shoved her away. "You untouchable whore!" she shouted at her, voice full of hate and venom. She cupped her hands over her mouth, but it was too late. "I'm sorry. Oh, god, I don't know why I--"
But Kriti was already gone from her world, and Helen was left alone in the house, empty but for the memory of the hurt upon her friend's face, and the walls that bled with her scrawled diagrams.
Out of the corners of her eyes, she could see them crawling along the walls.
/*****/
Date: August 20, 2035
Three weeks later, in a small classroom at the university, Helen presented her doctoral thesis. When she began her presentation, there were seven professors in the room, from UCSD and a couple of nearby schools. By the time she finished her opening statement and asked for questions, only two remained. Dr. Murdock had excused himself half way through, saying that his lunch wasn't agreeing with him. Everyone was behaving strangely, which made Helen nervous.
Dr. Andersen, a chubby, slightly balding fellow with doctorates in neuroanatomy and psychology, had an eager, almost manic expression on his face. He started to ask a question, but his counterpart, Dr. Watkins, gave him a glare that could have punched a hole straight through him. He took the hint, and allowed the question to die in his throat.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Roderick," she said. "We cannot accept your thesis."
Helen took the news hard, but tried to rally in the face of it. "I know it glosses over the transition from the disincorporated to the actualized mind in the pre-verbal stage, but that could be a whole thesis in its own right."
Dr. Watkins held up her hand. "Helen, it's not the specifics of your work that are the problem. It's your whole approach. Your theories aren't backed by any evidence, they're internally inconsistent where they're comprehensible, and they're couched in novel jargon, whose meanings I just can't pin down. It doesn't build on or interact with any existing work."
Helen felt her jaw clenching, and her heartbeat quicken. "So that's the problem, is it? You're having trouble understanding what I'm saying? Have you considered that maybe you're the one who doesn't deserve her doctorate?"
Dr. Watkins gave Helen a sympathetic smile, which only infuriated her. "I have," she told Helen. "You've done brilliant work elsewhere, and I think you have more potential than I ever did. But this isn't revolutionary work. This reads more like the manifesto of someone who has been holed up in a cabin for too many years."
Helen said nothing. She feared what would happen if she tried to speak.
"Helen, I'm going to refer you to somebody. She's very good at helping very smart people work their way through problems like these. She's done wonders for a couple of my students."
As she fiddled with her handheld, Helen felt a surge of hope. If she knew somebody who could help her formalize her theories, to integrate them with the existing body of--
The name flashed from the handheld and directly into Helen's mind. Dr. Janet Featherstone, Clinical Psychiatrist. Helen muttered something apologetic, cut the holoprojection link to the professor and lay down on her couch. As it began to engulf her like an amoeba, she promised herself she wouldn't cry. Minutes later, she broke that promise.
////////////////////////////
// TEH PWNING OF TEH N00B //
////////////////////////////
Date: September 19, 2035
The winds flung themselves down the mountain and into the valley, biting cold into Helen's flesh, driving shards of ice into the few exposed patches of skin, building up layers of ice over the layers of fur that weighed her down. Ten miles to go before she would reach the inn, before she could rest. Exhaustion crept over her, something she hadn't allowed herself to feel for months. Her throat was dry, her skin burning from the cold, her bulky gear weighing her down, conspiring with the snow to make it difficult for her to even walk.
Ten miles left, and already she was beginning to stumble. She began to wonder if the rules of this world would allow her to freeze to death. Kortatka was one of the few worlds that enforced perma-death -- each player only got one life to live, after which they were banned from the server. The no-second-chances mentality kept out the riffraff and added an element of gravity to her decisions.
Now she was staring the downside of that philosophy in the face. The caravan that she had expected to escort her safely north had been ambushed miles back, the wagons engulfed in flame and the few survivors scattered. Now she was alone in dangerous territory, with many miles to safety and no way to call for aid. The fear pressing down on her stomach made her feel... alive.
A rustling came from behind her, deep within a stand of trees. Without a sound, she unsheathed her sword, crouching as she turned to face the noise. Adrenaline surged through her body, every muscle crying out for action.
She didn't have to wait long. Three ice dragons slithered out into the clearing, their white skin making them difficult to discern through all the snow. They moved slowly, encircling her. She kept her eyes locked on the biggest of the three, a bull with a vicious scar running along the length of his body. His slitted, reptilian eyes met her gaze, and she could swear she saw contempt in them.
"Come on!" she screamed. The dragon snorted, then charged, and the other two followed his lead. Helen ran at the dragon, then dodged under a sweeping claw, trying to strike at his exposed underbelly. Instead, she struck a glancing blow to his leg, just before being launched into the air by a quick swat of his tail.
Before she struck the ground, she transformed into a hawk. Outmatched, Helen started to fly away, but the dragons took off in pursuit. She didn't get far before they caught up, then she was dodging blasts of supercooled air and snapping jaws. She did a quick mid-air reverse straight towards her pursuers, and two of the dragons crashed into each other and tumbled to the ground.
