Helen chuckled when she read that. She was working from home, putting the finishing touches on yet another grant application. At just that moment, she got an incoming request from Dr. Mellings. She brought him up on screen. He sat at his desk, his expression unreadable. He said "hi" through the video link, then sat there for a moment as though he was uncertain what came next.
Time to break out the canned pleasantries, Helen thought. "How have you been?" she asked.
"All right, I guess." A few more moments slogged past, then, "You?"
"Been okay. Lots to read. Came up with some new angles to use in the grant." A moment ticked by. Then, at long last, a second moment ticked by. The third time it happened, she got impatient. "So what brings you here?"
"I had some news, and I thought it would be best to tell you myself. I... well, I found an opening with a corporate lab. They're well funded, good salary, some interesting research. Dental. It just seemed too good an opportunity to pass up."
"You're quitting?" Dr. Mellings nodded. "Why?" He opened his mouth. "And if you use the word 'dental,' I'm coming through the screen to choke you."
"For a long time now, I've been thinking that this project can manage without me. I'm looking for a new challenge."
She wanted to push him, to force him to say why he was really leaving. But she wasn't sure she wanted to know. She had done something to drive him off, and if he explained, she might have to admit that he had good cause. Let him keep his secrets, she thought. It would make it easier to hate him.
"So who will be taking over for you? Someone from the lab?"
"Yes."
"Not Kriti? The girl has potential."
"Not Kriti. I think it's a compliment to her when I say that she's not management material. I chose the person who had the proper vision for the project. She has a vested interest in the project and the brainpower to make it a success." When comprehension failed to dawn on her face, he added. "Don't worry. I have complete faith in you."
Double-you tee eff.1 "You're putting me in charge? I don't even have a Master's degree. Won't all the doctorates... I don't know, beat me up and take my milk money? I mean, there must be some rule against this sort of thing."
"Helen, you'll be fine."
Sure, keep telling yourself that, Helen thought.
"I've got it all lined up with the department. I've talked it over with everyone who could give you trouble, persuaded them that this is a good idea. The dean is still a bit skeptical, but he'll give you enough time to prove yourself."
"This is insane. You might as well put one of the lab rats in charge. You could give him a tiny pope hat and a megaphone."
"We don't have any actual lab rats."
"No, but you do have rat brains making squeaky little lives for themselves under my floorboards. Don't think I didn't know about them."
"It didn't seem humane to just delete them. And I guarantee you that they're disease free, and smell of pine and lavender. Look, I have to get going. But don't worry. You'll do fine."
You keep saying that, she thought.
* * *
1 WTF is Internet slang, a statement of surprise and confusion. The acronym stands for "why, therefore?"
///////////////////////////////
// QUEEN OF THE NEUROMANCERS //
///////////////////////////////
Date: June 15, 2035
"No, I'm not calling it a stupid idea!" Helen nearly shouted. "I'm saying that we can't afford to pursue it. Huge difference!"
"Then what am I supposed to do with it?" Dr. Murdock asked. His face was bright red, and veins stood out on his neck. They had been arguing for twenty minutes, the last seven at approximately this intensity.
"Blog it, explain why you think it would work, and hope someone in the hive mind runs with it. Because if you don't, it will probably never happen."
"But it's mine!"
"Yes. God forbid anyone in science ever elaborate on another person's idea." Helen felt like she was staring across a vast generational divide. Her younger researchers were much less possessive about their work. Dr. Murdock was getting up in years; he had been one of Dr. Mellings' lieutenants even before she had frozen herself.
He had been fighting tooth and nail with Helen ever since her mentor's departure. She was struggling to figure out why.
"Look," he said, "I know I can't just drop everything and latch onto this. But we have the budget for that new grad student--"
"Who is overcommitted before she even walks in the door."
"Half time would be enough."
"I can give you a quarter. If she's interested, and you can find an outside collaborator."
"I need more than that," he complained.
"Well whose research should we idle?"
The look he gave her could cut through steel. "Honestly?" he said. "You could be doing more around here."
"You mean besides run the lab, do the PR, pursue a PhD, whore myself out to our funders--" She caught the look he gave her. "Metaphorically! If you think I'm doing such a shit job, why don't you do it instead?"
The words were out of her mouth before she realized she had said them. She imagined the smug look that was about to spread across his fat face. Any second now. Just as soon as the arrogant bastard... wait. An old lyric surfaced in her head: My dear, sweet mother, she just looked at me like a cow looks at an oncoming train.
"God, please no," he said, his face drained of color.
The realization finally hit her. She had always assumed that Murdock was after her job, undermining her at every turn. "You mean you don't want to run the lab?" she asked.
He seemed taken aback. "So that's what all this is about? Kid, if I wanted your job, I'd have taken it when Mellings offered it to me. Oh, now, don't look all hurt. He wouldn't have offered it to you if he didn't think you could do it. I was the safe choice."
"But you've been insubordinate. You've been mean. Frankly, you're a jerk."
