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alixtiiTitle: School of Lost Souls
Fandoms: Buffy/Angel/Firefly/Serenity
Pairing: Fred/River, implied Fred/River/Harmony.
Rating: NC-17 for mature themes and sexual situations. Some BDSM, maybe.
Timeline/Spoilers: Takes place a couple years before “Serenity”; spoilers for both parts of “Serenity” and oblique spoilers for “A Hole in the World.” Arguably some very slight spoilers for Serenity and “The River Tam Sessions.”
Summary: Knowledge without a soul can be a dangerous thing.
Author’s Notes: For the Fred round of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
femslash_minis. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
voleuse wanted dreams, mathematics, and tacos. She also wanted no noncon or graphic violence, and while I did everything possible to make it clear that River was consenting here, both the power relations and the age difference between Fred and River do admittedly serve to problematize consent. Sorry. The italicized passages are from Frances Hodgson Burnett's A Little Princess. The other people quoted in this story include Orwell, Shakespeare, Nietzsche, and JFK (misquoting Dante).
School of Lost Souls
Dr. Burkle claimed to have been trained as a physicist “many centuries ago,” but it seemed as if there wasn’t a science in which the slender young-looking woman lacked mastery. She would be speaking of the complex matrix properties of Gutierrez’s Corollary to Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem one moment and then, without even missing a beat, would begin discussing the chemical processes that went on within the brain.
Like all the girls at the Academy, River found Dr. Burkle’s cognitive linguistics course intensely challenging. But unlike the others, she gloried in the fact. All of her life things had come easy to her, and to have to work in order to understand was a new and glorious feeling. Finally, she felt that she was able to apply herself, to channel the mental energy which previously had threatened to consume her into something outside herself.
And it was Dr. Burkle who had opened up these doors to River. She felt like falling at the scientist’s feet and thanking her, of doing something—anything—to demonstrate how much she appreciated this chance to throw all of herself, mind, body, and soul into a task and let it consume her.
She loved going through the hundred different case studies Dr. Burkle made them compare, examining in each case the different ways in which language shaped thought. Most of the examples were dead languages which hadn’t been spoken in hundreds of years. Still Dr. Burkle would make offhand comments about French or German as if she herself had had firsthand experience as to how they were spoken.
On the day they studied binary thinking, how the mind sorts things into opposites, what is and what is not, light and day, male and female, Dr. Burkle brought in a broken statuette of Janus from Earth-that-Was itself—nobody else had believed her, but River had known that it was true—complete with one face looking into the past, the other to the future.
River spent hours at her source box, scrolling through files and files of psychological research on the cortex, each time honing the various mathematical models she had to create to mirror mental states. Her models were complex, more complex than any of the others constructed by students in the class, but they weren’t complex enough, not good enough to impress Dr. Burkle. River felt the incredible need to make them perfect, so that Dr. Burkle would notice her.
* * * * *
“The Alliance possesses supercomputers with processing power a million times that of the human brain,” Dr. Burkle had said one day in class. “What prevents them from programming the same type of models we’ve been constructing to create a virtual consciousness?”
The class had been silent, students looking from one to another, trying to guess what their teacher had in mind. A virtual consciousness?
“Oh come on,” Dr. Burkle had said, pacing back and forth at the front of the classroom. “Each mental state is simply a variable in an algorithmic calculus. What keeps us from translating that calculus into mathematic logic, so they we can contain within it every thought which can be thought, every possible mental function?”
One girl tentatively raised her hand. “Yes, Meika?”
“I don’t think they’ve tried.”
Dr. Burkle laughed. “No? Does anyone find that odd?” Her pause was brief, purely for rhetorical effect. “There is no knowledge they have not sought, for knowledge as they say is power. The Alliance will not be satisfied until they have reached pure omniscience. And yet they have not tried this, an opportunity any science-fiction geek would jump on in a moment? Can anyone guess why not?”
River raised her hand.
“Yes, River?”
“Chaos,” River answered simply.
Dr. Burkle nodded. “Does anyone care to elaborate upon River’s answer?” The room was as silent as before. “Very well. River, would you mind explaining for the benefit of your classmates?”
“Thought is causally determined. It operates within defined parameters. Yet still, somehow, the human mind is unpredictable, unable to be controlled. An infinitesimal change in starting conditions, an error so slight one cannot help but make, will butterfly into a radically altered psychological make-up. The Alliance fears to create that which they know they will not be able to control.”
* * * * *
Two weeks later Dr. Burkle called River to her office.
“How have you been doing, River?” she asked in that detached, clinical tone that teachers so often took. “Your classes aren’t giving you too much difficulty, I trust?”
“No, ma’am,” River answered. “I’ve been mostly spending my time preparing for your class.”
“Ah, yes. Your conceptual analyses have all been excellent,” Dr. Burkle said, flipping through a file on her desk. “I’m particularly intrigued by your treatment of fear in your latest conceptual matrix.”
“Why, thank you, ma’am,” River said, uncertain how to respond. Here was Dr. Burkle, right in front of her, so close that she could actually touch her. Oh, how River longed to run her fingers through that dark hair, to take the scientist in her arms!
“None of your classmates thought to cross-coordinate the neurolinguistic scalars, for instance,” Dr. Burkle said. “River, your work has been a grade above all of your classmates. I am going to recommend to the dean to accelerate your coursework by placing you out of this class.”
“No!” River surprised herself with the intensity with which she said the word. She wouldn’t be allowed to take Dr. Burkle's classes? “Don’t take me out of the class,” she added, weakly. “I’m learning so much.”
“And you’ll continue to,” Dr. Burkle said. “I’m going to advise that instead you be placed in an independent study, where I can design your coursework to fit to your unique talents. You’ll meet with me here every Friday morning at 0900 hours. Is that acceptable?”
River would get to meet with Dr. Burkle alone, every week? She could feel the smile break out on her face, unable to conceal her excitement. “Yes, ma’am.”
Dr. Burkle smiled, reached out a hand and slid a finger across River’s temple. “You’re a good student, River. A truly exceptional girl. Work hard and you’ll go some great places.”
* * * * *
River could hardly think straight in the intervening week as she waited for Friday to approach, but she forced herself. She had to do good work.
She worked hard on her conceptual analyses, to expand and further develop the matrices, opening the linguistic field to include two new concepts, pain and suffering, deftly connecting these concepts to the others in the matrices. It was from these connections, River knew, that meaning arose. Each concept defined itself in terms of the other concepts within the matrices. There were no first principles, no grounding, no center.
At night, when the lights were out and her roommate asleep, she thought about that finger on her temple, the way it had felt as it slid across her skin. Almost without thinking, River slipped her hand between her legs.
The touch had been soft, it had been fleeting, but it had been real. Dr. Burkle had touched her! River closed her eyes, recalling the scene with all the vividness she could manage as her fingers slid in and out, rubbing against her clitoris. She could feel it, could recall the exact path of Dr. Burkle’s fingertip just as it had been, ephemeral but glorious. She slid her hand in and out faster, turning her face towards her pillow to stifle her moans, to keep from waking her roommate. Then in a moment of whiteness, the thought of Dr. Burkle, of touch, eclipsed all other thought and sensation as she finally climaxed.
Friday. It would not come soon enough.
* * * * *
“I see that you’ve added pain and suffering to your matrix. Yet you lack any conception of pleasure. A curious omission, don’t you think?”
River had neglected to code any conceptual analysis for pleasure, thinking that not-pain would do the trick. In a moment, she saw her mistake: the opposite of pain wasn’t pleasure, but rather the absence of sensation altogether. Pain and pleasure were both just varieties of sensation, equally capable of informing the constructed Self that she was, indeed, alive.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking to the floor “I won’t let it happen again, Dr. Burkle.”
“River,” Dr. Burkle said, her voice gently chiding. She put a finger underneath River’s chin, gently lifting until she was looking the girl in the eyes. Then, unexpectedly, she leant in, her lips meeting River’s.
River had never been kissed before, but the mechanics of kissing were lodged into the massive amount of knowledge she had amassed in her fifteen years, wedged between the spectral resonance of a crystalline converter and the recommended process for juggling man-eating goslings. She knew to let her lips slide open to make room for Dr. Burkle’s tongue, to tilt her head slightly so that Dr. Burkle wouldn’t have to strain her neck
“Call me Fred,” Dr. Burkle said, many moments later, when their lips finally parted.
* * * * *
River paused, then backspaced Fred’s name. She began anew:
What else should River tell him about Fred, she wondered. Should she mention that kiss in her office, just days before? Tell him about the way that the mere thought of the slender scientist made her body shake in anticipation, of the passion with which she looked forward to their next meeting? To keep from him something of such importance was utterly foreign to her, and yet some new part of her felt she should hold the events of last Friday close to her chest, a secret unknown even to the man closest to her heart.
* * * * *
Fred looked over River’s work of the last week. “Your incorporation of pleasure into the matrix is certainly innovative,” she said. “It does diverge from the Peano arithmetic, though.”
“I’m operating under the assumption that the Peano axioms are inconsistent.”
Fred paused, then put down the matrix cube on her desk. She turned towards River. “That’s certainly a bold move, River. Do you have any basis for this conclusion?”
“We’re working with transcendent phenomena here. Transfinite induction simply doesn’t apply.”
Fred nodded slowly, as if in thought. Then, slowly and deliberately, she reached and unbuttoned the top button of River’s blouse. When she finished with it, she unbuttoned the one beneath it, then the one beneath that one, until River’s blouse was completely undone. Fred gently removed it and placed it on the floor. Then she reached her hands around River’s back and unclasped her bra.
River stood topless in front of her teacher, as Fred placed her hand on River’s left breast, gently squeezing, her palm rubbing against River’s already erect nipple. River had never been so vulnerable before, but here, in front of Fred, she found that she savored it. She desired it, wanted to be completely naked here in Fred’s office so that Fred could take her in her arms and do as she wished.
