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  Caitlin thought about this. She’d once asked Kuroda why he had chosen to put his implant behind her left retina instead of her right one. He’d joked it was because Steve Austin’s left eye had been the bionic one—which had sent her to Google to find out what he meant.

  “But we don’t do that,” Kuroda went on. “We don’t give students eye patches—because the brain responds exactly the same way regardless of which one of the two eyes is receiving the input. That’s because your left optic nerve does not feed just into your left hemisphere, nor does your right optic nerve feed just into your right hemisphere. Rather, each optic nerve splits in two in the center of the brain at the optic chiasma in what’s called a partial decussation. Half the signal from the left eye goes to the left hemisphere, and the other half goes to the right. It’s an awfully complex bit of wiring, and evolution doesn’t do things that are complex unless they confer a survival advantage.”

  He paused, as if waiting for Caitlin or her mom to chime in with what that advantage might be. After a moment, he went on, his voice triumphant: “And that advantage must be consciousness, must be the unification of sensory input to produce a single perspective, a single point of view.”

  “But I was born blind,” said Caitlin, letting her fingers rest. “And I’ve been conscious my whole life without the sharing of sight across both hemispheres.”

  “True, but your brain was hardwired for it regardless. I’ve seen your MRIs, remember—you’ve got a perfectly normal brain; the only flaw you were born with was in your retinas. Anyway,” he said, and she resumed typing, “evolution went out of its way to make sure we’ve only got one perspective, one point of view. A bird can’t fly both left and right at the same time; a person can’t think about both this and that at the same time. Consciousness is singular. It’s cogito ergo sum, I think, therefore I am; it’s not cogitamus ergo sumus—it’s not we think, therefore we are. Even in cases of a severed corpus callosum, the brain still retains its single perspective; again, evolution has gone out of its way to make sure that unitary consciousness survives even something as traumatic as cutting the major communications trunk between the hemispheres.”

  Caitlin’s mom looked at her but said nothing. Dr. Kuroda went on. “And it’s not just that a directional perspective gives rise to your own consciousness; it also gives rise to your awareness that others have consciousness, too. It’s what’s called theory of mind: the recognition that other people have beliefs, desires, and intentions of their own, and that those might be different from yours. And, again, that comes from you having a single point of view.”

  “How so?” asked Caitlin’s mom.

  “It’s only because you have a limited perspective that you understand that the person facing you must be seeing something completely different from what you’re seeing as you face him. Are you in Miss Caitlin’s room now?”

  “Yes,” said her mom.

  “Well, if we were facing each other there, you might be seeing the window and the outside world, and I might be seeing the door and the hallway beyond—not only are we seeing completely different things, but you understand that we are. Your limited perspective lets you know that my point of view is different. And there are those terms again: ‘perspective, ’ ‘point of view’! Thought and vision are inexorably connected in our brains.”

  “But what about blind people?” asked Caitlin, taking another break from typing.

  “Again, you don’t actually need the vision, just the neural infrastructure geared for a single point of view.” He paused. “Look, if having eyes in the back of our heads really was an improvement, we’d have them. Mutants with extra eyes are born periodically today, and probably have been throughout vertebrate history—and if that had conferred a survival advantage, the mutation would have spread. But it didn’t. Having one point of view—having consciousness and being able to understand that what the predator sees is different from what you see—trumps even being able to see things approaching you from behind.”

  Caitlin was wrestling with the implications of this, but it was her mother who got it first. “And Webmind sees through Caitlin’s eye, right? Caitlin is his window on our world.”

  Caitlin found herself looking down, pleased but a tad embarrassed that the conversation had suddenly come around to her, and—

  And she saw what Webmind had written at the end of her transcript of Kuroda’s comments, glowing blue: You really did uplift me. You gave me the perspective and point of view and focus I needed to become truly conscious. Without you, I wouldn’t exist.

