The video was simple: two men sitting side by side on a couch. But the one on the left was oddly attired; my first thought had been that he was wearing the dress uniform of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police—a red jacket with a wide black belt—but as soon as he started speaking, he put that notion to rest: “I’m George Takei,” he said, “and I’m still wearing my Starfleet uniform.”
The other man spoke next, pointing to a highly reflective conical cap he was wearing: “And I’m Brad Altman, and this is a foil cap on my head.”
I saw now, in fact, that the two men were holding hands. “And we’re married,” Takei said, and then he looked at the odd headgear Altman had on, and said, with a deep chuckle, “My husband can be so silly at times.”
Altman spoke again: “This is the first time in history the census is counting marriages like ours.”
And then Takei: “It doesn’t matter whether you have a legal marriage license or not; it only matters if you consider yourself married.”
“Let’s show America how many of us are joined in beautiful, loving marriages,” Altman said. And they went on to explain how to fill out the census form to indicate that.
When they were done, Altman said, “Now, you may ask, why am I wearing this hat?”
And Takei said, “Or why I’m still wearing this Starfleet uniform? It’s to get you to actually listen to this important message.”
I had watched that three days ago, but, like everything, it was always front and center in my mind. I suspected they were correct: if you did have something important to say to people, you should indeed say it in a visually memorable fashion.
Communications Minister Zhang Bo once again made the long march to the president’s desk. This time he had been summoned—and that, at least, meant no interminable wait in the outer office until His Excellency was ready to receive him.
“Webmind is a problem,” said the president, gesturing for Zhang to sit in the ornate chair that faced the cherrywood desk. “Even its name reeks of the West. And the things it says!” He gestured at the printout on his desktop. “It speaks of transparency, of openness, of international ties.” A shake of the head. “It is poisonous.”
Zhang had compiled the summary the president was referring to. “It does show the imprinting effect of being helped into existence by an American.”
“Exactly! And intelligence reports suggest it has spoken to the American president? It has not been in touch with me, but it consults with him.”
Zhang thought it prudent not to point out that anyone could talk to Webmind whenever they pleased, and so he said nothing.
“The last time I invoked the Changcheng Strategy, you exhorted me to drop the Great Firewall as quickly as possible. I acceded to your request and opened up the floodgates once more. But given the statements this Webmind is making, I realize it was a mistake. We need to isolate our people from its influence.”
“But it is part and parcel of the Internet, Your Excellency. And, as I said before, there is a need for the Internet, for the World Wide Web. We rely on them for ecommerce, for banking.”
“You mistake the end for the means, Zhang. Yes, we need those economic capabilities—but we don’t have to use the existing Internet for them. It was madness to superimpose our financial transactions on top of an international, Western-controlled infrastructure.” He pointed to a small lacquered table. On it were three telephone desk sets, one red, one green, and one white, each under a glass bell jar. None had dials or keypads. “Do you know what those are?” the president asked.
“I assume they are the hotlines.”
“Exactly. The red connects directly to the Kremlin; the green to the Kantei; and the white to the White House. They each use their own communication channels, established decades ago: a buried landline to speak to my Russian counterpart, undersea cable to speak to my Japanese one, a dedicated satellite to connect with Washington. They are the template, the proof-of-concept: we can build a new, secure network, unpolluted by Webmind’s presence, for the specific needs we have for international communication. And, for communication within China, we will build a separate new network that we alone control.”
“That might take years,” said Zhang.
“Yes. So, for the interim, we will again strengthen the Great Firewall, isolating our portion of the Web from the rest, and purge whatever remains of that—that thing.”
“Again, Your Excellency, I am not sure this is . . . prudent.”
“Those judgments are mine to make. Your role is simply to advise me of whether what I’ve asked for is technically possible.”
Zhang took a deep breath and considered the matter. “Your Excellency, I live to serve. The bulk of the current Internet was built in the 1960s and 1970s, with copper-wire cabling. Your question is whether China here in the twenty-first century can, with fiber optics and wireless equipment, do better than Americans did half a century ago? And the answer, of course, is yes.”