Fred got up from her desk chair and then, with the same deliberative grace, slowly went down on her knees. River inhaled sharply as the scientist's cold hands went under her skirt, gently pulling her panties down to her knees. Then Fred’s entire head was under the skirt, her mouth wrapped around River’s genitalia.
In another moment, Fred’s tongue was inside River.
* * * * *
“Three minutes even,” Lei said, looking up from the stopwatch in her hand. “That’s thirteen seconds off your previous record.”
River nodded, then pulled herself up out of the pool. She had already known how long it took her to swim the laps; she had been counting herself. But she didn’t say anything, simply picked up a towel and made her way to the natatorium’s locker room, where she changed out of her bathing suit, showered, and put back on her school uniform. Her exercise regimen for the day completed, she made her way back to her dormitory, planning to work some more on her conceptual matrices before it was time for dinner.
When River returned to her room, however, she found it oddly empty. Or rather, it was the left side of the room that was suddenly vacant. Her side of the room. The right side of the room was intact, all of her roommate Narcissa’s possessions just where she had left them. Narcissa herself was seated in front of her source box, working on a xenobotany problem.
“Erm, Narcissa? Do you know where my stuff is?”
The girl just shrugged. “They said the Administration had reassigned you, and that you would know about it.”
“Well, I don’t,” said River, looking once again at the empty side of the room. “Could I use your source box for a moment?”
Narcissa shrugged again and got out of the chair. She sat on her bed and watched as River quickly logged onto the cortex. Sure enough, there was a flagged message for her:
River just stared at the message, not understanding. LF02 denoted a faculty level—certainly they wouldn’t have her rooming there?
Well, all her stuff was missing, and without it there wasn’t very much else for her to do. She exited her room and made her way down the hall to the ascendeur. She expected it to spit back RESTRICTED ACCESS at her when she keyed in LF02, but instead it simply obediently rose, quickly taking her to the faculty level.
The door opened to reveal a wide hallway, carpeted in light blue. The walls were painted a soft brown, and all in all it was a much more welcoming atmosphere than the cold and antiseptic student dormitories. She mentally corrected her reflexes as she took a step forward; the gravity was slightly lighter.
She found her way to Room 33. She thought about keying in her ident code and seeing if it admitted her access, but then decided to press the button for the doorbell instead.
After a couple seconds the door slid open to reveal Dr. Burkle, smiling at her. “River. Good, you’ve found your way. Come in.”
River stepped inside her teacher’s rooms and the door slid shut behind her. Dr. Burkle looked different than she did in class or during office hours; instead of her omnipresent white lab coat she wore instead a sleek red kimono. Her feet were bare and she wore a shell comb in her hair.
Rver looked around at what was presumably Dr. Burkle’s living room. Compared to the Spartan persona the scientist had created in River’s mind, the room in its elegance looked positively magnificent in its splendor.
“I’ve arranged with the administration to have direct oversight over your coursework; from now on, you’ll be answering to me alone. We’re going to be shifting you to a research-based track.”
River’s brain was capable of processing information at 200 million instructions per second. She knew this. Yet somehow the only response to the information that Fred had just provided her she could manage was to stand there staring at the scientist, her mouth open.
* * * * *
They had already transferred her belongings to Fred’s apartment when she had arrived. Her sourcebox sat on a desk in the study, across from Fred’s own. Her toothbrush was in Fred’s bathroom. Fred’s apartment only had one bedroom, and so it was in the scientist’s closet that River found her school uniforms hanging. Her socks and underwear were in a dresser next to the bed.
In the closet next to her uniforms, however, were a number of outfits in her size that had not been hers. “You don’t have to worry about wearing your uniform unless you’re going to be interacting with other students for some reason,” Fred had explained. “But since you’re going to be doing most of your work in here, you might as well be comfortable.”
Perhaps so, but it seemed that they had been chosen with at least as much an eye for fashion as for comfort. There were sundresses, slacks, miniskirts, microskirts, saris, blouses, cheongsams, halters, kimonos, most of which seemed designed specifically to accentuate the female form, with comfort not even being a consideration. River paused in front of a shirt that seemed to reveal at least as much as it covered. She would be wearing this in front of Fred?
Fred poked her head in the bedroom. “Have you had dinner yet?”
River shook her head no.
“Good,” answered. “How about tacos?”
Tacos? “What are tacos?”
“Only the best food in the entire galaxy,” Fred said, looking at River as if she were crazy. “What type of future doesn’t know about tacos,” she muttered, presumably more to herself than to River.
Tacos, as it turned out, were pulverized cattleflesh in a corn shell, served with various vegetables and cheeses. After eating one, River had to admit that they were as good as Fred attested, and had another. Fred shocked River by consuming five.
River was calculating in her head the necessary metabolic rate for Fred to stay so thin and eat so much when Fred rose from the table. “I’ll do the dishes,” she said. “It’s time for you to get to work.”
Fred set River up with a new set of access codes, so that she could access the Alliance’s restricted psycholinguistic research. She got absorbed in a study in which a team of scientist tried to teach a set of genetically engineered pigs how to speak, and was up reading it past 2600 hours. When she finally decided to turn in, Fred was already in the bed, asleep. River made her way to her dresser, using her mental image of the room to navigate in the dark, where she quickly changed into her nightshirt and got into the bed.
Fred was dressed, River could tell now that she was in bed beside her, only in her bra and panties. River resisted the urge to snuggle up next to her, to cling to her as she fell asleep. That would be improper, she decided, even as she recognized the very concept of propriety radically shifted. Did it even hold a place anymore in the linguistic network shared by Fred and River, or was it merely a collection of phonemes now, incommunicative?
Fred shifted in the bed, and River suddenly realized the scientist wasn’t asleep at all. Fred’s hand slipped under River’s nightshirt. Two, then three fingers entered her, gently at first and then more aggressively, slowly but steadily bringing River to climax. “Fred,” River sighed as the pleasure washed over her, free finally to cry out the name which held so much power over her.
Relaxation replaced the intensity of pleasure, but River wasn’t going to allow herself to drift off to sleep. Slipping all the way under the covers, she maneuvered herself between Fred’s legs. Pulling down Fred’s panties just enough, River went down on her, navigating her tongue through the pubic hair and into Fred. Bringing to mind all of the medical books of Simon’s which she had memorized, not to mention her own experience pleasuring herself, she attempted to do it right. She started slow, like Fred had, then built up speed.
“That’s right,” Fred whispered encouragingly. “Just like that.” Her fingers laced their way onto River’s hair and held her tight, pulling her even deeper into Fred. River kept on going.
She could feel Fred’s body tremble underneath her; then, all of a sudden, Fred let out a sigh and went limp. River returned the panties to their place, then slipped back up to the head of the bed, her head poking out from under the covers.
In the dark, River could make out the barest outline of Fred’s face, watching her. “That was perfect,” Fred said, then kissed River quickly upon the forehead. “That was just right.”
* * * * *
Now River got to see a new side of Fred. In the classroom, the scientist had always been cold, stern, aloof. In the privacy of their apartment (for it was their apartment now, River recognized with an excited shiver), however, Fred was like a whole different person. She was more friendly, effusive even, almost bubbly.
River quickly learned to enjoy the routine—or, more accurately, the lack thereof—of living with Fred. In a way, she was the embodiment of quantum chaos. Every day brought something new, some quirk of behavior that didn’t fit in neatly with everything else River knew about the gifted scientist. River quickly despaired of ever finally piecing everything together, but that was all right—she was enjoying herself far too much to care.
* * * * *
Above the fireplace in the living room, there was a framed print of what looked like a woodcut of some many-tentacled beast. River asked about it once. “That’s Illyria,” Fred had explained. “It’s the thing that took my soul.”
River had asked how Dr. Burkle, scientist in all things, could believe in something as amorphous and unquantifiable as a soul. Fred had paused for a moment, looked at River. “There are more things in heaven and Earth, River,” she said softly.
* * * * *
The restricted psycholinguistic research that River’s new access codes allowed her to read included more than just trying to teach pigs to talk. It seemed that there was no aspect of the human psyche that the Alliance did not find worth studying, no experiment they would not conduct. There was detailed documentation of how human subjects responded to various types of psychological and physical torture: solitary confinement, rape, the witnessing of physical injury to loved ones. All in closely controlled settings, utilizing the scientific method in all of its precision.
In general, these experiments all took the same form. The experimenters would attempt to disrupt the linguistic network, create some type of imbalance within it. The dissonance created within the network would be so great as to completely shatter the subject’s sense of self, alienating her from her own body, mind, and environment. The so-called “ghost within the machine” would be obliterated, leaving only a calculating machine able to carry out orders without resistance.
River incorporated this new research into her matrices. Still, however, chaos continued to prove a problem. She would think her matrix was one thing, and then all of a sudden it would butterfly into another.
“Do you know what a butterfly was?” Fred had asked when River had explained the problem to her just as they finished dinner: chocolate chip pancakes.
River looked at Fred strangely. “To butterfly,” River recited. “Verb, intransitive. To produce changes of a greater magnitude by introducing changes of a lesser magnitude into a nonlinear dynamical system.”
A butterfly, Fred told her, was once a type of insect on Earth-that-Was. River didn’t ask her how she knew that.
Instead she asked about the gruesome experiments she had found on the cortex. “Why does the Alliance allow such research?” she asked. “It’s inhumane.”
But Fred had only turned the question back on her in true Socratic fashion. “Why do they allow the research? You know the answer, River.”
She paused. “To know. They want to know, and they consider the human suffering caused in the process of finding out negligible.”
“Partly right,” Fred agreed. “But why is this knowledge so valuable to them?”
“It represents power,” River answered readily. “It gives them control over humans. They need power. They need to control everything, every little detail of every person’s life.”
“Close,” said Fred. “So close. And why do they want to this power?”
“To unite the system,” answered River. “To spread civilization—”
“Foolish, River, foolish!” Suddenly the approving look on Fred’s face quickly changed to frustration as she rose from the table. “Have you let their unification propaganda eat your brain? You’re smarter than that.”