  Caitlin looked up and allowed herself a warm, satisfied smile. “Go me!” she said.

  thirteen

  “What the hell happened?” demanded Tony Moretti. He was standing at the side of the WATCH mission-control room again. Peyton Hume was next to him, somewhat higher up on the sloping floor; although he was shorter than Tony, they were now seeing eye to eye.

  Shel Halleck was back at his workstation in the third row. “I’m not sure,” he called out. “There was a sudden surge in traffic associated with the AI, and then it just froze. And Caitlin Decter—or someone in her house—kept sending it IMs saying it should ‘break the links.’ ”

  “Why?” asked Tony.

  “I’m not sure,” Shel said again.

  “I’m getting tired of hearing that,” Tony snapped. In fact, he was getting tired, period.

  “There seem to be limits to its processing capacity,” Peyton Hume offered. “That suggests at least some models of how it might be composed—and eliminates some other ones. In fact…”

  “Yes?” said Tony.

  “Well,” the colonel said, “remember what the Chinese did last month? I don’t mean the slaughter; I mean how they tried to keep word about it from getting out. They cut off almost all communication with the outside world for several days, including the Internet. Perhaps it’s not a coincidence that the cleaving then reunification of so large a part of the Internet preceded the emergence of this entity. That suggests there’s a critical threshold of components required to keep it going—and that at least some of them are in China.”

  “All right,” said Tony. “It’s a lead, anyway. Shel, Aiesha, let’s find out precisely where the damned thing resides. If the president does give the kill order, I want us to be ready to implement it at once.”

  Shoshana stared in astonishment across the little dome-shaped island until Hobo had disappeared from view.

  The back of her head still hurt. She patted it again to see if the bleeding had stopped; it hadn’t. Hobo was much stronger than she, and an angry ape was not to be taken lightly. But she loved him and cared about him and was worried about him, and he’d never hurt her—or anyone—before.

  She had her cell phone with her, and could call Dr. Marcuse if need be. And if Hobo did come chasing after her, all she had to do was dive into the circular moat around the island; Hobo couldn’t swim.

  She started walking, but rather than crossing the island, as Hobo had done, she strode along its perimeter, keeping close to the water in case she needed to escape. He’d gone right past the gazebo at the top of the island mound—she’d seen that much. He could be on the ground, or he could have shinnied up one of the palm trees; he didn’t do that often, though.

  She continued on for another dozen paces—and there he was, sitting on his scrawny rump, leaning his back against the trio of rolled-up stone scrolls at the base of the Lawgiver statue.

  Hobo, she signed. He looked at her, said nothing, then looked away.

  Which meant she couldn’t talk to him. She clapped her hands together—he wasn’t deaf, after all, even if he used a language devised for those who were. He turned his head to look at the source of the sound.

  Hobo, she signed again. Are you okay? Can I help?

  He made no reply.

  She stepped closer. Please, Hobo. Worried about you.

  Suddenly he sat up straight, and Sho, startled by the movement, felt her own back tense. And then, all at onc
e, he was in motion, a blur of black fur. She pulled back a half pace, but Hobo was not going out but up, clambering up the eight-foot-tall statue of the Lawgiver, until he was high on the faux orangutan’s shoulders, hooting and panting at the sun.

  Sign language was a funny thing. When Shoshana signed with Dr. Marcuse, she mentally heard the words in his normal deep speaking voice. Hobo had no normal speaking voice. That was another bogus thing about the Planet of the Apes films—the notion that it was merely a lack of intelligence, rather than a structural deficiency in the larynx, that prevented apes from articulating. And the wild shaking of his fist at the sky he was doing right now wasn’t really a sign. But, still, somehow, Shoshana thought she heard the voice of Roddy McDowall, the actor who had played Caesar in last night’s film, furiously shouting, “And that day is upon you NOW!”

  She clapped her hands again, but he refused to look down, refused to listen. She tried for a full minute, then headed back to the drawbridge, hoisting it once she had crossed. She then returned to the white bungalow.