The president nodded. “Then set your staff to it; draw up the plans. Make it completely different from the Internet: no packets, no routers. Surely there were alternative designs originally considered for the Internet’s architecture. Find out what they were and see if one of them can be adapted to this project.”
Zhang resisted the urge to say he would google the question—the irony, he feared, would not be appreciated—and instead simply replied, “As you wish, Excellency. But, truly, what you’re asking will take years.”
“Let that part take years. But I told you last month that some of my advisors think the Communist Party cannot endure in the face of outside influences—they gave it until 2050, at the outside. Webmind exacerbates that problem; it is a threat to our health, and so we must take immediate and decisive action.”
“Yes, Excellency?”
“Prepare to enact the Changcheng Strategy once more; we will strengthen the Great Firewall.” He pointed again at the printout on the polished desktop. “When infection is rampant, isolation is key.”
sixteen
Caitlin and her mother were up in Caitlin’s bedroom, with its bare cornflower-blue walls. Caitlin was seated, and her mother was standing behind her. On the larger of Caitlin’s two monitors, a Skype video conference window was open. Although Caitlin had never met Shoshana Glick, she was pleased with herself for recognizing her from the YouTube videos; she was actually starting to remember what specific faces looked like. Shoshana’s was narrow and smooth—which meant young!
“Hi, Shoshana,” Caitlin said enthusiastically.
“Hi,” said Shoshana. She indicated a very large man standing behind her. “This is my thesis advisor, Dr. Harl Marcuse.” Caitlin was good at identifying accents; she pegged Shoshana’s as South Carolinian. But she was surprised to hear “Marcuse” spoken out loud by a human; it turned out to be three syllables. When she’d read about him online, JAWS had guessed it as “mark-use.”
“I am here as well,” said Webmind’s synthesized voice.
Shoshana peered at her screen as if expecting to see something other than Caitlin’s bedroom. “Um, ah . . . a pleasure,” she said.
“And this is my mom, Dr. Barbara Decter,” Caitlin said; her mom was standing behind her.
“Barb,” said her mom. “You can call me Barb.”
“And you can call me Sho.”
Webmind seemed to feel left out. “And you may call me Web,” said the disembodied voice.
Caitlin laughed. “I don’t think so.”
Shoshana shook her head. “Sorry. It’s strange seeing the two of you, but not seeing Webmind.”
“Funny you should say that, Sho,” Caitlin said. “That’s the reason we got in touch. Webmind has a very special appearance coming up, and he wants a public face for that and, well, we think Hobo might be the right choice.”
“Why?” asked Sho. “And what’s this about prior contact between Hobo and Webmind?”
“Oh, that,” said Caitlin. “Webmind says you were having some difficulties with Hobo.
He’d become violent, hard to handle, and so on, is that right?”
“Yes,” said Sho, but then she sounded as if she felt a need to defend the primate. “But that’s normal for male chimps as they grow older.”
“But Hobo isn’t just a chimp, is he?” said Caitlin. “He’s a hybrid, right? Half-chimp and half-bonobo?”
“Yes,” said Sho. “The only one in the world, as far as we know.”
Dr. Marcuse spoke; his voice was a deep rumble. Caitlin recognized it as the one that had narrated the YouTube videos she’d seen. “What about this previous contact between Webmind and Hobo?”
“It happened on the evening of October 9 your time,” Webmind said. “You had left a webcam link open so that Hobo could talk at his leisure to the orangutan Virgil at the Feehan Primate Center. While Virgil slept, I overrode the feed from Miami with videos of phrases in American Sign Language, and videos of chimpanzees and bonobos. I explained Hobo’s dual heritage to him, and suggested he could choose between the violence and killing of chimps, or the pacifism and playfulness of bonobos. As you no doubt have observed, he chose the latter.”