River rose herself as she raced to apologize. “I’m—”
Fred held up a hand. “Enough of that, River. Your pants at your feet now.”
River hands went to her belt, unbuckling it, then pulled her trousers and panties to her ankles.
“Bend over the table.”
River complied. Fred walked over, placed her palm on the girl’s bare buttocks.
“Spread your legs wider.”
River did so.
“You are better than that, River. Such stupidity deserves to be punished.” River felt Fred drive her nails into the skin of her buttocks. “What do you think?” Fred asked. “Will eight spankings be enough?”
When River said nothing, Fred continued, “Very well, if eight isn’t enough, how about ten? Will that be enough?”
Realizing the count would only go up if she didn’t say anything, River quickly said, “Yes, Fred.”
“Good. I want you to keep count.”
And then Fred’s hand was no longer on River’s buttocks, and then it was again, for a split second, bringing with it a flash of pain. “One,” River cried out, just before the hand came down again. “Two.”
“It is not that they don’t care that their research causes human suffering, River. They do care. They relish in the fact. The Alliance is not concerned with civilization or with enlightenment, River. You know this. They care only for pure, unadulterated power. It is not a means but an end. ‘The object of persecution is persecution.’
Fred’s hand slapped against River’s skin. “Three.”
“‘The object of torture is torture.’”
Again. “Four.”
“‘The object of power is power.’”
River had counted out another four when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll be right back. Stay there, and don’t move,” Fred commanded as she left the kitchen and made her way to the front door. It was just out of visibility from the kitchen table, but River could hear the door slide open.
“Harmony,” she heard Fred say, surprise evident in her voice. “What are you doing here?”
“Mr. Tenshi got mad at me,” came a young-sounding, somewhat flighty voice. A blonde, River predicted. “I was thinking I could come here and crash until he calms down again.”
“Hera is a week’s journey by transport from Regina,” Fred pointed out. There was no reply.
The blonde woman must have entered the apartment, for River watched out of the corner of her eye as she rounded the corner and entered the kitchen. She didn’t even glance twice at River bent over the kitchen table, her pants at her ankles, but instead made her way for the refrigerator. “I don’t suppose you have any blood on hand,” she said, as she pulled out a cola.
“One day, Harm, I’m going to de-invite you,” Fred answered, entering behind the woman. “I’m telling you I don’t want anything to do with Blue Sun.”
“Oh, like you could really get away from them,” Harmony said, holding up her cola can to showcase the Blue Sun logo on its side. “They like, what? Bankroll half the budget for this school?”
“Be that as it may, if I find out that you are here to try to sell me on some—”
“Oh, please,” Harmony interjected, “you’ve made it quite clear to Blue Sun you want no part with them. Still, you can’t blame them for being interested in your research.”
River shifted her weight just slightly, trying to get a better view of Fred and this Harmony woman, but Fred caught the movement. “River,” she said sternly. “I said not to move. That’ll make it twice the punishment.”
“Is that your student?” Harmony asked.
“Her name’s River. I would have said she was the most brilliant girl I’ve come across, but she’s recently put the lie to that statement.”
“So you’re punishing her?” River could see the smile on Harmony’s face, almost hungry, even.
“She’s still owed twelve spanks, now,” Fred said. “Would you like to do the honors?”
Harmony was stronger than she looked; the blows that rained down upon River’s buttocks were much more forceful than Fred’s had been. Yet Harmony was not slow and deliberative like Fred, letting the maximum amount of time pass between spanks to intensify the agony. River counted out the blows as they came, and soon it was done.
“Very good,” Fred said. “Now River, on your knees.”
River got up from the table, then immediately sank to her knees.
“Now thank Harmony for helping to punish you.”
“Thank you, Harmony.”
“Oh, you’re welcome,” said Harmony, beaming. “It was fun.”
* * * * *
Harmony stayed for the next few days, sharing the bed with both Fred and River, and the two of them quickly integrated the blonde into their routine, such as it was. River could only wonder what shared experiences could have brought such two different women together. Sometimes there seemed there couldn’t be two women more different, the yin and the yang. Then, other times, one or the other would say something and the other would laugh and they seemed like two peas in a pod, just two young woman who wanted to have fun.
Perhaps it was inevitable that it would only take a few days for the two women to be at each other throats.
River didn’t know what caused it; she had been in the study, working hard on her conceptual matrices. But she had been able to hear the yelling from the living room, and had quickly given up any hope of getting work done while the two were fighting.
When she entered the living room, the two women were standing on opposite sides of the room. Two bottles of Heran cactus wine were on the coffee table, one half empty and the other full of nothing but air.
“We used to be friends,” Harmony insisted. “We went out for drinks and everything.”
“Once,” Fred said with a sigh. “Just once. ‘That was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead.’”
“Oh, can you please get over that?” Harmony erupted. “So you died. Big deal. Do you see the rest of us obsessing?”
“‘The rest of us’?” Fred asked, anger seeping into her voice. “There is no ‘the rest of us,’ Harm. You’re the only one who made it off Earth-that-Was.”
“So I’m a survivor. How is that my fault?”
“The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who in times of great moral crisis maintain their neutrality, Harmony.”
Harmony's shrug was the most abject show of apathy River had ever seen. "I'm a soulless creature," she said. "What do you expect?"
Harmony paused, then took a step closer. "That's what this is about, isn't it? You're mad at me for losing your soul. Well, I'm not the one who made you touch that sarco--sarc--that coffin thing. If you want someone to blame, blame Knox. Blame Gunn. Blame Wesley or Angel, even. But no, they're dead. So you have to project your anger and your hatred onto me. Well, get over it, sister. There are better things in life than souls."
* * * * *
Harrmony left, and life returned to the ebb and flow of chaos that passed for normality within the apartment. With one less distraction, she was able to better turn her attention back to her work. The more she developed her matrices, however, the more it became obvious how great their limitations truly were. No science could account for consciousness; the best any mechanist could do would be to attempt to dismiss it as an illusion, and insist that human thought could be explained purely in the strict causal terms one would use to describe a computer or a sheep brain. Yet the existence of the consciousness was an empirical fact, wasn’t it? River was conscious of herself as a person, an entity, as more than the sum of processes going on in her brain. Could all that really only be the result of systemic chaos?
“You’re doing good work,” Fred had tried to reassure River when she brought her frustrations to the scientist. She kissed her, a quick peck on the cheek. “Just keep on going; you’ll think of something. It’s a difficult question.”
Indeed, it was. What was the spark of consciousness, the magic of thought, the essence which could not be translated into pure mathematics? “Is it the soul?” River had asked once, still unsure how she felt about invoking such an un-empirical entity.
But Fred had shaken her head. “I don’t have a soul, remember? I’m still conscious, although I suppose couldn’t prove that to you. And what about someone in a coma, or who is braindead? They’re not conscious, but they still have a soul.”
So River continued doing research, kept on developing her matrices, assuming for the time being that the mechanists were right, and there was nothing more to consciousness. There was no choice, really. Any other option would be unscientific.
If that were the case, it was clear that not every statement that was true (whatever that meant) would be intelligible within the conceptual matrix. Gödel’s theorems proved that much. So she integrated within the matrices a submatrix—a “reality matrix” as Fred nicknamed it—that networked the various intelligible statements. The reality matrix wouldn’t be particularly powerful—about on par with first-order arithmetic—but as long as it was consistent the overall matrix could function.
It was the portions of the matrices which rested outside the reality matrix that fascinated River. By necessity they manifested all sort of paradoxes: inconsistencies, infinite regresses, self-references. It was this chaotic core that would allow the reality matrix to cohere.
When she told Fred about her success the scientist had only laughed. “So it is necessary to have chaos inside to give birth to a dancing star,” she said.
* * * * *
“Londinium bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down,” a woman was single in an unfamiliar accent, her voice softly lilting. “Londinium bridge is falling down, my fair lady.”
“Excuse me,” River asked, “I am late for the war?”
The woman turned towards River, looked at her. She had long black hair, and was dressed in a long red dress. A black shawl was wrapped around her shoulders.
“The war is over, fought hundreds of years ago. The toy soldiers have fallen to the ground, rusted away.”
“Oh,” said River, and turned away.
“Shh!” said the woman, as if River had been about to say something. She grabbed River’s arm. “Hush now. There will be new soldiers. The toymaker is preparing them even now.”
“The humans fought against each other for centuries,” interjected another voice, and River turned to see a woman in a red, blue, and brown bodysuit. “It made them weak, able to be conquered from without. Only the vessel of the Shadowmen stood between their race and their destruction. Now there have risen among men those with the will to take dominion over their brethren. A single people are unified under a rule of iron.”
River looked at the woman. “Fred?”
Only it wasn’t Fred. She looked like Fred, but this creature was not Fred. Her hair was blue where Fred’s was brown. Her lips, eyes, and forehead were blue. Her demeanor was not Fred’s.
“The child always returns to where the father buried the hatchet,” the dark-haired woman said. “Here comes a candle to light you to bed; here comes a chopper—”
* * * * *
River awoke to voices emanating from the study.
“If you go through with this, Timothy, you’ll be going to be killing the goose that laid the golden eggs,” she could make out Fred saying. “It’s largely her research that made your project possible.”
“You have no idea how difficult it has been securing suitable subjects,” a male voice replies. “The requirements are—”
“I am well aware of the requirements,” Fred snapped. “You have this entire station at your disposal. Use one of the others.”
Then Fred must have terminated the communication, for River did not hear the male reply.
Moments later, Fred entered the bedroom. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully, as if she hadn’t just been in a disagreement with the mysterious man. “Slept well?”
“I had the strangest dream,” River answered, getting out of bed and changing out of her nightshirt and into a sleek blue dress. “There was this weird woman who looked just like you, only she had blue hair. She kept talking about how humans were weak and the species should be united.”
Fred froze, her face suddenly ashen. “Was there anything else in your dream?” she asked, a new note of desperation creeping into her voice.
