The Improbable Rise of Singularity Girl

  In a few minutes, she would be appearing on one of Altworld's bigger talk shows, and she couldn't decide how she wanted to look. She was wearing her default body, a detailed, as-close-as-she-could-make-it replica of the meatsack she'd been wearing when she'd died. She could drastically alter her body's shape, but beyond certain limits, her nerves would have to be rewired. Besides, this was the one people would recognize, the body that was pictured all over the newsfeeds. It was the body that made her feel like herself.

  She looked disapprovingly in the mirror. The nose was too big, she thought, and her eyes were a bit too far apart. She thought her face plain, and her figure lacking a certain delicate femininity. She often described herself as butch, though she hoped people took it as an exaggeration. This body was an old friend to her: there was plenty of emotional baggage between them, but in this strange new world, she needed all the friends she could get.

  By running her fingers through her hair, she lengthened it and added a hint of red to the blond. The effect pleased her. She ran a finger over one lock, giving herself a streak of bright purple, but then changed her mind and wiped it away.

  Her publicist -- yeah, that had been a hard pill to swallow -- had told her to wear something just a bit dramatic, something that would set her apart from the crowd. That was no easy thing when "the crowd" would consist of angels, trolls, hell-beasts, cartoon characters, and the occasional floating, anthropomorphic penis. In the end, she went with a simple white jumpsuit, with just a bit of cleavage. She thought it looked futurey.

  Time to go, she thought. She concentrated, focusing on her destination, then transported herself.

  The room dissolved, replaced by the backstage area of an arena. People were streaming in, with teleports popping off throughout the stadium like flashbulbs. Another flash came from behind her as her publicist, Andrea, joined her. Her avatar was recognizably herself, but with thirty percent more anime. Huge eyes, an over-large head, and an impossibly thin waist and top-heavy bust. For some reason, she had blue hair.

  When word got around that Helen wanted to do a publicity and fundraising tour, Andrea Vetrano had offered her services free of charge. She came with good credentials, and was already representing several B-list celebrities. Helen had dismissed the idea out of hand, but over the course of a long exchange of messages, capped off by an hour-long face-to-face conversation, she'd been persuaded to give her a try.

  Andrea looked her up and down. "Oh, no dear. That will never do." Before Helen could raise a protest, Andrea was flipping through a catalogue, trying different outfits on a tiny Helen that floated in midair in front of her. "What about this one?"

  "Two words. Dominatrix Barbie."

  "It would be memorable," Andrea grunted, and kept flipping through the catalogue. "You should have let me do this for you last night. Here, how about this one?"

  "No."

  "If you could just..."

  "No. They're here to see Helen Roderick, the brain in the box, not Helen Roderick the fashionista. I was fine before."

  "No you weren't. Don't roll your eyes. This matters. You're not just doing a little fundraiser here. We're about to introduce the world to a completely new sort of human being. That world includes a small but vocal minority that thinks your existence is an affront to the Almighty. You're going to go out there, you're going to charm the hell out of everyone, and you're going to do it wearing... let's see... this!"

  Helen was wearing a light purple sundress that clung to her figure in all the right places. She looked at her reflection, and considered. "My mom used to say, 'That's a very pretty dress, but where's the rest of it?'"

  Andrea just gave a disapproving look. "Is that a no?"

  Helen twisted in front of a mirror, appraising herself. "No, I love it. I just feel a bit... exposed."

  "Good. People are going to be evaluating you in terms of all the sci-fi they've ever watched. You want to seem vulnerable rather than intimidating, so that's not a bad place for your head to be. Now, when you get out there, don't get suckered into arguments, and don't lose your temper. Most of the crowd wants to like you, and you just have to avoid giving them a reason not to. Smile. A lot. And don't be afraid to use sex appeal."

  "Can't use what you don't have."