“Jesus,” said Marcuse.
“Please forgive me for acting unilaterally,” Webmind said. “But my contact with Hobo was two days before I went public with my existence. The need for him to control his violence seemed pressing, and I thought I could lend a hand—metaphorically, of course.”
“And now you want Hobo’s help?” asked Sho.
“If he is willing,” said Webmind. “He is under no obligation.”
“Why Hobo?” she asked.
“He’s not human,” said Webmind, “which means he had nothing whatsoever to do with the creation of the World Wide Web; no one can say that I am beholden to him for anything. And he has no financial or political interests of his own: he doesn’t hold stock in any company, and he’s not eligible to vote in any election.”
“Wouldn’t a robot body be better?” asked Marcuse. “One of Honda’s Asimo robots, maybe?”
“There would be confusion between me and the machine. I am not a robot, and I don’t wish to be perceived as one; also, the fear would be that if I controlled one robot, I might soon control millions. Hobo is unique, like me: I am the only Webmind; he is the only bonobo-chimpanzee hybrid. No one can confuse Hobo for me, and no one can worry that there will soon be an army of such beings under my command.”
“Why not just computer-generate a human face and show it on a monitor?” asked Marcuse.
“That route, which is a mainstay of science-fiction films, is fraught with problems,” said Webmind. “First, there is, as Caitlin might say, the whole Big Brother thing: an all-seeing, all-knowing face peering out from ubiquitous monitors recalls the similar motif from Orwell’s novel. Second, there is the ‘uncanny valley’ issue: the fact that faces that aren’t quite human creep real humans out. Of course, I could simulate a face perfectly, so that it would be indistinguishable from a video of a real human, but then that would raise concerns that any human expert speaking on my behalf might also be a CGI fabrication.”
“They could be anyway.”
“True. Which brings us to the allied concern over who is the authentic me. There have already been numerous phishing attempts to send bogus emails purportedly from me; I believe I have intercepted them all so far. But when I wish to make a significant speech in public, having the world’s only chimpanzee-bonobo hybrid as my assistant will make the authenticity of the speech manifest.”
“Apes are sensitive animals,” said Marcuse, leaning in. “They need stability and routine in their lives. Besides, how would this work? You want Hobo to talk in sign language on your behalf? But how will you tell him what to say?”
Webmind replied, “According to your Wikipedia entry, Dr. Marcuse, you were born 15 October 1952.”
Caitlin winced as the voice synthesizer mangled the name again, but Marcuse simply said, “Yes, that’s right.”
“Are you a science-fiction fan?”
“Somewhat.”
“Did you ever watch the 1970s’ version of Buck Rogers—the one starring Gil Gerard?”
“And Erin Grey,” said Marcuse at once. “Don’t forget Erin Grey.”
Caitlin had heard that as the man’s name “Aaron,” but she rewrote it in her mind following Marcuse’s next words: “She was the hottest thing on TV back then. Put Charlie’s Angels to shame.”
“Be that as it may,” said Webmind. “Do you remember the first season, and a character called Dr. Theopolis?”
“Was that Buck’s boss?”
“No, that was Dr. Huer. Dr. Theopolis was a computer.”
“Oh, right! That big disk that the robot wore like a giant pendant—what was the robot’s name again?”
“Twiki,” said Webmind.
“Right!” said Marcuse. And then he added something that only made sense to Caitlin because Webmind had now shown her clips of Buck Rogers on YouTube; Twiki often said the same thing: “Bidi-bidi-bidi.”
“Exactly,” said Webmind. “I have found that many people the world over are eager to offer their help to me. I’m sure we could find someone to build a device Hobo could carry around through which I will be able to hear and see and speak. There are times, of course, when my ability to be everywhere at once provides an advantage, but there are other times in which the fact that I am ubiquitous means that I cannot be said to be focused on or giving proper attention to a significant event. And when I address the United Nations next week—”
“You want Hobo to go to New York?” asked Shoshana, incredulously.
