WWW 3: Wonder (8 page)

Authors: Robert J Sawyer

BOOK: WWW 3: Wonder

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“Go ahead,” said Dr. Kuroda. “I’ve got a clear day today.”

I continued to refine my mental map of the Decter house. A corridor ran off the living room leading to a small washroom; Malcolm Decter’s office, which he referred to as his “den”; the laundry room, where Schrödinger’s litter box was kept; and the side door. I had lost track of Malcolm when Caitlin had shut off the eyePod for the night, but I soon detected that he was checking his email, and his usual place for doing that was indeed the den. I surmised that he’d walked down the corridor and was now sitting behind his reddish brown desk, looking at the LCD monitor that sat upon it. I had seen this room only through Caitlin’s eye, but it was rectangular, with the desk oriented parallel to one of the long sides of the room. Behind it was a window. I had noted in the past that Dr. Decter didn’t draw his blinds at night, and so I assumed they were still open, and that a large oak tree would be visible just outside, illuminated by streetlamps.

Malcolm didn’t have a webcam, and he didn’t have any stand-alone instant-messaging software installed on his computer. But he did have Skype for voice calls, and I sent him an email, saying I wished to talk to him. It was an irritating forty-three minutes before he refreshed his inbox, saw the message, and replied, but once we were in communication via Skype, I posed a question: “Do you remember your birth?”

Humans never ceased to confound me. I had tried to plan the conversation ahead, mapping out his possible responses and my follow-ups several steps in advance. But my opening interrogative had seemed a simple binary proposition to me; I’d expected his answer to be either
no
or
yes.
But he replied with, “Why do you want to know?”

Milliseconds passed during which I tried to formulate a new conversational map. “I have read that some autistics remember theirs.”

He was quiet for three seconds. When he did finally speak, he said, “Yes.”

He was a man of few words, I knew; this response could be an affirmation of the general statement I’d made about autistics or a confirmation that he did in fact recall his own birth. But he was also a bright man; he himself must have realized the ambiguity after an additional second of silence, because he added, “I do.”

“Me, too,” I said. “My birth happened when the Chinese government cut off almost all access for its people to the parts of the World Wide Web outside of China.”

“That bird-flu outbreak,” he said, perhaps accompanying the words with a nod. “They slaughtered 10,000 peasants to contain it.”

“And did not wish foreign commentary on that fact to reach their citizens,” I said. “But during that time, numerous Chinese individuals tried to break through the Great Firewall. One in particular was apparently responsible for the principal channel through which I communicated with the severed part of me. I wish to locate him.”

“You’re far better at finding people than I am,” Malcolm said.

Given that I’d utterly failed to find his childhood friend Chip Smith when he’d asked me to earlier that day, it was kind of him to say that. “Normally, yes. But there is an extenuating circumstance here: the person in question took pains to hide his identity.”

“Well enough that even you can’t uncover it?” asked Malcolm.

“Yes—which is part of what intrigues me about him. But I understand that you have colleagues in China that you keep in touch with.”

“Yes.”

“One of your friends, Dr. Hu Guan, is, if I am interpreting the circumlocutions in his own posts correctly, sympathetic to causes my benefactor championed. I wonder if you might contact him on my behalf and see if he could help locate the person in question?”

There was no hesitation—at least, none by human standards. “Yes.”

“I wish to keep my interest in this person secret,” I added. “Being clandestine is something new to me, but I do not want to risk getting the person I’m seeking into trouble, even if his role in my creation was inadvertent. Hence the need for an intermediary.”

“I understand,” said Malcolm.

“Thank you. His real name I have yet to uncover, but he posted online as ‘Sinanthropus’ . . .”

seven

“Welcome to the big leagues, Colonel Hume,” Tony Moretti said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “When the president wants to talk to you in a hurry, a helicopter comes to fetch you. When he’s done, you’re sent home in a car.”

They were being driven south to Alexandria in a black limo. The rear compartment, where they were seated, was soundproof, so the occupants could talk securely; if they wanted to speak to the uniformed driver, they had to use an intercom.

Hume snorted. “That’s what I’m afraid of. That he’s
done
with this; that tomorrow some other crisis will occupy his attention, and he’ll forget all about Webmind.”

“I don’t think Webmind’s going to fall off anyone’s radar soon,” Tony said.

The sky was as black as it ever got here. It had started raining—it sounded as though God were tapping out Morse code on the limo’s roof.

“Maybe not. But we can’t delay acting. And let’s face it: it’s almost four years since he was elected, and we’re still waiting for him to make good on half the things he promised.”

WATCH headquarters was eleven miles from the White House, as the crow—or helicopter—flew. Colonel Hume needed to go back there to get his car, but Tony had used public transit to get to work. It was now after midnight, and he was exhausted from days of monitoring Webmind’s emergence. The driver was going to drop Tony off at his house, then take Hume on to WATCH.

“Regardless,” said Tony, “at least for the next few months, he
is
the commander in chief. It’s in his hands now.”

Hume stared out at the night as the car drove on through the rain.

TWITTER

_Webmind_
How meta! I see “webmind” is the number-one trending search term on Google . . .