River nodded. “There was a dark-haired woman with a strange accent who kept on talking about toys and nursery rhymes.” She sung to Fred “Londinium bridge,” recreating the strange woman’s accent
“Cockney,” Fred answered. “One of the dialects from an island called Britain on Earth-that-Was. It still can be heard today, on some of the border planets. Dyton Colony, mainly.”
They didn’t talk about the dream ever again, but for the rest of that day Fred kept casting uneasy glances in River’s direction.
* * * * *
“Aiyā huàile!” River cursed under her breath. A particularly insidious paradox in one of the upper meta-levels had managed to infect the reality matrix, destabilizing it completely. She had tried every way she could think of to fix the problem, and none of them were working.
She sighed and logged onto the cortex. Maybe if she tried something else and came back to it, the answer would be more clear. She keyed in a search code for her own name.
Well, that was boring. She keyed in her special access codes—there had to be more information than that.
That was weird. Her own file was classified beyond her access? She keyed in a search for Fred instead.
She paused, then ran another search.
River stared at her source box. Not only had Fred and Harmony both been on Earth-that-Was, the Alliance knew about it. She had even been able to access the information with her access code—a code which wouldn’t permit access to her own file. She thought for a moment, then ran another search.
What had happened on Earth-that-Was so many years ago? What did Fred and Harmony both know that the Alliance wanted kept hidden?
* * * * *
River soon found that the matrices with the destabilized reality submatrices displayed a rather odd and inexplicable property: when run at the same time as matrices with coherent reality submatrices, even ones fashioned from radically different linguistic networks, they would produce synchronistic results. There was no possible scientific explanation for the phenomenon, except for the increasingly implausible move of scratching it up to pure chance; what they were dealing with, if it were real, was some type of acausal connecting principle.
“A coin can fall on the same side a hundred times in a row,” Fred had said, scrunching up her nose. “But when it happens, it’s a pretty good sign you might want to check if you’re a character in a play.”
They had certainly run the simulations enough time for the results to be statistically significant, then had checked their math and ran the simulations all over again. There was little doubt that whatever they were dealing with, it was real.
“This just might be the greatest scientific break-through in the last three hundred years,” Fred said, but River had thought that she didn’t exactly look very happy.
* * * * *
River was worried. Fred had changed in the past weeks, after since they had discovered the synchronous effects in the destabilized matrices. The fun-loving young woman was gone, as was the piānzhí de jiūcháyuán. Instead, they had been replaced with a women who was withdrawn and sullen, who spoke only when spoken to and little even then, who avoided looking River in the eyes whenever possible.
River didn’t know what was going on, why things were suddenly so different. She only knew that her instincts told her that something was coming, and it wasn’t going to be good.
* * * * *
Conditions in the destabilized matrix mirrored concepts in the stabilized matrix, although there was no possible explanation as to how the destabilized matrix could create such conditions. An already destabilized matrix could be caused to destabilize even further simply by running it concurrently with another.
Could she stabilize the reality matrix by running it concurrently with a stable matrix that contained the right conditions to counteract the imbalance? River didn’t know, but it was something she could find out. She could make attempts, construct hypotheses, test them. Like a scientist.
“River,” Fred said, entering the study. “I need you for something in the living room.”
“In a little bit,” River said, watching intently as the simulation ran. “I’m in the middle of something.” A cascade of concept-regressions was forming, and—
Fred disconnected the source box. “Now.”
River nodded, uncertainly, then got up and made her way out of the study. Already standing in the living room was a middle-aged man in a lab coat just like the one Fred wore for her classes—and was wearing right then.
“River,” Fred said, “I’d like you to meet Dr. Mathias.”
* * * * *
Fandoms: Buffy/Angel/Firefly/Serenity
Pairing: Fred/River, implied Fred/River/Harmony.
Rating: NC-17 for mature themes and sexual situations. Some BDSM, maybe.
Timeline/Spoilers: Takes place a couple years before “Serenity”; spoilers for both parts of “Serenity” and oblique spoilers for “A Hole in the World.” Arguably some very slight spoilers for Serenity and “The River Tam Sessions.”
Summary: Knowledge without a soul can be a dangerous thing.
Author’s Notes: For the Fred round of
femslash_minis. voleuse wanted dreams, mathematics, and tacos. She also wanted no noncon or graphic violence, and while I did everything possible to make it clear that River was consenting here, both the power relations and the age difference between Fred and River do admittedly serve to problematize consent. Sorry. The italicized passages are from Frances Hodgson Burnett's A Little Princess. The other people quoted in this story include Orwell, Shakespeare, Nietzsche, and JFK (misquoting Dante).School of Lost Souls
"I am not in the least anxious about her education," Captain Crewe said, with his gay laugh, as he held Sara's hand and patted it. "The difficulty will be to keep her from learning too fast and too much. She is always sitting with her little nose burrowing into books. She doesn't read them, Miss Minchin; she gobbles them up as if she were a little wolf instead of a little girl. She is always starving for new books to gobble, and she wants grown-up books -- great, big, fat ones -- French and German as well as English -- history and biography and poets, and all sorts of things. Drag her away from her books when she reads too much. Make her ride her pony in the Row or go out and buy a new doll. She ought to play more with dolls."All the other girls at the Academy had warned River that Dr. Burkle was a heartless bitch, but that wasn’t true: Fred Burkle’s heart beat as much as any other woman’s, lub-a-dub lub-a-dub. It was a soul that she lacked, or so she said on the first day of class. All the other girls had laughed, assuming it was a joke. Only River, it seemed, could tell that Dr. Burkle was deadly serious. Destroyed in the Fires of Resurrection, she had said, but River didn’t know what that meant. No one had.
Dr. Burkle claimed to have been trained as a physicist “many centuries ago,” but it seemed as if there wasn’t a science in which the slender young-looking woman lacked mastery. She would be speaking of the complex matrix properties of Gutierrez’s Corollary to Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem one moment and then, without even missing a beat, would begin discussing the chemical processes that went on within the brain.
Like all the girls at the Academy, River found Dr. Burkle’s cognitive linguistics course intensely challenging. But unlike the others, she gloried in the fact. All of her life things had come easy to her, and to have to work in order to understand was a new and glorious feeling. Finally, she felt that she was able to apply herself, to channel the mental energy which previously had threatened to consume her into something outside herself.
And it was Dr. Burkle who had opened up these doors to River. She felt like falling at the scientist’s feet and thanking her, of doing something—anything—to demonstrate how much she appreciated this chance to throw all of herself, mind, body, and soul into a task and let it consume her.
She loved going through the hundred different case studies Dr. Burkle made them compare, examining in each case the different ways in which language shaped thought. Most of the examples were dead languages which hadn’t been spoken in hundreds of years. Still Dr. Burkle would make offhand comments about French or German as if she herself had had firsthand experience as to how they were spoken.
On the day they studied binary thinking, how the mind sorts things into opposites, what is and what is not, light and day, male and female, Dr. Burkle brought in a broken statuette of Janus from Earth-that-Was itself—nobody else had believed her, but River had known that it was true—complete with one face looking into the past, the other to the future.
River spent hours at her source box, scrolling through files and files of psychological research on the cortex, each time honing the various mathematical models she had to create to mirror mental states. Her models were complex, more complex than any of the others constructed by students in the class, but they weren’t complex enough, not good enough to impress Dr. Burkle. River felt the incredible need to make them perfect, so that Dr. Burkle would notice her.
Sara was sitting quietly in her seat, waiting to be told what to do. She had been placed near Miss Minchin's desk. She was not abashed at all by the many pairs of eyes watching her. She was interested and looked back quietly at the children who looked at her. She wondered what they were thinking of, and if they liked Miss Minchin, and if they cared for their lessons, and if any of them had a papa at all like her own.
“The Alliance possesses supercomputers with processing power a million times that of the human brain,” Dr. Burkle had said one day in class. “What prevents them from programming the same type of models we’ve been constructing to create a virtual consciousness?”
The class had been silent, students looking from one to another, trying to guess what their teacher had in mind. A virtual consciousness?
“Oh come on,” Dr. Burkle had said, pacing back and forth at the front of the classroom. “Each mental state is simply a variable in an algorithmic calculus. What keeps us from translating that calculus into mathematic logic, so they we can contain within it every thought which can be thought, every possible mental function?”
One girl tentatively raised her hand. “Yes, Meika?”
“I don’t think they’ve tried.”
Dr. Burkle laughed. “No? Does anyone find that odd?” Her pause was brief, purely for rhetorical effect. “There is no knowledge they have not sought, for knowledge as they say is power. The Alliance will not be satisfied until they have reached pure omniscience. And yet they have not tried this, an opportunity any science-fiction geek would jump on in a moment? Can anyone guess why not?”
River raised her hand.
“Yes, River?”
“Chaos,” River answered simply.
Dr. Burkle nodded. “Does anyone care to elaborate upon River’s answer?” The room was as silent as before. “Very well. River, would you mind explaining for the benefit of your classmates?”
“Thought is causally determined. It operates within defined parameters. Yet still, somehow, the human mind is unpredictable, unable to be controlled. An infinitesimal change in starting conditions, an error so slight one cannot help but make, will butterfly into a radically altered psychological make-up. The Alliance fears to create that which they know they will not be able to control.”
"It will be a great privilege to have charge of such a beautiful and promising child, Captain Crewe," she said, taking Sara's hand and stroking it. "Lady Meredith has told me of her unusual cleverness. A clever child is a great treasure in an establishment like mine."
Two weeks later Dr. Burkle called River to her office.
“How have you been doing, River?” she asked in that detached, clinical tone that teachers so often took. “Your classes aren’t giving you too much difficulty, I trust?”
“No, ma’am,” River answered. “I’ve been mostly spending my time preparing for your class.”
“Ah, yes. Your conceptual analyses have all been excellent,” Dr. Burkle said, flipping through a file on her desk. “I’m particularly intrigued by your treatment of fear in your latest conceptual matrix.”