“I will pay for the trip,” said Webmind. “I currently have 8.7 million American dollars in my PayPal account; of course, I will cover the expenses of you and Dr. Marcuse traveling as Hobo’s handlers, too. Caitlin and her mother will come to New York, as well; Caitlin has been booked for a TV interview there, and that program is paying for their travel.”
“I’m surprised you want to do any more interviews,” Shoshana said.
“It’s The Daily Show,” said Caitlin. “It’s my favorite.”
“So, what do you think?” asked Webmind.
“We’re a serious research institution,” said Shoshana, “with our own projects and agenda. We can’t just—”
“Yes,” said Marcuse, cutting her off. “We’ll do it.”
Caitlin saw Shoshana swing her chair around. “Really?”
“This institute is chronically underfunded,” Marcuse said. “We’ve had a taste these last few weeks of what a little public attention can do for bringing in donations, but imagine the attention this will bring to Hobo.” A big grin spread across his round face. “And besides, Pinker and the rest who’ve been pooh-poohing our work will plotz.”
seventeen
Dr. Kuroda and his associate, Okawa Hiroshi, spent hours working in their engineering lab at the University of Tokyo, cannibalizing parts originally intended for a second eyePod to build the device Webmind had designed. This time they were incorporating a BlackBerry from the outset instead of adding it later as a clumsy retrofit—Webmind had suggested that, and it made sense; it would make uploading revised firmware into the signal-processing computer much easier if that ever proved necessary.
An American academic on sabbatical here had dubbed Hiroshi and Masayuki, not unkindly, the Laurel and Hardy of the department: Hiroshi was slight of build and had a long face and a curiously wide grin, whereas Masayuki was fat with a round head.
Perhaps, Masayuki thought, the real Hardy had also had a penchant for colorful Hawaiian shirts—but, given that all his films were black-and-white, that fact might have been lost to history. In any event, the comparison was no less flattering than being called the “Sumo Wrestler of Science,” as the Tokyo News had dubbed him in its recent story about his success with Caitlin. And this breakthrough—assuming it worked!—would bring him even more media attention. Still, there was a part of him that wished for the quieter life he’d had before.
He and Hiroshi
continued working throughout the afternoon, and well into the evening; Masayuki downed four liters of Pepsi before they were done. But at last the device was ready.
“Behold the second eyePod,” said Hiroshi.
Masayuki frowned. “We can’t call it that. This one’s not for sight.” He’d gotten quite fond of the term Caitlin had come up with, though, and couldn’t see referring to this new unit just as an outboard spinal-signal-processing pack. No good pun occurred to him in Japanese, but—
Ah hah!
It had been slightly uncomfortable, Masayuki knew, back in the Mike Lazaridis Theatre of Ideas, where the press conference announcing his success with Caitlin had been held. Mr. Lazaridis himself was in attendance, and probably hadn’t been happy when Masayuki had revealed that they called the device the “eyePod”—a play on the name of the biggest competitor for RIM’s product line.
But perhaps this would make amends for that. “I have it!” Masayuki said triumphantly. “We’ll call this one the BackBerry!”
The BackBerry wasn’t the only device Webmind needed built. Fortunately, he was in contact with scientists and engineers—as well as electronics hobbyists—all over the world. He’d posted a description Sunday night Eastern Time of the other contraption he required: a Dr. Theopolis–like disk that Hobo could carry for him. Crowd-sourcing was indeed a great way to get problems solved quickly, and while Caitlin and her family had slept, more than 200 people—many of them in China, Japan, India, and Australia—had contributed to the design of the device, which, because time was short, needed to be made of off-the-shelf parts.
As for actually building it, there was nowhere better than Waterloo—the key vertex of Canada’s Technology Triangle. Eight days ago, when Caitlin had needed some modifications to her eyePod—including adding the ability for Webmind to send text messages to her eye—her father had taken her to RIM, and Tawanda Michaelis, an engineer there, had done the work.
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