Her elation was short-lived. The pair quickly recovered and launched back into the sky. Escape was impossible. Formidable as they were, Helen knew she would have to fight, and that it would cost her dearly. She cast about for some feature of the landscape that she could use to her advantage, but she couldn't see anything in the driving snow. She couldn't even use the weather to her advantage, since dragons could hunt by smell as well as by sight.
A thought came to her. She landed on the ground, reverting to her human form. She pulled a small, ornate glass vial from her pack. It held woodworm perfume, which had cost her a fortune. She had planned to sell it for an untold sum in the northern cities, at what she calculated would be the peak of a large speculative perfume bubble.
As the dragons landed around her, she saw her difficulty. Three dragons, only one vial. She cut off a strip of her cloak and wrapped it around her sword, then broke the vial over the end. If she could tag each of them on the snout, disrupting their senses of smell, she might be able to slip away into the blizzard.
As the three circled, she lunged at one, then another. She struck one of the smaller ones, and watched in satisfaction as it recoiled, pawing at its snout. They didn't like the smell. That was good news.
She went after the other small dragon, but
she dodged Helen's attacks with grace, ducking and weaving with a speed that should have been impossible for something of her size. The dragon bit down on Helen's arm, causing her to scream in pain and drop her sword. Helen managed to pull a dagger from her belt and stab the creature in the throat. The dragon released her arm and tried to draw back, but Helen lunged forward, driving the dagger into her eye. She picked up her sword, then drove the blade straight through the creature's skull.
One down, she thought, pulling the sword loose.
The bull came at her, a mass of bellowing fury. Helen encircled herself in a protective barrier, adding a dash of elemental fire to the usual recipe. The dragon's weight crashed into it, but it held. Through what looked like a pane of flowing red glass, she saw the creature blasting her shield with its cold breath, and slap it again and again with its tail. Soon the second dragon had recovered and joined the assault.
Helen figured she had just a couple of minutes. First she needed to heal her arm. She took a bandage and poultice from her pack, and wrapped it on her injury. The pain lessened, driven away by the gentle warmth that suffused her arm, then spread through her body.
As she healed, she took stock of the situation. She had one more barrier spell left. She could cast it and buy herself a couple more minutes, but doing so would only delay the inevitable. She still had some elemental fire left, which she could smear on her sword and armor. It would eat through her equipment within hours, but it would provide her an edge in this fight. If she lost this battle, she would be dead to the world of Koratka anyways.
Her arm was almost healed, so if she tried to fly away again, her wings would work. But the bull's sense of smell was just fine, so she wouldn't likely escape. She was at the end of a long journey, and her bag of tricks was almost empty.
She weighed her options and formulated a desperate strategy. She rubbed the elemental fire into her sword and armor, and watched them come alive with an inner flame. Then she waited.
The field came down, and the circling dragons charged her from opposite directions. Helen lunged for the bigger dragon. She called down her fiery shields again, this time enclosing the bull dragon inside the sphere with her. His mate bashed at the barrier in frustration, trying to get in.
The ice dragon found himself trapped inside a burning sphere, harried by a burning enemy. They screamed at each other in rage, then attacked. The bull was quick and powerful, but couldn't fight well in so enclosed a space. Helen dodged the powerful blows, and continued to hammer away at her opponent, fiery sword biting into icy flesh again and again. Her victory was at hand. But as she dealt a killing blow to the creature's neck, the bull raked her with his claws.
The dueling pair fell, and so did Helen's force field. Her plan had been to try to flee the third dragon in her hawk form. She looked down at her injuries, and knew she wouldn't be flying anywhere. She tried to rise to her feet, but her legs wouldn't obey her. The third dragon approached, enraged over the death of her mate but still cautious.
Helen coughed, and saw a smear of blood darken the snow in front of her face. In agony, she lifted herself into a seated position and reached for her sword. It was too far; she fell over again as she stretched out to grab it. The dragon bit her leg and dragged her backward, leaving the sword far out of reach. All she could do was cry out weakly as the dragon bit down hard on her leg and lifted her into the air.
Oh, god, she thought, awash in pain. I can't go back. Please don't make me go back.
A dozen fireballs flew overhead, swimming in circles around the dragon before they struck from every direction, one after another. The dragon dropped her prey, then spun around to face the new threat. A man, face hidden under the hood of a blue cloak, appeared out of the blizzard. He raised his arms, and glowing red chains appeared around the dragon's neck and arms, pinning her to the ground. The dragon struggled, but she couldn't free herself.
He walked up to the dragon, and with a relaxed flick of his blade, cut off her head. The body shuddered and went limp.
Dr. Mellings pulled back his hood. "You are not an easy woman to--" he saw the agony on her face, and froze. "Good god, Helen. Why don't you turn the pain off?"