He laughed, and some of the tension flowed out of the room. "Guilty as charged. But see, I consider myself an equal opportunity jerk. I have a thick skin, and treat everyone else like they do too. It gets me in trouble. But I've never said anything to you that I wouldn't say to any respected colleague. I've been pushing this because I'm getting close to retirement, and I want to go out with a bang. I thought maybe I could browbeat you into letting me spend my last couple of years on something cool. You get points for standing up to me, I guess."
Helen didn't know what to say. "Look," he added. "People generally like and respect you here, and you make pretty good decisions for a kid. Stop walking around like everyone is gunning for you, and we'll all be a lot happier." She only nodded.
"There's just so much work," she finally said.
"Delegate."
"I can only delegate so much. I can't send Kriti off to earn my doctorate for me." She felt a headache coming on. They were getting more frequent.
Dr. Murdock snorted. "A PhD is a piece of paper. Nobody cares, so long as you can do the work."
"But I was going to write the world's first self-referential doctoral thesis."
"Do it. But what's the rush? Go do more PR instead. You seem happiest when you're attention whoring."
"Am I really that bad?"
"You sure are. But as long as I don't have to do it, who cares? Get out there and raise money. You can never have too many grad students for cannon fodder, and the union is in open rebellion because you're not getting a salary. All that takes cash."
Helen nodded. "Thank you. I mean that."
"Talk is cheap. Go whore me up a grad student or two."
/*****/
Date: June 25, 2035
Helen left the stage of the children's show to polite but unenthusiastic applause, and was escorted backstage by the show's producer. Andrea was there, looking displeased. They exchanged perfunctory thanks with the producer, then stepped out of the studio and into Altworld proper. "Why did you have to do that?" Andrea demanded.
"I am constrained b
y my programming."
Andrea's eyes narrowed. "Be serious."
"I am. When someone tells me, 'This sentence is false,' I know they're being a wiseass, and I respond appropriately."
"In what context is it appropriate to jerk around going 'Does not compute, does not compute?' Nine year olds are supposed to be wiseasses. It's what they do!"
Helen only shrugged.
"When the sparks started coming out of your ears, a bunch of them started crying."
"I miscalculated. Sorry."
"I'm cancelling all the appearances for the under twelve circuit," she said. "Don't argue."
Helen only sighed. "Do you think anybody but the wiseass got the joke?" she asked.
"Doubtful," Andrea replied. "I'm not sure I get it myself. Now, your next meeting is with a German national on Pallas Celestia. His name is Friedrich Kuster."
Helen tried to recall what she knew of him. "The biotech mogul? Fifteenth richest man in the world?" That was about it.
"He dropped to sixteenth last week. The whole biotech sector got hammered after that goop blocked all those sewer lines in Paris."
"So I should lead off with condolences?"
"Helen, please. You only have ten minutes with him, so make them count."
They discussed strategy for a few minutes, and then it was time for Helen to holoproject into Mr. Kuster's residence in Pallas Celestia. When she popped in, she found him standing on the ceiling near a full-length window, staring out into space. She walked over; her body seemed to have decided against all available evidence that gravity was still in effect.
"Herr Kuster?" she asked.
He gave her a backward glance. "Guten tag, Miss Roderick." He flipped over, planting his feet to the floor, where they seemed to stick. He was a middle-aged man with short-cropped gray hair and a thin goatee. A plain green sweater clung to him, showing off more muscles than anyone his age ought to have. "Have you been to Pallas Celestia before? You appear a bit taken aback."
"I've never been in orbit until now."
"That's a shame. There is nothing healthier than zero gravity. It's like the weight of the world is taken off your shoulders." He chuckled at his own joke. "But I suppose health is a very small matter for you, considering your predicament."
Helen nodded. "Herr Kuster, if I may--"
"You certainly may, but there isn't a rush. Take a look out the window. Most newcomers want to, but so few have the courage to ask." Helen nodded, and took two steps up to the broad window. There was only a sliver of the Earth in view at the window's left edge. The stars were crisp and vibrant, and she could see a large structure in the distance, that looked like a spider hanging from eight octagonal panels. Further out, she could make out several more. "What is that?" she asked, pointing to the nearest.
"That's one of the firing elements of the Artemis array. The United States wanted a missile deterrence system, and they squandered a fortune building it. I consider it one of the great geopolitical blunders of the 21st century. But as they look like snowflakes, I believe they improve the view, so I don't mind it."
"It must be expensive to live up here," Helen said, feeling how painfully obvious the statement was.
"True. But can you put a price on freedom?" She gave him an inquisitive look, and he continued. "Pallas Celestia is an independent state of three hundred citizens. We answer to no government but the one we choose for ourselves."
"Does that make you independent?" Helen asked. "I mean, you're still getting shipments from planetside."
"True, the native economy up here is still sparse. But we haven't needed a water shipment in three years, and we're starting to grow crops. It's a very exciting time to be a lover of freedom."
Keep calm, back away slowly, don't break eye contact, she told herself. Her first rule for getting money out of rich libertarians was to not say what she thought of rich libertarians. People didn't call the orbit-dwelling elite "Sky Emperors" as a term of endearment. "It sounds like a fascinating project," she said, trying to keep her voice neutral. "I'd love to learn more about it, but I understand that you're pressed for time, and I do want to tell you about what my lab has been up to." He nodded, and she broke into her spiel about the neural scanners, simulators, and interfaces they had developed over the years, and tried to explain their future plans in a way that would capture his imagination while reminding Kuster that their previous industry partners had done rather well for themselves. At the end, she asked, "Can we count on your support?"