“Why, thank you, ma’am,” River said, uncertain how to respond. Here was Dr. Burkle, right in front of her, so close that she could actually touch her. Oh, how River longed to run her fingers through that dark hair, to take the scientist in her arms!
“None of your classmates thought to cross-coordinate the neurolinguistic scalars, for instance,” Dr. Burkle said. “River, your work has been a grade above all of your classmates. I am going to recommend to the dean to accelerate your coursework by placing you out of this class.”
“No!” River surprised herself with the intensity with which she said the word. She wouldn’t be allowed to take Dr. Burkle's classes? “Don’t take me out of the class,” she added, weakly. “I’m learning so much.”
“And you’ll continue to,” Dr. Burkle said. “I’m going to advise that instead you be placed in an independent study, where I can design your coursework to fit to your unique talents. You’ll meet with me here every Friday morning at 0900 hours. Is that acceptable?”
River would get to meet with Dr. Burkle alone, every week? She could feel the smile break out on her face, unable to conceal her excitement. “Yes, ma’am.”
Dr. Burkle smiled, reached out a hand and slid a finger across River’s temple. “You’re a good student, River. A truly exceptional girl. Work hard and you’ll go some great places.”
She was not in the least like Isobel Grange, who had been the beauty of the regiment, but she had an odd charm of her own. She was a slim, supple creature, rather tall for her age, and had an intense, attractive little face. Her hair was heavy and quite black and only curled at the tips; her eyes were greenish gray, it is true, but they were big, wonderful eyes with long, black lashes, and though she herself did not like the color of them, many other people did. Still she was very firm in her belief that she was an ugly little girl, and she was not at all elated by Miss Minchin's flattery.
River could hardly think straight in the intervening week as she waited for Friday to approach, but she forced herself. She had to do good work.
She worked hard on her conceptual analyses, to expand and further develop the matrices, opening the linguistic field to include two new concepts, pain and suffering, deftly connecting these concepts to the others in the matrices. It was from these connections, River knew, that meaning arose. Each concept defined itself in terms of the other concepts within the matrices. There were no first principles, no grounding, no center.
At night, when the lights were out and her roommate asleep, she thought about that finger on her temple, the way it had felt as it slid across her skin. Almost without thinking, River slipped her hand between her legs.
The touch had been soft, it had been fleeting, but it had been real. Dr. Burkle had touched her! River closed her eyes, recalling the scene with all the vividness she could manage as her fingers slid in and out, rubbing against her clitoris. She could feel it, could recall the exact path of Dr. Burkle’s fingertip just as it had been, ephemeral but glorious. She slid her hand in and out faster, turning her face towards her pillow to stifle her moans, to keep from waking her roommate. Then in a moment of whiteness, the thought of Dr. Burkle, of touch, eclipsed all other thought and sensation as she finally climaxed.
Friday. It would not come soon enough.
Becky ran to her and caught her hand, and hugged it to her breast, kneeling beside her and sobbing with love and pain.
“I see that you’ve added pain and suffering to your matrix. Yet you lack any conception of pleasure. A curious omission, don’t you think?”
River had neglected to code any conceptual analysis for pleasure, thinking that not-pain would do the trick. In a moment, she saw her mistake: the opposite of pain wasn’t pleasure, but rather the absence of sensation altogether. Pain and pleasure were both just varieties of sensation, equally capable of informing the constructed Self that she was, indeed, alive.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking to the floor “I won’t let it happen again, Dr. Burkle.”
“River,” Dr. Burkle said, her voice gently chiding. She put a finger underneath River’s chin, gently lifting until she was looking the girl in the eyes. Then, unexpectedly, she leant in, her lips meeting River’s.
River had never been kissed before, but the mechanics of kissing were lodged into the massive amount of knowledge she had amassed in her fifteen years, wedged between the spectral resonance of a crystalline converter and the recommended process for juggling man-eating goslings. She knew to let her lips slide open to make room for Dr. Burkle’s tongue, to tilt her head slightly so that Dr. Burkle wouldn’t have to strain her neck
“Call me Fred,” Dr. Burkle said, many moments later, when their lips finally parted.
Dearest Simon,
Life at the Academy continues to go well. I work hard to apply myself to my work, but only my coursework in cognitive linguistics truly excites me. History, sociopolitics, cryptozoology, autodynamics, even mereotopology—none of these present such an intriguing challenge as unlocking the secrets of the human mind itself. Fred
River paused, then backspaced Fred’s name. She began anew:
Dr. Burkle has taken me under her wing as an independent study, and with her guidance I have been learning so many new things, including such things I would not have been able to even imagine before I came to the Academy. She has opened so many new doors to me, that there is no way in all the system that would allow me to adequately express my gratitude to her.
What else should River tell him about Fred, she wondered. Should she mention that kiss in her office, just days before? Tell him about the way that the mere thought of the slender scientist made her body shake in anticipation, of the passion with which she looked forward to their next meeting? To keep from him something of such importance was utterly foreign to her, and yet some new part of her felt she should hold the events of last Friday close to her chest, a secret unknown even to the man closest to her heart.
I regret only that you are not here to share my joy, dear brother. Believe me when I say that I miss you always.
Your loving sister,
River
Miss Minchin's opinion was that if a child were continually praised and never forbidden to do what she liked, she would be sure to be fond of the place where she was so treated. Accordingly, Sara was praised for her quickness at her lessons, for her good manners, for her amiability to her fellow pupils, for her generosity if she gave sixpence to a beggar out of her full little purse; the simplest thing she did was treated as if it were a virtue, and if she had not had a disposition and a clever little brain, she might have been a very self-satisfied young person. But the clever little brain told her a great many sensible and true things about herself and her circumstances, and now and then she talked these things over to Ermengarde as time went on.
Fred looked over River’s work of the last week. “Your incorporation of pleasure into the matrix is certainly innovative,” she said. “It does diverge from the Peano arithmetic, though.”
“I’m operating under the assumption that the Peano axioms are inconsistent.”
Fred paused, then put down the matrix cube on her desk. She turned towards River. “That’s certainly a bold move, River. Do you have any basis for this conclusion?”
“We’re working with transcendent phenomena here. Transfinite induction simply doesn’t apply.”
Fred nodded slowly, as if in thought. Then, slowly and deliberately, she reached and unbuttoned the top button of River’s blouse. When she finished with it, she unbuttoned the one beneath it, then the one beneath that one, until River’s blouse was completely undone. Fred gently removed it and placed it on the floor. Then she reached her hands around River’s back and unclasped her bra.
River stood topless in front of her teacher, as Fred placed her hand on River’s left breast, gently squeezing, her palm rubbing against River’s already erect nipple. River had never been so vulnerable before, but here, in front of Fred, she found that she savored it. She desired it, wanted to be completely naked here in Fred’s office so that Fred could take her in her arms and do as she wished.
Fred got up from her desk chair and then, with the same deliberative grace, slowly went down on her knees. River inhaled sharply as the scientist's cold hands went under her skirt, gently pulling her panties down to her knees. Then Fred’s entire head was under the skirt, her mouth wrapped around River’s genitalia.
In another moment, Fred’s tongue was inside River.
"Things happen to people by accident," she used to say. "A lot of nice accidents have happened to me. It just happened that I always liked lessons and books, and could remember things when I learned them. It just happened that I was born with a father who was beautiful and nice and clever, and could give me everything I liked. Perhaps I have not really a good temper at all, but if you have everything you want and everyone is kind to you, how can you help but be good-tempered? I don't know" -- looking quite serious -- "how I shall ever find out whether I am really a nice child or a horrid one. Perhaps I'm a hideous child, and no one will ever know, just because I never have any trials."
“Three minutes even,” Lei said, looking up from the stopwatch in her hand. “That’s thirteen seconds off your previous record.”
River nodded, then pulled herself up out of the pool. She had already known how long it took her to swim the laps; she had been counting herself. But she didn’t say anything, simply picked up a towel and made her way to the natatorium’s locker room, where she changed out of her bathing suit, showered, and put back on her school uniform. Her exercise regimen for the day completed, she made her way back to her dormitory, planning to work some more on her conceptual matrices before it was time for dinner.
When River returned to her room, however, she found it oddly empty. Or rather, it was the left side of the room that was suddenly vacant. Her side of the room. The right side of the room was intact, all of her roommate Narcissa’s possessions just where she had left them. Narcissa herself was seated in front of her source box, working on a xenobotany problem.
“Erm, Narcissa? Do you know where my stuff is?”
The girl just shrugged. “They said the Administration had reassigned you, and that you would know about it.”
“Well, I don’t,” said River, looking once again at the empty side of the room. “Could I use your source box for a moment?”
Narcissa shrugged again and got out of the chair. She sat on her bed and watched as River quickly logged onto the cortex. Sure enough, there was a flagged message for her:
To: Tam, R. [river.tam%stud.acad.reg]
From: Sullivan, S. [shelia.sullivan%admin.acad.reg]
CC: Burkle, W. [winifred.burkle%fac.acad.reg]; Hyung, K. [karen.hyung%clas.ld]; [CLASSIFIED]
Your residential unit has been re-assigned. Please report to your new assignment at LF0233B as soon as possible.
River just stared at the message, not understanding. LF02 denoted a faculty level—certainly they wouldn’t have her rooming there?
Well, all her stuff was missing, and without it there wasn’t very much else for her to do. She exited her room and made her way down the hall to the ascendeur. She expected it to spit back RESTRICTED ACCESS at her when she keyed in LF02, but instead it simply obediently rose, quickly taking her to the faculty level.
The door opened to reveal a wide hallway, carpeted in light blue. The walls were painted a soft brown, and all in all it was a much more welcoming atmosphere than the cold and antiseptic student dormitories. She mentally corrected her reflexes as she took a step forward; the gravity was slightly lighter.
She found her way to Room 33. She thought about keying in her ident code and seeing if it admitted her access, but then decided to press the button for the doorbell instead.
After a couple seconds the door slid open to reveal Dr. Burkle, smiling at her. “River. Good, you’ve found your way. Come in.”
