WWW: Wonder Page 7

  “I want to talk to you about Webmind.”

  He half expected the curtain to be drawn a little and a face to peek out at him, but doubtless Chase had security cameras. “No parking on my street after midnight, man. Get a ticket. Pull into the driveway.”

  Hume did that, got out of the car, and headed through the chill night air to the door; mercifully, the rain had stopped. By the time he was on the stoop, Chase had opened the door and was waiting for him.

  “You packing?” asked Chase.

  Hume did have a gun, but he’d left it in the glove compartment. “No.”

  “Don’t move.”

  The man turned and looked at a monitor in the hallway, which was showing an infrared scan indeed revealing that he wasn’t carrying a weapon.

  Chase stood aside and gestured toward the living room. “In.”

  One wall was covered with shelving units displaying vintage computing equipment, much of which had been obsolete even before Chase was born: a plastic Digi-Comp I, a mail-order Altair 8800, a Novation CAT acoustic coupler, an Osborne 1, a KayPro 2, an Apple ][, a first-generation IBM PC and a PCjr with the original Chiclet keyboard, a TRS-80 Model 1 and a Model 100, an original Palm Pilot, an Apple Lisa and a 128K Mac, and more. The second wall had something Hume hadn’t seen for decades although there was a time when countless computing facilities had displayed it: a giant line-printer printout on tractor-feed paper of a black-and-white photo of Raquel Welch, made entirely of ASCII characters; this one had been neatly framed.

  Another wall had a long workbench, with a dozen LCD monitors on it, and four ergonomic keyboards spaced at regular intervals. In front of it was a wheeled office chair on a long, clear plastic mat; Chase could slide along, stopping at whichever screen he wished.

  Chase was tall, black, and heroin-addict thin, with long dreadlocks. There was a gold ring through his right eyebrow and a series of silver loops going down the curve of his left ear.

  “You ever kill anyone?” Chase asked. He had a Jamaican accent.

  Hume raised his eyebrows. “Yes. In Iraq.”

  “That’s a bad war, man.”

  “I didn’t come here to discuss politics,” said Hume.

  “Maybe Webmind stop all the wars,” said Chase.

  “Maybe humanity should be able to determine its own destiny,” said Hume.

  “And you don’t think we be able do that much longer, so?”

  “Yes,” said Hume.

  Chase nodded. “You right, maybe. Beer?”

  “Thanks, no. I’ve got a long drive home.”

  Hume knew that Chase was twenty-four. He’d come to the States three years ago—the required paperwork magically appearing; more proof that he was one of the best hackers in the business. In other circumstances, someone else might have gone off the reservation to hire a former black-ops sniper, but for this, a digital assassin was called for.

  “So, what you want from me?” said Chase.

  “Webmind must be stopped,” Hume said. “But the government is going to waste too much time deciding what to do, so it has to be done by guys like you.”

  “There ain’t no guys like me, flyboy,” said Chase.

  Hume frowned but said nothing.

  “You don’t say to Einstein, ‘Guys like you.’ I’m Mozart; I’m Michael Jordan.”

  “Which is why I came to you,” Hume said. “The public doesn’t know this, but Webmind is instantiated as cellular automata; each cell consists of a mutant packet with a TTL counter that never decrements to zero. What’s needed is a virus that can find and delete those packets. Write me that code.”

  “Why I wanna do that, man?”

  Hume knew the only answer that would matter. “For the cred.” Hacking into a bank was so last millennium. Compromising military systems had been done, quite literally, to death. But this! No one had ever taken out an AI before. To be the one who’d managed that would ensure immortality—a name, or at least a pseudonym, that would live forever.

  “Need more,” said Chase.

  Hume frowned. “Money? I don’t have—”

  “Not money, man.” He waved at the row of monitors. “I need money, I take money.”

  “What then?”

  “Wanna see WATCH—see what you guys got.”

  “I can’t possibly—”

  “Too bad. Cuz you right: you need me.”

  Hume thought for a moment, then: “Deal.”