"Because if I do," she said, coughing and struggling to breathe, "then it's just a stupid game, so what's the point?"
He began to cast a healing spell over her. "This will take a few minutes. Try to relax."
The pain began to subside. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, his tone oddly conversational.
Helen took a deep breath, and groaned as a stab of pain came from her chest. "Well," she said, "I was going to sell some very valuable perfume and use it to buy a dozen acres of farmland in Hylinea. But that didn't pan out, so now I owe a very dangerous family of Beltharian merchants about thirty thousand guinea. What are you doing here?"
He smiled in apology. "I came to find you."
"You could have waited a few more minutes, then met me at the front gate."
"Pity I didn't know that. Besides, I got to rescue you from a dragon. How cool is that?"
"Pretty cool," she laughed, closing her eyes. A bone snapped back into place, causing her to scream. "I'm okay! I'm okay!" she added.
"Good," said Dr. Mellings. "I've been worried."
Finally, the spell was complete, and Helen stood up. "Well met, cleric," she said.
"Well met, windrider."
"Have you played before?" she asked.
"Please. I've worked too hard on this mysterious stranger persona to answer that."
They stood there in awkward silence. "There's a village a few more miles ahead. That's where I was headed." They started walking through the snow.
"So," Helen asked. "How'd you gather so much magic? Are you juicing? Tell me you're not on the juice."
"Nope. I was granted my powers from the gods of this world." Helen gave him a blank stare. "I asked the sysadmin for a favor. Dropping your name works wonders in some circles."
"Oh."
"I had to promise him a date with you."
"Do not joke of such things to she who wields the Slightly Battered Sword of Om."
"Oh, I would never joke about matters of the heart."
"Well, the answer is no. You're not my boss, and you're definitely not my pimp. You don't choose who I date. Clear?"
The professor seemed taken aback. "Crystal," he replied. After an awkward pause, he added, "So, are you dating these days?"
Since when do you take an interest in my life? she thought. But she cut off the thought, and tried to be civil. "No, I'm not. I tried it a couple of times last year, but almost everyone treats me like the disembodied freak that I am. There's a reason I came to a frozen wasteland and cut myself off from all communication. I'm not fond of people right now."
Dr. Mellings didn't respond. They trudged through the blizzard in silence, until the silence finally got too loud for Helen, and she broke it.
"I know what you're thinking. You think Dr. Watkins was right. My brain is broken, and I need psychological counseling. You want me to get out of this place, face my inevitable humiliation, and stop avoiding my responsibilities."
"What did I say to make you think that?"
"Nothing. That's your problem. When something needs to be said, that's when you clam up. So what can I do but assume that you're trying to spare my feelings? I can't help but assume the worst."
"Please, don't assume."
"All right. I'll do you the courtesy of asking. Why are you here?"
He paused for a moment before answering, "I missed you."
Helen studiously ignored the hope those words brought to her. It was difficult, but she managed. "Anything else?"
"I feel terrible about the way I left. I blame myself for what happened to you these last few months."
"You should," she said. Dr. Mellings flinched, but she grabbed his hand. They stopped walking. "Wait. I need you to hear me out. I lost my entire family in a car accident when I was thirteen. I went through more foster homes than
I can remember. Some were borderline abusive, others were decent enough people. But all of them eventually asked me to move on."
"I didn't do a whole lot to make myself lovable back then," she explained. "Fights, underage drinking, denouncing Plato as a two-bit hack in my Lit papers. The usual teen rebellion stuff."
"I managed to pull off a few A's and a great SAT score my senior year. It got me into UCSD, if barely. I met you, and it felt like someone was finally rooting for me. You called me on my crap, but let me know that you believed in me. You were the one person I felt safe relying on. When I found out about the cancer, I iced myself partly because I believed if there was anybody who could save me, it was you."
"You came through for me. You kept coming through for me. I let myself believe that you would always come through for me. Then," she felt dangerously close to crying, "you got angry at me and you left."
Dimly, Helen noticed that she hadn't let go of William's hand. "Why did you leave?" she whispered.
He didn't say anything for a while. "It's complicated," he finally said. "But you deserve an answer. I once told you some things about my wife. I probably should have told you more."
"Maeva and I met at a neurology conference. Point of trivia, the Roman orgies of legend have nothing on the International Symposium on Fine Neural Structure. Maeva was everything I told you and more. But she shared your obsession with, well, she called it 'neural enhancement,' finding ways to make her brain better. It affected everything about her. She spent tens of thousands of dollars on supplements, detoxifying treatments, all sorts of things. I didn't mind that. She even got me taking some of them."
"But after she died, the autopsy... her system was full of brain stims. Really nasty, dangerous stuff, most of them too new to have been banned. I didn't know she was on them. I was oblivious to the signs. But I've always suspected that they contributed to the climbing accident."