  "Child, you're delusional. If I looked like you, I wouldn't wear this silly caricature." Helen smiled despite herself. "Now, we still need to do some accessorizing. I'm thinking something in a choker--"

  A red light flashed, signaling that it was nearly time for her to take the stage. The host, Just Jake, was putting the finishing touches on a political stand-up routine that had the crowd rolling. The comedian had been savaging Governor Wright of Arkansas, an anti-intellectual blowhard with presidential ambitions and a hair-trigger temper, who seemed to relish pissing off his left-wing opponents.

  Just Jake was at ease in front of the crowd in a way that attested to years of practice and absolute confidence in his material. Helen watched his drop-dead impersonation of Jeremiah Wright's revivalist southern drawl, and wished with all her heart that she could feel that sort of self-assurance in front of a crowd. A backstage assistant pulled Helen aside and said, "You're on in fifteen seconds."

  "Our next guest gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, 'ghost in the machine.'" He waited for laughs that didn't come. "What, no philosophy majors out there? Then who'll fetch my coffee? Let's give a warm welcome to Altworld's first native citizen, Helen Roderick!"

  "Too late," Helen told Andrea. As she walked away, Andrea waved a finger and suddenly Helen was sporting a single beaded dreadlock down the side of her face. "Hey!"

  "Young people wear them!" Andrea shouted after her as she was shoved out onto the stage. To the cheer of the crowd, Helen walked out and greeted Just Jake. The stage was in the middle of an open-air stadium. As she waved, she noticed that entire sections of the stadium were popping into existence as it expanded to contain the inflow. The crowd was gathering fast.

  She sat down on a plush couch, opposite her host, who sat behind a vaguely desk-shaped sea of mahogany and glass. The entire set was a monument to grandeur and excess, which was all part of his act. He smiled genially as the crowd grew quiet. "It's an honor to honor you with the honor of being on my show. Let's dive right in. Would you introduce yourself to our audience?

  Helen took a deep breath, trying to calm her somersaulting stomach. Then she dove into her over-rehearsed spiel.

  "My name is Helen Roderick. I was born in 1991 in San Diego. I graduated from St. Bartholomew's High -- go Wolverines -- and went to San Diego State to pursue a dual major in electrical engineering and neuroanatomy, with a focus on neural-electronic interfaces. I'm currently doing research with the Department of Neuroanatomy at UCSD."

  "Sounds like you have a promising career ahead of you," Just Jake said, stifling an exaggerated yawn. "Anything else you'd like to add? Anything... out of the ordinary?"

  "Sure. I died when I was twenty-two, my brain was destructively scanned shortly thereafter and now runs on a very large rack of computers, and I'm single." The audience hooted their approval, and Helen blushed. She hadn't realized that she could. The simulation of her physiology just kept improving.

  Just Jake laughed. "Sounds like some of the guys out there want to change that last fact. I think we'll hold tryouts for the position next week. Call it my contribution to scientific progress." She blushed harder. "The whole world has been fascinated with you. Maybe even obsessed. Your existence raises so many questions about what it means to be human."

  Helen nodded.

  "So, are you?"

  "What?"

  "Are you human? It's the question everybody's asking. And by everybody, I mean me."

  The question wasn't unexpected. "Jake..."

  "Please. Just Jake. It gives me that common man touch."

  "Just Jake, the only answer I can give is, it depends on your definition. But I do remember that I was once human -- living, breathing, wondering how my belly button gets so much l
int in it -- and I feel like the same person I was back then. I'm the same shy, awkward girl, just in an unusual situation."

  "What do you remember from before your death? Do you have any childhood memories?"

  "Of course." She thought for a second. "When I was six, my parents gave me a puppy for Christmas. He was big, and warm, and wouldn't hold still when I tried to hold him. I named him Mister Snoopy, and told my parents that when I grew up, I was going to marry him."

  "How did your parents take the news?"

  "I didn't know why they thought it was so funny. I thought that I was being quite clever, because nobody had ever married a dog before."

  "Sounds like you were something of a trailblazer. Have you paid much attention to how the media has portrayed you?"

  "I tried to, early on. But between that guy who used quantum mechanics to prove that I don't have a soul and the 3D pornographic fanfic, I decided to turn the feeds off and focus on my research."

  "Understandable."