  In the interim, Dr. Marcuse had been joined by Dillon Fontana, who was doing his Ph.D. thesis on ape hybridization. Dillon was thin, had blond hair and a wispy beard, and, as always, was wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt.

  “Hobo just yanked my ponytail,” Shoshana announced.

  Marcuse was seated in the one comfortable chair in the room, reading a printout. He lowered it, and said, “He always does that.”

  “No,” said Shoshana. “He gently tugs it. But this time he pulled hard.”

  “Well,” said Marcuse, “it can’t have been that hard—not by his standards. If he’d wanted to, he could have torn it right out of your head.”

  “He came damn near,” she said, and she turned around, inviting them to look.

  Dr. Marcuse didn’t bother to get his bulk out of the overstuffed chair, but Dillon—who, she knew, would take any excuse to get close to her—came over and peered at her scalp. “Ouch!” he said.

  “Exactly!”

  “Did you tell him he was misbehaving?” Marcuse asked. “You know you have to discipline him immediately, or he won’t connect the punishment with what he’s done that was wrong.”

  “He wouldn’t even talk to me,” Shoshana said.

  Dr. Marcuse struggled to get to his feet, succeeding on the second try. “Let’s go,” he said, dropping the printout onto the chair. The three of them headed outside. They crossed the wide lawn behind the bungalow, lowered the drawbridge again, and walked onto the little island. “Where is he?” asked Dillon.

  Shoshana scanned around. He wasn’t atop the Lawgiver anymore.

  “There,” said Dillon, indicating with a movement of his head. He was crouching near the base of one of the palm trees.

  Sho took the scrunchie out of her hair and shook out her ponytail. They began walking toward him. He had to know they were here—Dr. Marcuse could not cross the little drawbridge without it making a lot of noise. Still, it was a few moments before Hobo looked their way, and as soon as he did, he charged toward them.

  Stop, Shoshana signed, and “Stop!” she shouted.

  But he didn’t, and, as he closed the distance, it became clear he wasn’t running toward them generally but rather was very specifically heading for Dillon.

  Dillon stood his ground for a half second, then turned tail and ran. He dived into the moat, sending up a great splash, and swam quickly over to the other side.

  Once Dillon was off the island, Hobo gave up his pursuit. He turned briefly to face Shoshana and bared his teeth but didn’t move toward her.

  Harl Marcuse—all three-hundred-and-something-pounds of him—was intimidating to primates of all types. He stared directly at Hobo and repeatedly and emphatically made the no sign: the index and middle fingers snapping against the thumb.

  Hobo didn’t sign anything in return, and he soon took off again, fleeing to the far side of the island. Rather than following him, Marcuse huffed and puffed his way up to the gazebo, with Shoshana in tow. He lifted the latch—one that Hobo had no trouble operating—and opened the screen door.

  Inside, on the easel, was a new painting.

  It was not a picture of Shoshana. The hair was yellow, not brown, and there was some hair on the bottom of the head as well as the top. The single eye—it was, as always, a profile—was brown, not blue.

  Hobo had never bothered to paint Shoshana’s clothes. She tended to wear blues and greens, but he had always simply portrayed her head without a body.

  But this time he had made an attempt at the clothing, putting a large black square beneath the head.

  It was Dillon, in one of his black T-shirts. Shoshana had given in to her curiosity once, asking him whether he had more than one; he had six, he’d said, all identical.

  No arms depended from the shirt. There were, however, two orange lines—the same orange he’d used for Dillon’s face—at the bottom of the frame. Each of the lines had a forty-five-degree bend in its middle, and—

  —and one end of each line was daubed with red paint, and there were splotches of red on either side of the black square representing the shirt.

  Shoshana looked over at Marcuse to see if he was interpreting it the same way she was—but there really could be no mistaking what Hobo had depicted: he’d painted Dillon with his arms ripped off.