River stepped inside her teacher’s rooms and the door slid shut behind her. Dr. Burkle looked different than she did in class or during office hours; instead of her omnipresent white lab coat she wore instead a sleek red kimono. Her feet were bare and she wore a shell comb in her hair.
Rver looked around at what was presumably Dr. Burkle’s living room. Compared to the Spartan persona the scientist had created in River’s mind, the room in its elegance looked positively magnificent in its splendor.
“I’ve arranged with the administration to have direct oversight over your coursework; from now on, you’ll be answering to me alone. We’re going to be shifting you to a research-based track.”
River’s brain was capable of processing information at 200 million instructions per second. She knew this. Yet somehow the only response to the information that Fred had just provided her she could manage was to stand there staring at the scientist, her mouth open.
Sara often thought afterward that the house was somehow exactly like Miss Minchin. It was respectable and well furnished, but everything in it was ugly; and the very armchairs seemed to have hard bones in them. In the hall everything was hard and polished--even the red cheeks of the moon face on the tall clock in the corner had a severe varnished look. The drawing room into which they were ushered was covered by a carpet with a square pattern upon it, the chairs were square, and a heavy marble timepiece stood upon the heavy marble mantel.
They had already transferred her belongings to Fred’s apartment when she had arrived. Her sourcebox sat on a desk in the study, across from Fred’s own. Her toothbrush was in Fred’s bathroom. Fred’s apartment only had one bedroom, and so it was in the scientist’s closet that River found her school uniforms hanging. Her socks and underwear were in a dresser next to the bed.
In the closet next to her uniforms, however, were a number of outfits in her size that had not been hers. “You don’t have to worry about wearing your uniform unless you’re going to be interacting with other students for some reason,” Fred had explained. “But since you’re going to be doing most of your work in here, you might as well be comfortable.”
Perhaps so, but it seemed that they had been chosen with at least as much an eye for fashion as for comfort. There were sundresses, slacks, miniskirts, microskirts, saris, blouses, cheongsams, halters, kimonos, most of which seemed designed specifically to accentuate the female form, with comfort not even being a consideration. River paused in front of a shirt that seemed to reveal at least as much as it covered. She would be wearing this in front of Fred?
Fred poked her head in the bedroom. “Have you had dinner yet?”
River shook her head no.
“Good,” answered. “How about tacos?”
Tacos? “What are tacos?”
“Only the best food in the entire galaxy,” Fred said, looking at River as if she were crazy. “What type of future doesn’t know about tacos,” she muttered, presumably more to herself than to River.
Tacos, as it turned out, were pulverized cattleflesh in a corn shell, served with various vegetables and cheeses. After eating one, River had to admit that they were as good as Fred attested, and had another. Fred shocked River by consuming five.
River was calculating in her head the necessary metabolic rate for Fred to stay so thin and eat so much when Fred rose from the table. “I’ll do the dishes,” she said. “It’s time for you to get to work.”
Fred set River up with a new set of access codes, so that she could access the Alliance’s restricted psycholinguistic research. She got absorbed in a study in which a team of scientist tried to teach a set of genetically engineered pigs how to speak, and was up reading it past 2600 hours. When she finally decided to turn in, Fred was already in the bed, asleep. River made her way to her dresser, using her mental image of the room to navigate in the dark, where she quickly changed into her nightshirt and got into the bed.
Fred was dressed, River could tell now that she was in bed beside her, only in her bra and panties. River resisted the urge to snuggle up next to her, to cling to her as she fell asleep. That would be improper, she decided, even as she recognized the very concept of propriety radically shifted. Did it even hold a place anymore in the linguistic network shared by Fred and River, or was it merely a collection of phonemes now, incommunicative?
Fred shifted in the bed, and River suddenly realized the scientist wasn’t asleep at all. Fred’s hand slipped under River’s nightshirt. Two, then three fingers entered her, gently at first and then more aggressively, slowly but steadily bringing River to climax. “Fred,” River sighed as the pleasure washed over her, free finally to cry out the name which held so much power over her.
Relaxation replaced the intensity of pleasure, but River wasn’t going to allow herself to drift off to sleep. Slipping all the way under the covers, she maneuvered herself between Fred’s legs. Pulling down Fred’s panties just enough, River went down on her, navigating her tongue through the pubic hair and into Fred. Bringing to mind all of the medical books of Simon’s which she had memorized, not to mention her own experience pleasuring herself, she attempted to do it right. She started slow, like Fred had, then built up speed.
“That’s right,” Fred whispered encouragingly. “Just like that.” Her fingers laced their way onto River’s hair and held her tight, pulling her even deeper into Fred. River kept on going.
She could feel Fred’s body tremble underneath her; then, all of a sudden, Fred let out a sigh and went limp. River returned the panties to their place, then slipped back up to the head of the bed, her head poking out from under the covers.
In the dark, River could make out the barest outline of Fred’s face, watching her. “That was perfect,” Fred said, then kissed River quickly upon the forehead. “That was just right.”
"Papa," said Sara, "you see, if I went out and bought a new doll every few days I should have more than I could be fond of. Dolls ought to be intimate friends. Emily is going to be my intimate friend."
Now River got to see a new side of Fred. In the classroom, the scientist had always been cold, stern, aloof. In the privacy of their apartment (for it was their apartment now, River recognized with an excited shiver), however, Fred was like a whole different person. She was more friendly, effusive even, almost bubbly.
River quickly learned to enjoy the routine—or, more accurately, the lack thereof—of living with Fred. In a way, she was the embodiment of quantum chaos. Every day brought something new, some quirk of behavior that didn’t fit in neatly with everything else River knew about the gifted scientist. River quickly despaired of ever finally piecing everything together, but that was all right—she was enjoying herself far too much to care.
"It is a story," said Sara. "Everything's a story. You are a story -- I am a story. Miss Minchin is a story."
Above the fireplace in the living room, there was a framed print of what looked like a woodcut of some many-tentacled beast. River asked about it once. “That’s Illyria,” Fred had explained. “It’s the thing that took my soul.”
River had asked how Dr. Burkle, scientist in all things, could believe in something as amorphous and unquantifiable as a soul. Fred had paused for a moment, looked at River. “There are more things in heaven and Earth, River,” she said softly.
The absurd old feathers on her forlorn hat were more draggled and absurd than ever, and her downtrodden shoes were so wet that they could not hold any more water. Added to this, she had been deprived of her dinner, because Miss Minchin had chosen to punish her. She was so cold and hungry and tired that her face began to have a pinched look, and now and then some kind-hearted person passing her in the street glanced at her with sudden sympathy
The restricted psycholinguistic research that River’s new access codes allowed her to read included more than just trying to teach pigs to talk. It seemed that there was no aspect of the human psyche that the Alliance did not find worth studying, no experiment they would not conduct. There was detailed documentation of how human subjects responded to various types of psychological and physical torture: solitary confinement, rape, the witnessing of physical injury to loved ones. All in closely controlled settings, utilizing the scientific method in all of its precision.
In general, these experiments all took the same form. The experimenters would attempt to disrupt the linguistic network, create some type of imbalance within it. The dissonance created within the network would be so great as to completely shatter the subject’s sense of self, alienating her from her own body, mind, and environment. The so-called “ghost within the machine” would be obliterated, leaving only a calculating machine able to carry out orders without resistance.
River incorporated this new research into her matrices. Still, however, chaos continued to prove a problem. She would think her matrix was one thing, and then all of a sudden it would butterfly into another.
“Do you know what a butterfly was?” Fred had asked when River had explained the problem to her just as they finished dinner: chocolate chip pancakes.
River looked at Fred strangely. “To butterfly,” River recited. “Verb, intransitive. To produce changes of a greater magnitude by introducing changes of a lesser magnitude into a nonlinear dynamical system.”
A butterfly, Fred told her, was once a type of insect on Earth-that-Was. River didn’t ask her how she knew that.
Instead she asked about the gruesome experiments she had found on the cortex. “Why does the Alliance allow such research?” she asked. “It’s inhumane.”
But Fred had only turned the question back on her in true Socratic fashion. “Why do they allow the research? You know the answer, River.”
She paused. “To know. They want to know, and they consider the human suffering caused in the process of finding out negligible.”
“Partly right,” Fred agreed. “But why is this knowledge so valuable to them?”
“It represents power,” River answered readily. “It gives them control over humans. They need power. They need to control everything, every little detail of every person’s life.”
“Close,” said Fred. “So close. And why do they want to this power?”
“To unite the system,” answered River. “To spread civilization—”
“Foolish, River, foolish!” Suddenly the approving look on Fred’s face quickly changed to frustration as she rose from the table. “Have you let their unification propaganda eat your brain? You’re smarter than that.”
River rose herself as she raced to apologize. “I’m—”
Fred held up a hand. “Enough of that, River. Your pants at your feet now.”
River hands went to her belt, unbuckling it, then pulled her trousers and panties to her ankles.
“Bend over the table.”
River complied. Fred walked over, placed her palm on the girl’s bare buttocks.
“Spread your legs wider.”
River did so.
“You are better than that, River. Such stupidity deserves to be punished.” River felt Fred drive her nails into the skin of her buttocks. “What do you think?” Fred asked. “Will eight spankings be enough?”
When River said nothing, Fred continued, “Very well, if eight isn’t enough, how about ten? Will that be enough?”
Realizing the count would only go up if she didn’t say anything, River quickly said, “Yes, Fred.”
“Good. I want you to keep count.”
And then Fred’s hand was no longer on River’s buttocks, and then it was again, for a split second, bringing with it a flash of pain. “One,” River cried out, just before the hand came down again. “Two.”
“It is not that they don’t care that their research causes human suffering, River. They do care. They relish in the fact. The Alliance is not concerned with civilization or with enlightenment, River. You know this. They care only for pure, unadulterated power. It is not a means but an end. ‘The object of persecution is persecution.’
Fred’s hand slapped against River’s skin. “Three.”
“‘The object of torture is torture.’”