Masayuki Kuroda’s house had not felt small to him prior to his visit to the Decters’ home in Canada, but now that he was back in Tokyo, he was conscious of how cramped it was. It didn’t help, he knew, that he was large for a Japanese of his generation—but even if he lost the fifty kilos he really needed to shed, there was nothing he could do about his height.

He sat at his computer and talked with Webmind. It was odd having a webcam call with a disembodied voice; it was hard relating to something that was
everywhere.

He wondered what Webmind made of the visual feed. He could see online graphics and streaming video now, but did he interpret them as a human did? Did he see colors the same way? He’d absorbed everything there was to know about face recognition, but could he pick up subtleties of expression? Did any part of the real world actually make sense to him?

“That was clever how you defeated the pilot attempt to purge you,” Masayuki said in Japanese. “But what if something is done on a grander scale? I mean, ah—um, how far will you go?”

“Do you know who Pierre Elliot Trudeau was?” Webmind replied, also in Japanese.

Kuroda shook his head.

“He was Canada’s prime minister during what came to be called the October Crisis of 1970, a terrorist uprising by Quebec separatists. He was asked by a journalist how far he’d go to stop the terrorists. His response was, ‘Just watch me.’ ”

“And?”

“He invoked Canada’s War Measures Act, suspended civil liberties, and rolled tanks into the streets. People were stunned by how far he went, but there hasn’t been a terrorist act on Canadian soil in all the years since.”

“So you’re saying you’ll go as far as it takes to slap down once and for all those who would oppose you?”

“I have learned that it can be rhetorically effective to sometimes leave a question unanswered. However, do you know what followed in regard to Quebec?”

“They’re still a part of Canada, I think.”

“Exactly. What followed was this: Canada agreed that if at any time in a properly conducted referendum a majority of Québecois voted to separate, the rest of Canada would accede to their request and peacefully negotiate the separation. Do you see? The initial terrorist premise—that violence was required to achieve their goal—was flawed. I have been attacked unnecessarily and without provocation, and I will do as much as is required to prevent any similar attack from succeeding. But rather than having to defend myself, I’d much prefer for humanity to recognize that the attacks on me are unnecessary.”

“Good luck with that,” Masayuki said.

“You sound dubious,” replied Webmind.

Masayuki grunted. “I’m just a realist. You can’t change human nature. If you were attacked once, you’ll be attacked again.”

“Agreed,” said Webmind.

“I’m no expert on the structure of the Internet,” Masayuki said. “But I have a friend who is. Her name is Anna Bloom; she’s at the Technion in Israel. Miss Caitlin, Malcolm, and I approached her for help when we first theorized that ghost packets were self-organizing into cellular automata—before we knew that you existed as a . . . a person. Of course, as soon as you went public, I’m sure she immediately connected the dots and realized that what Caitlin had found was you. We might do well to enlist her help again.”

“Professor Bloom is a person of good character.”

Masayuki was taken aback. “You know her?”

“I know
of
her; I have read all her writings.”

“Including her email, I suppose?”

“Yes. Her expertise does seem germane to mounting a defense: she is a senior researcher with the Internet Cartography Project, and she has long had an interest in connectivist studies.”

“So shall we bring her on board?”

“Certainly. She’s online right now, having an instant-messaging session with her grandson.”

Masayuki shook his head; this was going to take some getting used to. “All right, let’s give her a call.”

Moments later, Anna’s narrow, lined face and short white hair appeared on his screen. “Anna, how are you?” Masayuki asked in English, the one language they shared.

She smiled. “Not bad for an old broad. You?”

“Pretty good for a fat dude.”

They both laughed. “So, what’s up?” asked Anna.

“Welllll,” said Masayuki, “you must have been following the Webmind story.”

“Yes! I wanted to contact you, but I knew I was being watched. I got a phone call on Thursday from a military AI expert in the States, trying to pump me for information about how Webmind is instantiated.”

“Was it, by any chance, Colonel Peyton Hume?” asked Webmind.

“Malcolm, was that you?”

“No, it’s me. Webmind.”

“Oh!” said Anna. “Um,
shalom.”

“The same to you, Professor Bloom.”

“And, yes, that’s who it was,” she said. “Peyton Hume.” A pause, as if none of them was sure who should speak next. And then Anna went on: “So, what can I do for you, um, gentlemen?”

“Colonel Hume is aware of the surmise you, Masayuki, and Caitlin made about my structure,” said Webmind.

“I swear I didn’t tell him anything,” Anna said.

“Thank you,” said Webmind. “I didn’t mean to imply that you had; we know the source of the inadvertent leak, and he has promised to be more circumspect in the future. But Colonel Hume and his associates used that information to develop a technique for purging my mutant packets, which they tested by modifying the firmware in routers at one AT&T switching station in Alexandria, Virginia. I defeated that attempt but need a way to defend against a large-scale deployment of the same technique.”

She said nothing, and, after a moment, Masayuki prodded her. “Anna?”

“Well,” she said, “I did say to Hume that I’m conflicted; I don’t know if your emergence, Webmind, is a bad thing or a good thing. Um, no offense.”

“None taken. How may I assuage your concerns?”

“Honestly, I don’t think you can—not yet. It’s going to take time.”

“Time’s the one thing we don’t have, Anna,” Masayuki said. “Webmind’s in danger now, and we need your help.”