  "Really, you all are a bunch of pervs."

  "Don't tell my wife. Speaking of things I don't want my wife to know, you're a very beautiful woman. Rumor has it you've had some work done."

  Helen blushed again, shaking her head. "I asked them to make my body as much like the one I had as possible. Moles, cavities, allergies, everything."

  "I'm sure. But think about it. A lonely geek, locked away in a lab somewhere, told to design a woman's body in exacting detail. There would be the temptation to... you know..."

  Helen gave Just Jake a withering glare.

  "Plump them?" he finished weakly. When Helen feigned incomprehension, he added a quick two-handed gesture.

  Helen burst out laughing. "Sorry," she said, trying to catch her breath. "What you see now is what there was."

  "Do you plan on aging?"

  The question surprised her. "You know, I hadn't thought about it."

  "Take it from somebody who just had his fiftieth birthday. It feels good to just let yourself go. Go bald, grow a gut, spend more time in sweatpants. Liberating."

  "I'll think about it."

  Just Jake fiddled with a display that hovered before him. "The audience has submitted approximately 23,000 questions, and the moderators have sent most of them to unspeakable, horrifying deaths. The first survivor to claw its way out of the wreckage comes from Apocalyptic Oranguatan."

  A flat, two-dimensional image of an oranguatan appeared on a screen between Helen and the host. It was wearing a dashing red superhero outfit, with a silver missile and atom logo emblazoned across its chest. It spoke with the voice of a teenage boy with a British accent. "Helen. What was your favorite book before you went to bits, and have you read it since then?"

  "Went to bits?" she asked.

  Apocalyptic Orangutan nodded. "Bits. Ones, zeroes."

  Helen laughed. "Okay, okay. Favorite book. I haven't had much time for reading lately. I've been too slow to get much of anything done. But I guess if I were stranded on a desert island with only one book, it would be The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul."

  "Really?" Just Jake seemed astonished. "Mine would be How to Build a Raft and Get Off This Godforsaken Island. Forward! The next question comes from Cutesalcoatl."

  The screen popped back up, this time showing the almost-familiar face of one of Dr. Mellings' colleagues from UCLA, Dr. Watkins. She was a middle-aged woman whose thin, slightly plain features were set in an easy smile. As Dr. Mellings told it, she had been on Project Helen for a couple of years early on, and still kept tabs on things at the lab.

  "Hey, doc," Helen said.

  Dr. Watkins acknowledged her recognition with a nod. "Helen, for this question, I need you to play along a bit. Repeat after me: 'silk silk silk silk silk silk silk.'" Helen repeated it. "Now," she asked, "what does a cow drink?"

  "Milk... Crap! I meant water!"

  Just Jake got a twinkle in his eye. "You only get one answer, not three. Cutesalcoatl, how did you like her answer?"

  The professor nodded her approval. "What you saw was called 'auditory priming,' where early stimuli influence later responses. Saying 'silk' over and over prompts neurons related to those sounds, making them eager to fire in the future. A very human performance."

  Just Jake turned off the projection. "All I heard was 'science science science.' Everyone knows I don't believe in that stuff. If you have a soul, it's because the Flying Spaghetti Monster gave you one. All hail."

  "All hail!" the audience called back.

  "Next question comes from Yahori."1

  A small Japanese girl appeared, wearing full samurai armor and carrying a sword a foot taller than herself. She said, "My name is Kimoko Natamoya. I live in Okinawa, and I'm eleven years old. My question for Helen is, how do you know you're still you?"

  Pretty philosophical for a kid, Helen thought. "Your English is very good, Kimoko."

  The girl crinkled up her face. "It's just translation software," she replied.

  "Oh." She flushed red, and her brain froze for a moment. This is how I know I'm me, she thought. Who else would get this flustered over something like that? After a moment, she regained her composure. Giant sword or not, I can handle an eleven year old. Maybe.

  "Well, when I was about your age, I realized that I might someday run into myself, but from the future. I needed a way to decide whether it was me, or an imposter. So I came up with a question that only I knew the answer to, a question whose answer nobody could look up, or discover just by watching me. Yesterday, I asked myself that question, and got the right answer. So I guess that's something."