"Tell me, young lady, do you know much about telomere extension therapy?" Kuster asked.
"Some," Helen admitted. "The basics, anyways. Why?"
"And cell rejuvenation therapy?"
"I've read about some of the treatments specific to the neural tissues."
Kuster shook his head, looking disappointed. "We already have excellent life extension technologies, with proven track records. I myself have overseen the development of a dozen of them."
"We're not focused on life-extension techniques," she protested.
"So you say. But the inventions you're researching now seem far less potentially disruptive than what you already claim to have done. That's why I saw fit to have this meeting. I was wondering just how large a threat your work posed to my existing business interests."
Helen frowned. "Your conclusion?"
"I cannot say that there is no potential, but for the moment I am not concerned. Perhaps I should make an appointment ten years down the road, to check on your progress."
"But you called me disruptive."
He nodded. "Potentially. But this half-living existence you're subjected to seems to me a poor substitute for genuine life inside a vigorous, healthy physical body."
"I like it well enough."
"Do you? Haunting those silly virtual worlds, unable to truly touch or feel?" He reached out, and his fingers passed through her arm. "I just don't see the public clamoring for such a lifestyle. It's not a growth market."
His objections were fairly common, though Helen didn't think they held much merit. "We're working the verisimilitude problem from every angle, and spinning off all sorts of technology as we do. We've even got a few people from Altworld Corp. helping us look to expand the range of sensory information that can be conveyed in-world."
Kuster waved a dismissive hand. "The details hardly matter. When you consider the larger picture, it is clear that you're on the wrong track. I must excuse myself for my next meeting. However," he said, turning and floating toward his desk, "I am interested in seeing your prosthetics research move forward, and I would hate for you to feel that your trip here was a complete waste of your time." He tapped out something on an invisible keypad in the air, and a small card appeared in his hand. He passed it to her. Fifty thousand dollars, donated to her department at UCSD.
"Thank you," she said, trying to sound more sincere than she felt. That would pay the electric bills for four months. It was a far cry from the sizable donation she had been hoping to get. Not for the first time today, her head began to ache.
///////////////////////////
// THIS ISN'T EVEN WRONG //
///////////////////////////
Date: August 1, 2035
There was a knock at Helen's door. She glanced out the window, and saw a twenty foot tall demon waiting outside. Its enormous wings were alive with fire, and a scalding hot river of water flowed from its mouth. It carried a heavy, curved sword that stood twice Helen's own height.
"Hey, Kriti," she called out. "shrink yourself down and come on in."
The demon disappeared in a cloud of smoke, which spun until it coalesced into an idealized Kriti, from some alternate universe where she was a leggy lingerie model instead of a short lab geek. Helen was happy to get some company, and eager to show off her latest thesis work.
"You failed to appear at the interdepartmental meeting," she said, with more than a hint of disapproval.
Helen shrugged it off. "I know. I should have gone. But wait until
you see what I've been working on! You'll understand."
Kriti nodded. As she stepped through the doorway, Helen spread her arms wide. "Behold!"
She turned to watch Kriti's reaction. Her large eyes darted across the walls, which were covered with equations and diagrams. Her brow furrowed. "What are these?" she asked, pointing at a series of concentric circles, shot through with thick, meandering spokes, as if somebody had fired a squid at a bulls-eye.
Helen was pleased with her friend's choice. "Ah, you recognize the importance of this one. Those are a pictographic representation of the interactions between the representational and the outward-centered mind," she said, barely containing her excitement. "It's very foundational."
"They seem most... complex."
"I know!" Helen squealed. "There's just so much going on in there! Look, look at this one," she grabbed Kriti by the arm and pulled her over to another wall. It had a similar pictograph, but this one was far more intricate. "It took me three days to map this one. It's a complete map of the neuron space of the concept of 'water,' from instantiation, to complexification, and here you see the assimilation and compounding of the idea as it evolves and takes on new and related meanings, then comes together in a metastable representation that will be provided to the linguistic--"
She saw Kriti's face, and stopped. Kriti stared at the picture, then back at Helen, looking sad and confused. "It's okay if you need me to walk you through it again," Helen consoled her. "It took me days to develop the ideograms for encoding the transactions."
"Explain this to me," she said, pointing to a grouping of equations written in blue on another wall. "I have to be sure what I am seeing."
Helen felt a wave of relief, and the rush of energy as her enthusiasm returned. "Ooh, this is good stuff. I found that you can actually predict the emergence of the conscious mind from the pre-experiential development state, just by adding two new parameters to the quadratic equation."
"The quadratic equation? But that is basic algebra."
"Yes! That surprised me too! See, the universe is just one giant equation. I think Einstein said that. Not important. You add two new dimensions, because our matrix of comprehension is embedded in a four-dimensional reality. Then you solve two sets of the equations, one for representation and the other for visualization. Where the lines cross, bam! Consciousness emerges!"