  Chase nodded. “Gimme seventy-two hours. Sky gonna fall on Webmind.”

  nine

  Even though it was a Saturday morning, Caitlin’s father had already left for the Perimeter Institute. Stephen Hawking was visiting; he did not adjust to different time zones easily and wasn’t one to take weekends off, so everyone who wanted to work with him had to get in early.

  Caitlin and her mother were eating breakfast in the kitchen: Cheerios and orange juice for Caitlin; toast, marmalade, and coffee for her mom. The smell of coffee made Caitlin think of Matt, who seemed to be fueled by the stuff. And on that topic . . .

  “I can’t spend the rest of my life a prisoner in this house, you know,” Caitlin said. She was learning the tricks of the sighted: she pretended to study the way her Cheerios floated on the sea of milk but was really watching her mother out of the corner of her eye, gauging her reaction.

  “We have to be careful, dear. After what happened at school—”

  “That was three days ago,” Caitlin said, in a tone that conveyed the time unit might as well have been years. “If those CSIS agents had wanted to come after me again, they would’ve already—they’d simply knock on our door.”

  Caitlin used her spoon to submerge some Cheerios and watched as they bobbed back to the surface. Her mother was quiet for a time, perhaps considering. “Where do you want to go?”

  “Just down to Timmy’s.” She felt all Canadian-like, calling the Tim Hortons donut chain by the nickname the locals used.

  “No, no, you can’t go out alone.”

  “I don’t mean by myself. I mean, you know, with, um, Matt.” Caitlin didn’t want to spell it out for her mom, but she could hardly have a relationship with him if they were confined to her house and always chaperoned.

  “I just don’t want anything to happen to you, baby,” her mom said.

  Caitlin looked full on at her mother now. “For Pete’s sake, Mom, I’m in constant contact with Webmind; he can keep an eye on me. Or, um, my eye will let him keep up with me. Or whatever.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “It’s not far, and I’ll bring you some Timbits when I come back.” She smiled triumphantly. “It’s a win-win scenario.”

  Her mother returned the smile. “All right, dear. But do be careful.”

  TWITTER

  _Webmind_ Question: where are the movies that portray artificial intelligence as beneficent, reliable, and kind?

  Malcolm Decter sat listening to Stephen Hawking. It was amusing that Webmind had a more-human-sounding voice than the great physicist did. Hawking had long refused to upgrade his speech synthesizer; that voice was part of his identity, he said—although he did wish it had a British accent.

  It was also intriguing watching Hawking give a lecture. He had to laboriously write his talk in advance, and then just sit motionless in his wheelchair while his computer played it back for his audience. Malcolm wasn’t much given to thinking about the mental states of neurotypicals, but, then again, Hawking surely wasn’t typical—and neither was Webmind. Malcolm rather suspected the great physicist was doing something similar to what Webmind did: letting his mind wander off to a million other places while he waited for people to digest what he was saying.

  Behind Hawking, here in the Mike Lazaridis Theatre of Ideas, were three giant blackboards with equations related to loop quantum gravity scrawled on them by whoever had been in here last. Hawking was denied many things, not the least of which were the physicists’ primary tools of blackboards and napkin backs. He had almost no physical interaction with t
he world and had to conceptualize everything in his mind. Malcolm couldn’t relate—but he suspected Webmind could.

  A break finally came in Hawking’s lecture, and the audience of physicists erupted into spirited conversation. “Yes, but what about spinfoam?” “That part about the Immirzi parameter was brilliant!” “Well, there goes my approach!”

  Malcolm fished his BlackBerry out of his pocket and checked his email; he’d never been obsessive about that before, but he wanted to be sure that Barb and Caitlin were okay, and—

  Ah, there was an answer from Hu Guan. He opened it.

  Malcolm, so good to hear from you!

  I do know the person about whom you ask. Sadly, he is no longer at liberty. It took me a while to locate him. I’d expected him to be in prison, but he’s actually hospitalized; the poor fellow’s back has been broken.