  The girl looked skeptical. "But my teacher said that scientists can look at your thoughts while you're thinking them. Does that mean they can read your thoughts?"

  "Yes, yes it does. But that doesn't mean they can always understand them. We're still working on that. By any chance, are you interested in studying neurobiology when you grow up?"

  "I'd rather study quantum mechanics, but I'll think about it."

  Very diplomatic, Helen thought.

  Just Jake dismissed her. "You seem like a very intelligent and promising child, but I wouldn't want to meet you in a dark alley. The next question is from Kinky Smurf."

  As soon as she saw her questioner's avatar, she wished she hadn't. But the question was surprisingly innocuous. "What smell evokes the strongest memories for you?"

  Hospital smells, Helen immediately thought. "Pine," she said. My sister, hooked up to a respirator, dying. "It reminds me of Christmas," They had told her to try to say goodbye, but all she could do was sob. "And the camping trips my family took when I was little." Her parents had died on impact, hours earlier. Usually she could look back on that day and not flinch. But the smell of antiseptic brought her back to that moment, turned her into a fearful teenage girl who didn't understand, who was deeply ashamed that the question looming largest in her mind was, "Who will take care of me?"

  "I remember camping with my family," Just Jake said, not noticing her sudden change in mood. "Dad would always give me a flint-tipped spear and an hour's head start. One last question, from The Platonic Ideal of Soap."

  This avatar was a bar of soap. In a bubblebath. With a backbrush and a rubber ducky. "Hi, Helen. Big fan of you, and all humans who aren't covered in dirt and grime. You know that the midterm elections are next week. I know that you're not going to be able to vote this year -- which makes me sud up with rage -- but nevertheless," the voice changed completely and the soap's lips went out of synch, "is it true that you committed suicide?"

  Helen's stomach lurched. She had supposed it was only a matter of time before people started looking into her background, but that made the first whisper of the story no less devastating. Who would want to devote their money or computer cycles to simulating a crazy woman?

  Just Jake looked puzzled as he manipulated his display. "That's not the question we had queued up. You don't have to answer it."

  She gulped. "I'll answer," she said. "Absolutely not," she said. It w
as a truthful response. Suicide indicated an intention to die. "It was just a lab accident. I mean, that's what they tell me." Okay, now she was lying. But she didn't much care.

  "It looks like we were hacked," Just Jake said. "I think it's fixed now. The actual question was, 'Will we ever see you in court asking for the right to vote?'"

  She had a very long, detailed answer to that question, mostly revolving around the infinitesimal odds of her vote actually swinging an election or improving her life in any way. But Andrea had warned her to fend off political questions, and telling everyone that voting was a waste of time was no way to win friends or influence people. She pretended to give the question a moment of thought, then said, "I might. But if I did, I'm not sure where I'd put the 'I voted' sticker." The audience gave a chuckle of mild amusement, that morphed all at once into panic and confusion.

  Helen felt a tremendous stab of pain through her chest. She looked down and saw an oily squid-like creature glaring up at her. The sharp blade jutted out from between its eyes, digging into her. It gave a high-pitched hiss, then pulled back and stabbed again, straight through her rib cage. More of the creatures swarmed toward her. She screamed as another one cut into her leg.

  Thousands of them surged through the audience, which began to flee and pop out of existence when they figured out that the 'no weapons' policy for the stadium had just been revoked. Many of the more experienced alt'ers stood their ground and drew weapons, filling the stadium with flashes of light and bone-shaking percussive blasts. Suddenly everything went white, then black, and then Helen found herself back home, her wounds fully healed.

  She tried to sit up, but the couch seemed to have formed a protective cocoon around her. She gave up, letting herself relax, trying to control her breathing, trying to remind herself that it was over, that she hadn't come to real harm.

  Dr. Mellings' face appeared on a screen in front of her. "Helen, are you okay?"

  Helen nodded, giving a forced smile. "What the hell happened back there?" she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.