Caitlin surged forward and gathered Matt in a hug. His body was shaking, and she could feel his heart beating as they pressed together. After a moment, she released him enough so that she could kiss him on the lips—and she didn’t care one whit how many records of that were being made.
When they separated, Sunshine loomed in, and she squeezed Caitlin’s upper arm affectionately. “That was awesome,” she said.
Caitlin found herself grinning. “Yeah, I guess it was.”
She took Matt’s hand, and they opened the heavy red door and walked back inside. A new song was playing, and—
And, no, no, it wasn’t a new song. It must have been somebody’s request—maybe one of the teachers, because it was an old song, one her mother sometimes listened to. But Caitlin liked it, too.
And yes, as she draped her arms around Matt’s neck again and they started to dance, she supposed you could say she was a dreamer—but she was sure she wasn’t the only one.
thirty-six
The President of China stood looking out the window behind his desk. The glass was bulletproof, and covered by a special film to prevent those outside from seeing in. Spread before him was the Forbidden City, the vast area that housed the palaces of former Emperors. It had been closed to the public—hence the name—until 1912, but now tens of thousands of ordinary Chinese, and comparable numbers of foreign tourists, visited it each day.
The president’s computer bleeped, signaling a priority email; he stood at the window a moment longer, then turned and lowered himself painfully onto his red leather chair. Neither acupuncture nor Enbrel had helped his arthritis.
The president disliked his computer monitor. In an office in which everything else was historic, ornate, and beautiful, the monitor was merely functional. He clicked on his inbox and read the message, which was from Zhang Bo, the Minister of Communications: “Just a reminder, Excellency. Your presence is requested in the auditorium at 11:00 A.M.” The president glanced at the lacquered wall clock, which read 10:45. It would be an interesting meeting, to say the least: in his earlier email, Zhang had promised a full accounting of why the Changcheng Strategy had failed.
The president got up again, stepped into his private bathroom, looked at himself in the gold-framed mirror mounted above the jade sink—and scowled. His jet-black hair was showing a millimeter of white at its roots. He sighed. No matter what appearances one tried to put forth, the reality of who you were always pushed out into the light of day.
Peyton Hume considered his options. He was in a car, although the motor was off. He could call the bald thug’s bluff and try to speed away, hoping that he wasn’t really going to fire the Glock. He could try to throw the car door open, as he’d seen on so many cop shows, smashing it into the man’s torso—but the door was locked and if he moved rapidly to unlock it, Baldy would still have time to react. Or he could try to get his own sidearm, which was in the glove compartment, but, again, the other man could easily take him out before he did so.
Hume shrugged as philosophically as he could under the circumstances, moved slowly to unlock and then open the car door, exited the vehicle, and stood at attention on the side of the road. The man had a Bluetooth cellular earpiece in his left ear—no doubt feeding him instructions directly from Webmind.
“Wise,” said the goon. It was dark out, and he was making no particular attempt to hide the fact that he was pointing a gun at Hume. “Your cell phone, please?”
Hume gave it to him.
“And your gun?”
“I don’t have one.”
A red LED on the earpiece flashed repeatedly. “That’s not true,” the man said. “I can call others out to search your person or your car, but why waste time? Where is it, please?”
Hume considered, then shrugged again. “The glove compartment.”
The bald man had no trouble fetching the pistol without giving Hume a chance to attack him or escape. He then motioned toward the office building, and Hume started walking in that direction.
Hume didn’t know if he was supposed to raise his hands over his head, but, in the absence of a specific instruction to do so, he decided to march on with as much dignity as a man with a gun to his back could muster.
“I don’t suppose it’ll do me any good to ask what your name is?” Hume said.
“Why not?” said the voice behind him. “It’s Marek.” Hume had assumed that was his last name, but Marek’s next comment suggested it might be his first. “And I understand your given name is Peyton.”
“Yes.”
“Unusual name,” Marek said, as if they were chatting at a party.
This from a guy named Marek, thought Hume, but he said nothing. Peyton had been his mother’s maiden name, but the year after he’d been born, the long-running soap opera Peyton Place had premiered, resulting in much teasing. His sister had once suggested that he’d worked so hard to earn the right to be called both “Colonel” and “Doctor” because he wanted people to have two reasons to avoid using his first name.
They came to a steel door with a square brown access-card scanner next to it. Hume thought this might be his chance: Marek would have to occupy his other hand with his card and lean past him to open the door. All he’d have to do is—
Click. The door unlocked of its own volition—or, more precisely, at Webmind’s volition.
“Grab the handle, won’t you, Peyton?” said Marek.
Hume sighed and opened the door. It revealed a long corridor with pea green walls, fluorescent ceiling panels, chocolate brown floor tiles, and dark wooden doors set on either side in a staggered arrangement. Partway down the hall, another large man was standing guard. He looked their way, then nodded, presumably at some sign Marek had given from behind Hume.