Again. “Four.”
“‘The object of power is power.’”
River had counted out another four when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll be right back. Stay there, and don’t move,” Fred commanded as she left the kitchen and made her way to the front door. It was just out of visibility from the kitchen table, but River could hear the door slide open.
“Harmony,” she heard Fred say, surprise evident in her voice. “What are you doing here?”
“Mr. Tenshi got mad at me,” came a young-sounding, somewhat flighty voice. A blonde, River predicted. “I was thinking I could come here and crash until he calms down again.”
“Hera is a week’s journey by transport from Regina,” Fred pointed out. There was no reply.
The blonde woman must have entered the apartment, for River watched out of the corner of her eye as she rounded the corner and entered the kitchen. She didn’t even glance twice at River bent over the kitchen table, her pants at her ankles, but instead made her way for the refrigerator. “I don’t suppose you have any blood on hand,” she said, as she pulled out a cola.
“One day, Harm, I’m going to de-invite you,” Fred answered, entering behind the woman. “I’m telling you I don’t want anything to do with Blue Sun.”
“Oh, like you could really get away from them,” Harmony said, holding up her cola can to showcase the Blue Sun logo on its side. “They like, what? Bankroll half the budget for this school?”
“Be that as it may, if I find out that you are here to try to sell me on some—”
“Oh, please,” Harmony interjected, “you’ve made it quite clear to Blue Sun you want no part with them. Still, you can’t blame them for being interested in your research.”
River shifted her weight just slightly, trying to get a better view of Fred and this Harmony woman, but Fred caught the movement. “River,” she said sternly. “I said not to move. That’ll make it twice the punishment.”
“Is that your student?” Harmony asked.
“Her name’s River. I would have said she was the most brilliant girl I’ve come across, but she’s recently put the lie to that statement.”
“So you’re punishing her?” River could see the smile on Harmony’s face, almost hungry, even.
“She’s still owed twelve spanks, now,” Fred said. “Would you like to do the honors?”
Harmony was stronger than she looked; the blows that rained down upon River’s buttocks were much more forceful than Fred’s had been. Yet Harmony was not slow and deliberative like Fred, letting the maximum amount of time pass between spanks to intensify the agony. River counted out the blows as they came, and soon it was done.
“Very good,” Fred said. “Now River, on your knees.”
River got up from the table, then immediately sank to her knees.
“Now thank Harmony for helping to punish you.”
“Thank you, Harmony.”
“Oh, you’re welcome,” said Harmony, beaming. “It was fun.”
"And now you've lost her," she cried wildly; "and some other school will get her and her money; and if she were like any other child she'd tell how she's been treated, and all our pupils would be taken away and we should be ruined. And it serves us right; but it serves you right more than it does me, for you are a hard woman, Maria Minchin, you're a hard, selfish, worldly woman!"
Harmony stayed for the next few days, sharing the bed with both Fred and River, and the two of them quickly integrated the blonde into their routine, such as it was. River could only wonder what shared experiences could have brought such two different women together. Sometimes there seemed there couldn’t be two women more different, the yin and the yang. Then, other times, one or the other would say something and the other would laugh and they seemed like two peas in a pod, just two young woman who wanted to have fun.
Perhaps it was inevitable that it would only take a few days for the two women to be at each other throats.
River didn’t know what caused it; she had been in the study, working hard on her conceptual matrices. But she had been able to hear the yelling from the living room, and had quickly given up any hope of getting work done while the two were fighting.
When she entered the living room, the two women were standing on opposite sides of the room. Two bottles of Heran cactus wine were on the coffee table, one half empty and the other full of nothing but air.
“We used to be friends,” Harmony insisted. “We went out for drinks and everything.”
“Once,” Fred said with a sigh. “Just once. ‘That was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead.’”
“Oh, can you please get over that?” Harmony erupted. “So you died. Big deal. Do you see the rest of us obsessing?”
“‘The rest of us’?” Fred asked, anger seeping into her voice. “There is no ‘the rest of us,’ Harm. You’re the only one who made it off Earth-that-Was.”
“So I’m a survivor. How is that my fault?”
“The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who in times of great moral crisis maintain their neutrality, Harmony.”
Harmony's shrug was the most abject show of apathy River had ever seen. "I'm a soulless creature," she said. "What do you expect?"
Harmony paused, then took a step closer. "That's what this is about, isn't it? You're mad at me for losing your soul. Well, I'm not the one who made you touch that sarco--sarc--that coffin thing. If you want someone to blame, blame Knox. Blame Gunn. Blame Wesley or Angel, even. But no, they're dead. So you have to project your anger and your hatred onto me. Well, get over it, sister. There are better things in life than souls."
How it is that animals understand things I do not know, but it is certain that they do understand. Perhaps there is a language which is not made of words and everything in the world understands it. Perhaps there is a soul hidden in everything and it can always speak, without even making a sound, to another soul.
Harrmony left, and life returned to the ebb and flow of chaos that passed for normality within the apartment. With one less distraction, she was able to better turn her attention back to her work. The more she developed her matrices, however, the more it became obvious how great their limitations truly were. No science could account for consciousness; the best any mechanist could do would be to attempt to dismiss it as an illusion, and insist that human thought could be explained purely in the strict causal terms one would use to describe a computer or a sheep brain. Yet the existence of the consciousness was an empirical fact, wasn’t it? River was conscious of herself as a person, an entity, as more than the sum of processes going on in her brain. Could all that really only be the result of systemic chaos?
“You’re doing good work,” Fred had tried to reassure River when she brought her frustrations to the scientist. She kissed her, a quick peck on the cheek. “Just keep on going; you’ll think of something. It’s a difficult question.”
Indeed, it was. What was the spark of consciousness, the magic of thought, the essence which could not be translated into pure mathematics? “Is it the soul?” River had asked once, still unsure how she felt about invoking such an un-empirical entity.
But Fred had shaken her head. “I don’t have a soul, remember? I’m still conscious, although I suppose couldn’t prove that to you. And what about someone in a coma, or who is braindead? They’re not conscious, but they still have a soul.”
So River continued doing research, kept on developing her matrices, assuming for the time being that the mechanists were right, and there was nothing more to consciousness. There was no choice, really. Any other option would be unscientific.
If that were the case, it was clear that not every statement that was true (whatever that meant) would be intelligible within the conceptual matrix. Gödel’s theorems proved that much. So she integrated within the matrices a submatrix—a “reality matrix” as Fred nicknamed it—that networked the various intelligible statements. The reality matrix wouldn’t be particularly powerful—about on par with first-order arithmetic—but as long as it was consistent the overall matrix could function.
It was the portions of the matrices which rested outside the reality matrix that fascinated River. By necessity they manifested all sort of paradoxes: inconsistencies, infinite regresses, self-references. It was this chaotic core that would allow the reality matrix to cohere.
When she told Fred about her success the scientist had only laughed. “So it is necessary to have chaos inside to give birth to a dancing star,” she said.
"Do you think," Becky faltered once, in a whisper, "do you think it could melt away, miss? Hadn't we better be quick?" And she hastily crammed her sandwich into her mouth. If it was only a dream, kitchen manners would be overlooked.
“Londinium bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down,” a woman was single in an unfamiliar accent, her voice softly lilting. “Londinium bridge is falling down, my fair lady.”
“Excuse me,” River asked, “I am late for the war?”
The woman turned towards River, looked at her. She had long black hair, and was dressed in a long red dress. A black shawl was wrapped around her shoulders.
“The war is over, fought hundreds of years ago. The toy soldiers have fallen to the ground, rusted away.”
“Oh,” said River, and turned away.
“Shh!” said the woman, as if River had been about to say something. She grabbed River’s arm. “Hush now. There will be new soldiers. The toymaker is preparing them even now.”
“The humans fought against each other for centuries,” interjected another voice, and River turned to see a woman in a red, blue, and brown bodysuit. “It made them weak, able to be conquered from without. Only the vessel of the Shadowmen stood between their race and their destruction. Now there have risen among men those with the will to take dominion over their brethren. A single people are unified under a rule of iron.”
River looked at the woman. “Fred?”
Only it wasn’t Fred. She looked like Fred, but this creature was not Fred. Her hair was blue where Fred’s was brown. Her lips, eyes, and forehead were blue. Her demeanor was not Fred’s.
“The child always returns to where the father buried the hatchet,” the dark-haired woman said. “Here comes a candle to light you to bed; here comes a chopper—”
"It was there when I wakened, miss--the blanket," she whispered excitedly. "It was as real as it was last night."
River awoke to voices emanating from the study.
“If you go through with this, Timothy, you’ll be going to be killing the goose that laid the golden eggs,” she could make out Fred saying. “It’s largely her research that made your project possible.”
“You have no idea how difficult it has been securing suitable subjects,” a male voice replies. “The requirements are—”
“I am well aware of the requirements,” Fred snapped. “You have this entire station at your disposal. Use one of the others.”
Then Fred must have terminated the communication, for River did not hear the male reply.
Moments later, Fred entered the bedroom. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully, as if she hadn’t just been in a disagreement with the mysterious man. “Slept well?”
“I had the strangest dream,” River answered, getting out of bed and changing out of her nightshirt and into a sleek blue dress. “There was this weird woman who looked just like you, only she had blue hair. She kept talking about how humans were weak and the species should be united.”
Fred froze, her face suddenly ashen. “Was there anything else in your dream?” she asked, a new note of desperation creeping into her voice.
River nodded. “There was a dark-haired woman with a strange accent who kept on talking about toys and nursery rhymes.” She sung to Fred “Londinium bridge,” recreating the strange woman’s accent
“Cockney,” Fred answered. “One of the dialects from an island called Britain on Earth-that-Was. It still can be heard today, on some of the border planets. Dyton Colony, mainly.”
They didn’t talk about the dream ever again, but for the rest of that day Fred kept casting uneasy glances in River’s direction.
“Aiyā huàile!” River cursed under her breath. A particularly insidious paradox in one of the upper meta-levels had managed to infect the reality matrix, destabilizing it completely. She had tried every way she could think of to fix the problem, and none of them were working.