  Since the authorities now have him, I suppose there’s no further danger to him in mentioning his real name. It is Wong Wai-Jeng, formerly in technical support at the paleontology museum here in Beijing. It will perhaps be a comfort to him to know that his brave efforts were noticed half a world away.

  For a second, Malcolm thought about forwarding the message to Webmind, but there was no need for that. Webmind read his email—he read everybody’s email—and so he already knew what Zhang had said, and presumably whatever he wanted to do with this Sinanthropus fellow was under way.

  Amir Hameed was sitting next to Malcolm. He gestured at the stage. “So, what do you think?”

  Malcolm put his BlackBerry away. “It’s a whole new world,” he said.

  Caitlin’s mom had gone up to her office, leaving Caitlin downstairs, walking around the living room. Just looking at things was fascinating to her, and it seemed every time she examined something she’d seen before, she was able to make out new details: seams where pieces of wood joined on the bookcases; a slight discoloration of the beige wall where the previous owners had hung a painting; a manufacturer’s name embossed but not colored on the television remote. And she was learning what different textures looked like: the leather of the couch; the smooth metal legs of the glass coffee table; the roughness of her father’s sweater, draped over the back of the easy chair.

  She walked to the opposite side of the room and looked down the long corridor that led to the washroom, and her father’s den, and the utility room, and the side door of the house. It was a nice straight corridor, with nothing on the floor, and it had a dark brown carpet running its length—the shade was about the same as Caitlin’s hair.

  She’d visited other kids’ homes often enough when she was younger, and had frequently heard the same thing: parents telling their children to stop running in the house; her friend Stacy had gotten in trouble for that all the time.

  But Caitlin’s parents had never said that to her. Of course not: she had to walk slowly, deliberately; oh, she hadn’t had to use her white cane in the old house back in Austin, or in this house after the first few days, but she certainly couldn’t go running about. Her parents were meticulous about not leaving shoes or other things anywhere Caitlin might trip over them, but Schrödinger—or his predecessor, Mr. Mistoffelees—could have been anywhere, and the last thing Caitlin had wanted to do was injure herself or her cat.

  But now she could see! And now that she could see—maybe she could run!

  What the heck, she thought. “Webmind?”

  Yes? flashed in her vision.

  “I’m going to try running down this hallway—so don’t do what you just did. Don’t pop any words into my vision, okay?”

  There was no response—which, after a moment, she realized was simply Webmind doing as she’d asked. Suppressing a grin, she locked her gaze on the white door at the end of the corridor, with its square window looking out on the gap between their house and the Hegerats’ next door. And she—

  She walked.

  Damn it, she knew what running was—when you were running, both feet left the ground. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it, even though there were no obstacles, and she was sure Schrödinger was upstairs with her mother. She tried, she really tried, leaning her torso forward, but—

  But she just couldn’t. A lifetime of being afraid of tripping and falling had taken its toll. She passed the bathroom walking; she passed her dad’s office, its door open, walking briskly; she passed the utility room, actually striding—but she never ran, and when she reached the side door, she slapped the palm of her hand against the painted wood, and muttered, “Fail.”

  Just then, the front doorbell rang—meaning Matt had arrived. She really, really, really wanted to run up the corridor, through the living room, and over to the entryway, but even with that carrot, all she managed was a fast walking.

  Still, when she opened the door and saw him smiling, all thoughts that she was made out of fail vanished. She hugged him and gave him a kiss. After saying good-bye to her mom, who came downstairs to see Matt, they headed out into the brisk autumn morning. There’d already been a little snow in Waterloo, but it had all melted. The leaves on the trees were wonderful colors that Caitlin wasn’t sure what to call: she was good now with basic color names but not yet proficient at intermediate shades.

  She suddenly realized that she was having a feeling she’d never had before. Without looking back, as she and Matt walked down the street, she was sure her mother was watching them from the open front door, arms probably crossed in front of her chest.

  Perhaps Matt had the same sense—or perhaps he’d looked back at some point and confirmed it—but it wasn’t until after they’d turned the corner and were out of sight of the house that he reached over and touched Caitlin’s hand.