  “The artist,” said Dr. Marcuse, “has entered his Angry period.”

  fourteen

  With the crisis apparently over, Dr. Kuroda had said good-bye and gone back to bed. Caitlin and her mother were settling in to spend more time with Webmind when the doorbell rang. Back in Texas, the rule had been that Caitlin didn’t answer the door unless she was expecting someone. Out of habit, her mother started to get up, but Caitlin smiled, and said, “I can do it, you know.” She headed down the stairs, a curious Schrödinger tagging along. It was Caitlin’s first time using the peephole, and—

  Holy cow!

  It looked like Bashira, but her face was distorted, like the reflection Caitlin had seen of herself in the back of the spoon. “Bash?” she called out tentatively.

  “It’s me,” came the muffled reply. Caitlin opened the door and—

  Ah, that was a relief! Bashira looked entirely normal. She was wearing a blue headscarf today, and was holding a multicolored box.

  “Happy birthday, babe!” Bashira said.

  “Oh, my God!” said Caitlin. She reached for it and for the first time understood what the expression “heavier than it looks” meant; it weighed a ton. “Come in, come in.”

  Bashira did so and immediately began taking off her shoes—which was, Caitlin had discovered to her embarrassment, a Canadian custom; she’d blithely entered people’s houses without removing hers several times before someone had gently set her straight.

  Caitlin’s mom had appeared at the top of the stairs. “Hello, Bashira.”

  “Hi, Dr. Decter. Hope you don’t mind me stopping by. I brought Cait a present.”

  Caitlin was torn. She looked up at her mom, wondering what to do about Webmind. But her mother said, “That’s fine, Bashira. Caitlin, don’t worry—I’ll, um, look after things up here.”

  Caitlin smiled. “Okay.” She could have led Bashira into the living room, but her mother would have been able to hear them there; instead, they headed down to the basement. It wasn’t the most comfortable place—bare cement floor, bare walls with insulation showing, an old TV, a couple of worktables, and two comfortable swivel chairs her father had—ahem—borrowed from the Perimeter Institute. Kuroda had worked down here while he’d been staying with them.

  Caitlin put the gift package on one of the tables.

  “Go ahead,” Bashira said. “Open it.”

  She did. It took several seconds for her to figure out what she was seeing: a boxed set of hardcovers of the Harry Potter novels. “These are,” Bashira announced, “like, the best books ever. You said you’d never read them, and now that you’re learning to read normal printed books, these are
the ones to start with.” She pointed at the spine of the first one. “And these are the Canadian editions—none of that Sorcerer’s Stone crap for us.”

  Caitlin hugged Bashira. “Thank you! But—but they must have cost a lot of money.”

  “Hey,” said Bashira, sitting down on one of the swivel chairs, “your parents were paying me to help you get around school when you couldn’t see, you know. I’m sure your mom would be pleased that I’m stimulating the economy.”

  Caitlin sat as well, facing her. She was still getting used to Bashira’s appearance. It was funny, she knew: she was looking at her as if Bash had been the one who’d changed. “So, is your dad at PI today, too?” Caitlin asked.

  “Totally,” said Bashira. “He wouldn’t miss a moment with Professor Hawking.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She imitated his mechanical voice. “Even—people—who—claim—every thing—is—predestined—look—before—they—cross—the—road.”

  “Cool!” said Caitlin. “I’d love to meet him.”

  “Well, he’s here for a month; I’m sure you’ll get your chance. And, yes, my dear, ‘Caitlin Hawking’ does have a nice ring to it.”

  “Har har,” said Caitlin. “He’s practically British royalty; he probably can’t marry outside the Anglican Church.”

  Bash smiled. “I guess. You Christians all look alike to us.”

  “I’m not Christian,” said Caitlin.

  “You’re—you’re not? What are you?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  “Well, what are your parents?”

  “My mom’s a Unitarian, and my dad’s a Jew.”

  Bashira’s eyebrows shot up. “He is?” She’d heard that tone before: You’re Jewish? I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that…