She sighed and logged onto the cortex. Maybe if she tried something else and came back to it, the answer would be more clear. She keyed in a search code for her own name.
TAM, RIVER
Student, Academy Station, Regina
Well, that was boring. She keyed in her special access codes—there had to be more information than that.
TAM, RIVER
ACCESS CODE NOT ACCEPTED
RESTRICTED ACCESS
[CLASSIFICATION LEVEL ZHEN DAOMEI]
That was weird. Her own file was classified beyond her access? She keyed in a search for Fred instead.
BURKLE, WINIFRED
Instructor in Cognitive Linguistics, Academy Station, Regina
Previous Employment
Head of Research and Development, Wolfram & Hart Los Angeles
Associate, Angel Investigations
Librarian, Los Angeles Public Library
Education
Bachelor of Arts: University of Texas, 1993
Master of Science: University of California, 1994
Doctor of Philosophy: University of Londinium, 2511
She paused, then ran another search.
KENDALL, HARMONY
Supernatural Porphyriac [See Renfield File BA0072.]
Personal Assistant to the Vice President in Charge of Special Projects, Blue Sun Industries
Previous Employment
Special Client Coordinator, Weyland-Yutari
Occult Systems Analyst, Cyberdine Systems
Vampiric Affairs Manager, Quicksilver Ltd.
Special Consultant on the Supernatural, SRT International
Public Relations Liaison, U.S. Robots
Personal Assistant to the Chief Executive Officer, Wolfram & Hart Los Angeles
Education
Sunnydale High School, 1999
River stared at her source box. Not only had Fred and Harmony both been on Earth-that-Was, the Alliance knew about it. She had even been able to access the information with her access code—a code which wouldn’t permit access to her own file. She thought for a moment, then ran another search.
ILLYRIA
ACCESS CODE NOT ACCEPTED
RESTRICTED ACCESS
[CLASSIFICATION LEVEL TIAN XIAODE]
What had happened on Earth-that-Was so many years ago? What did Fred and Harmony both know that the Alliance wanted kept hidden?
"It is true that the first thought was mine, Sahib," he said; "though it was naught but a fancy. I am fond of this child; we are both lonely. It is her way to relate her visions to her secret friends. Being sad one night, I lay close to the open skylight and listened. The vision she related told what this miserable room might be if it had comforts in it. She seemed to see it as she talked, and she grew cheered and warmed as she spoke. Then she came to this fancy; and the next day, the Sahib being ill and wretched, I told him of the thing to amuse him. It seemed then but a dream, but it pleased the Sahib. To hear of the child's doings gave him entertainment. He became interested in her and asked questions. At last he began to please himself with the thought of making her visions real things."
River soon found that the matrices with the destabilized reality submatrices displayed a rather odd and inexplicable property: when run at the same time as matrices with coherent reality submatrices, even ones fashioned from radically different linguistic networks, they would produce synchronistic results. There was no possible scientific explanation for the phenomenon, except for the increasingly implausible move of scratching it up to pure chance; what they were dealing with, if it were real, was some type of acausal connecting principle.
“A coin can fall on the same side a hundred times in a row,” Fred had said, scrunching up her nose. “But when it happens, it’s a pretty good sign you might want to check if you’re a character in a play.”
They had certainly run the simulations enough time for the results to be statistically significant, then had checked their math and ran the simulations all over again. There was little doubt that whatever they were dealing with, it was real.
“This just might be the greatest scientific break-through in the last three hundred years,” Fred said, but River had thought that she didn’t exactly look very happy.
Dearest Simon,
Life at the Academy continues to go well.
River was worried. Fred had changed in the past weeks, after since they had discovered the synchronous effects in the destabilized matrices. The fun-loving young woman was gone, as was the piānzhí de jiūcháyuán. Instead, they had been replaced with a women who was withdrawn and sullen, who spoke only when spoken to and little even then, who avoided looking River in the eyes whenever possible.
This weak we are learning about the French revolution back on Earth-that-Was. It’s very interesting, although it’s heard to study because the French spoke a ded language.
River didn’t know what was going on, why things were suddenly so different. She only knew that her instincts told her that something was coming, and it wasn’t going to be good.
Did you have a good time at the D'arbanville's ball this year? From what I’ve heard it was much duller than last year.
Your loving sister,
River
"Are you learning me by heart, little Sara?" he said, stroking her hair.
"No," she answered. "I know you by heart. You are inside my heart." And they put their arms round each other and kissed as if they would never let each other go.
Conditions in the destabilized matrix mirrored concepts in the stabilized matrix, although there was no possible explanation as to how the destabilized matrix could create such conditions. An already destabilized matrix could be caused to destabilize even further simply by running it concurrently with another.
Could she stabilize the reality matrix by running it concurrently with a stable matrix that contained the right conditions to counteract the imbalance? River didn’t know, but it was something she could find out. She could make attempts, construct hypotheses, test them. Like a scientist.
“River,” Fred said, entering the study. “I need you for something in the living room.”
“In a little bit,” River said, watching intently as the simulation ran. “I’m in the middle of something.” A cascade of concept-regressions was forming, and—
Fred disconnected the source box. “Now.”
River nodded, uncertainly, then got up and made her way out of the study. Already standing in the living room was a middle-aged man in a lab coat just like the one Fred wore for her classes—and was wearing right then.
“River,” Fred said, “I’d like you to meet Dr. Mathias.”
To: Burkle, W. [winifred.burkle%fac.acad.reg]
From: Mathias, T. [timothy.mathias%clas.reg]
CC: Valerio, L. [li.valerio%parl.ld]
Subject 56743, River Tam, has escaped. Due to normal Pandora Project procedures, she is both insane and extremely dangerous. Should she attempt to contact you, please report to us immediately.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-30 06:53 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-30 01:05 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-01 06:17 am (UTC)I spotted one or two typos, which I can point out if you're interested.
Gina
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-01 12:27 pm (UTC)I'd love for you to point out any errors you might have caught. Thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-04 05:28 pm (UTC)River had never been kissed before, but the mechanics of kissing were lodged into the massive amount of knowledge she had amassed in her fifteen, wedged between the spectral resonance of a crystalline converter and the recommended process for juggling man-eating goslings.
I assume you meant 'in her fifteen years' here. Juggling man-eating goslings is an interesting image though.
Then reached her hands around River's back and unclasped her bra.
I'm not sure if this was deliberate, for stylistic effect, but shouldn't there be a 'she' after 'Then'?
The way that Fred
Again, style, or something missing?
River inhaled sharply as the scientists cold hands went under her skirt, gently pulling her panties down to her knees.
Missing apostrophe in 'scientist's'
I assume the typos in River's last email to Simon were deliberate.
Gina
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-08 03:45 am (UTC)And yes, River's mistakes were deliberate.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-01 07:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-01 12:20 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-01 08:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-01 09:03 pm (UTC)I'm glad you enjoyed this. Thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-01 09:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-01 09:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-20 06:34 pm (UTC)This is really, really all sorts of brilliant, and not at all what I would have expected for the pairing. Wow! I like the way you've incorporated the other sources--the quotes from A Little Princess work perfectly--and though I don't always understand the science, what little I do is fascinating in context.
Thank you so much!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-21 04:44 pm (UTC)When I began to think about the sign-ups, though, I realized that although I love Fred as a character, I view her primarily through my own het male gaze (unlike many if not most of the Jossverse female characters, with whom I usually identify with pretty strongly)--i.e. as any geekboy's fantasy. Thus I ship her with Wesley.
When I began to think of her from other perspectives, however, this scenario jumped to mind. I have to admit that I began to work on your challenge even before it was actually assigned to me, so excited was I about it. (Looking at who had volunteered to write what, I was fairly certain Cady would ultimately assign the request to me, and she did.)
The pseudoscience is almost completely made up, of course, although I did spend way too many hours in front of Wikipedia trying to make it sound plausible.
So I am so glad it worked for you! Thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-05 07:24 pm (UTC)And the sex. And the spanking. And the River-doing-a-special-project for Fred and aaaah, *pervs*
This fic did not inspire Crewecest thoughts in my head, because that would be wrong. Plus, I'd already had them.(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-06 08:10 pm (UTC)The Crewecest didn't quite seem quite so obvious the last time I read the book, before entering fandom. I wonder what changed.
I'm glad you liked it. Thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-11 01:31 pm (UTC)The characters feel very in character, and the story really drew me in.
> Above the fireplace in the living room, there was a framed print of what looked like a woodcut of some many-tentacled beast. River asked about it once. “That’s Illyria,” Fred had explained. “It’s the thing that took my soul.”
Love that. And what a fascinating idea, bringing back Fred-as-Fred but also without a soul. And I love the double meaning of the story title.
I've never been much of a Harmony fan, but you did really interesting stuff with her being around, so you get serious points for that.
You would bring in Dru, too, wouldn't you? :)
> Supernatural Porphyriac
Rock! (And Renfield, too :) )
---
typos:
> All of her life things had come easy to her,
Should that be "easily"?
> “How have you been doing, River?” she asked in that detached, clinical tone that teachers so often took. “You’re classes aren’t giving you too much difficulty, I trust?”
Should be "your"
> “No!” River surprised herself with the intensity with which she said the word. She wouldn’t be allowed to take “Don’t take me out of the class,” she added, weakly. “I’m learning so much.”
Part of a sentence is missing.
> HArmony paused, then took a step closer.
capitalization
> An already destabilized matrix could be caused to destabilize even further simply by running it concurrently with another
missing a period
> River didn’t know, but it was something she could find.
Should that be "find out" rather than "find"?
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-09 10:14 pm (UTC)I'm glad this worked for you. Writing Fred-without-a-soul was a double-edged sword; I was constantly afraid I was writing her too OOC, so I'm especially happy it worked as an exploration of her character.
Of course I would bring Dru in.
Thanks for the feedback, and especially for catching my mistakes.