  Caitlin found herself smiling at the tentativeness of the gesture. Matt was presuming nothing: all the affection down in the basement yesterday entitled him to no privileges today. She squeezed his hand firmly, stopped walking, and kissed him on the lips. When they pulled away, she saw he was smiling. They picked up their pace and hurried toward the donut shop.

  As soon as they came in the door, Caitlin was surprised to catch sight of a flash of platinum-blonde hair. It took her a moment to recognize Sunshine Bowen out of context—but here she was, working behind the counter. Another woman was at the cash register; Sunshine was—ah, she was making a sandwich for a customer.

  “Hi, Sunshine!” Caitlin called out.

  Sunshine looked up, startled, but then she smiled. “Caitlin, hi!”

  Matt didn’t say anything, and so Caitlin whispered to him, “Say hi, Matt.”

  He looked astonished, and after a second, Caitlin got it. There were a million social rules at any school, and apparently one of the ones she’d been oblivious to was that guys who looked like Matt didn’t speak to girls as beautiful as Sunshine, even if they were in half their classes together.

  But Matt certainly didn’t want to ignore Caitlin’s request, so he said a soft “Hi.” Its volume seemed calculated so that Caitlin would hear it but Sunshine, perhaps, would not, letting him satisfy propriety on all fronts.

  Caitlin shook her head and moved closer to where Sunshine was standing. “I didn’t know you worked here,” she said.

  “Just on weekends,” Sunshine said. She had been the only other American girl in Caitlin’s classes. “I do five hours on Saturday mornings and four on Sundays.”

  Sunshine was tall, busty, and had long, dyed hair, although here it was pinned up and mostly constrained by a Tim Hortons cap that matched the brown uniform smock she was wearing.

  Matt’s BlackBerry rang; his ringtone was Nickelback’s cover of Neil Young’s “Cinnamon Girl.” He pulled it out, looked at the display, and took the call. The donut shop wasn’t busy, and Caitlin chatted a little more with Sunshine before she became aware of what Matt was saying into his phone: “Oh, no! No, yes, of course . . . Okay, okay. No, I’ll be waiting outside. Right. Yes, bye.”

  He put the BlackBerry back in his pocket. His expression wasn’t quite his deer-caught-in-the-headlights look; it was m
ore . . . something. “What’s wrong?” Caitlin said.

  “My dad just fell down the stairs. It’s nothing serious—just a twisted ankle. Still, my mom’s taking him to the hospital, and she wants me to go with them. She’s going to swing by here and pick me up. Um, I don’t think they’ll want to take the time to drive you home. Could—I’m so sorry, but could you call your mom and have her come get you?”

  Her mom would kill Matt, Caitlin knew, if he let her walk home alone; although Caitlin was getting better at seeing, she was still blind in one eye and could easily be snuck up on. “Of course!” Caitlin said. “Don’t worry.”

  But Sunshine had been listening in. “I’m off in fifteen minutes, Cait. Stay and have a coffee, and I’ll walk you home.”

  Caitlin certainly didn’t want her first outing after her mother let her leave the house to end with her calling for a lift. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

  Caitlin gave Matt a kiss, and she saw Sunshine smile at that. Then she sent Matt out to the parking lot. She hadn’t yet met Mr. and Mrs. Reese, and this hardly seemed the ideal time for it.

  She went over to the cash counter. She didn’t care much for coffee, so she ordered a bottle of Coke, and twenty assorted Timbits, which came in a little yellow box that folded up to look like a house, with a handle protruding from the roof. She found an unoccupied table and sat, munching on a few of the donut holes and sipping her drink, while she waited for Sunshine to get off duty.

  When they did get going (it was actually twenty-one minutes later, Caitlin knew, without having to consult her watch), Sunshine reminded her of when she’d walked Caitlin partway home before, after the disastrous school dance at the end of last month. Caitlin didn’t like Sunshine bringing that up—the way the Hoser had treated Caitlin that night was a bad memory—but then Sunshine went on: “And I thought of a joke today about it,” she said, sounding quite proud of herself. “That night, it was a case of the blonde leading the blind.”