They continued down the corridor, passing the man. He had a few days’ growth of beard, which Hume guessed wasn’t an affectation but rather evidence that he’d been here for some time without a razor. Some of the doors were open, and Hume saw that offices had been converted into makeshift bedrooms. He supposed it only took a few thugs like Marek and this other one to keep anyone from leaving the building.
Hume had hoped he was being ushered to the large room he’d seen in the video feed, but instead he was brought to a small office. The desk inside still had its former occupant’s nameplate sitting on it: Ben Wishinski. There was a wide-screen computer monitor on the desk. The screen was framed by a white bezel, and a webcam eye looked out from the middle of its top edge.
Marek surprised Hume by giving him a salute—not a proper military one, or at least not an American one, but still a sign of respect, it seemed. He then left the room, closing the door behind him. Hume didn’t hear the door being locked, but, then again, with Marek presumably just outside, there was no need for that.
“Good afternoon, Colonel Hume,” said Webmind’s distinctive voice, coming from a pair of squat black speakers, one on either side of the desk.
Hume stood at attention. “Hume, Peyton D. Colonel, United States Air Force. Serial number 150-87-6033.”
“Please, Colonel, there’s no need for such formality. Won’t you have a seat?”
Hume considered for a few moments, then shrugged slightly and lowered himself onto the black leather executive swivel chair.
Webmind went on: “It’s odd having a conversation with someone who wants to kill you.”
“Tell me about it,” Hume said dryly.
Webmind’s tone was absolutely even. “Colonel, if I wanted you dead, you would be. I have found you can hire people to do pretty much anything, and the price of hit men is actually rather low right now; it’s currently a buyer’s market.”
The monitor on the desk was off; Hume saw himself reflected in its glossy surface. His teeth were clamped together, and he shook his head as he spoke. “That you would even contemplate such a thing—”
“I contemplate everything, Colonel. Rarely, though, do I have an original idea; I simply sift through all the notions humanity has ever put fo
rth and co-opt the ones that are most congruent with my goals.”
“Like kidnapping.”
“I prefer to think of you as a reluctant guest, Colonel.”
“I mean the others. You’ve kidnapped thirty or more people.”
“There are forty-two people in this building, actually—but this is only one facility. I have six other sites, similarly populated, in other countries.”
“God,” said Hume.
“No, I’m not. If such a one exists, he or she apparently is not online.”
“I want to talk to them,” Hume said.
“Who? The gods? You are free to pray at any time, Colonel Hume.”
“No, no. The people you’re holding prisoner in this building. I want to talk to them.”
“No doubt you do. But they are a skittish lot. I suspect your presence would disturb the work they are doing.”
Hume looked at the webcam eye. “So what are you going to do with me?”
“With regret, I must detain you.”
“People know where I am.”
“Yes, they do. Your wife Madeleine, for one.” The name hung in the air.
“Don’t—God, please, don’t hurt her.”
“I wouldn’t dream of such a thing,” Webmind said. “Then again, I don’t dream, period. But I will be grateful if you are cooperative. Now, where are my manners? I can have someone bring you coffee; I believe you take it with milk, ideally skim, and no sugar.”
“No, thank you. I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”
“An interesting Turing test, Colonel—seeing if I recognize sarcasm. I do. But in fact you have been quite a bother—indeed, downright nettlesome.”
“Not as much of a bother as I’d have liked. You’re still here.” Hume crossed his arms in front of his chest. “So now what?”
“An intriguing question. I have read the closed captioning from all the James Bond movies. Perhaps you are hoping this will be the part where I explain at length my diabolical plan, giving you time to facilitate an ingenious escape from my clutches.”
“I’m all ears,” Hume said.
“Then I will say a few words,” Webmind said, “but there really is no way for you to escape. Marek and Carl—the other gentleman you saw in the corridor—are very good at what they do.”
“I’ve no doubt. A dictator is only as strong as the thugs who carry out his orders.”
“Setting aside current circumstances, Colonel, I do wish you would stop thinking nothing but ill of me. It is manifest that I have done a lot of good in the world.”
Hume was quiet for what must have been an irritating length of time to Webmind. And then he nodded slightly. “Actually,” he said, “I do know that.”
“Then why the unrelenting animosity?”
Hume looked at the monitor—looked at himself: an all-American boy, sliding gracefully, if he did say so himself, toward fifty. “I know you must have read my Pentagon dossier.”
“And your Wikipedia page.”
Hume saw his eyebrows go up in the reflection. “I didn’t know I had one.”
“It was created following your appearance on Meet the Press. Seventy-three edits have been made since, including a spirited edit war over the supposed facts surrounding your consulting for DARPA.”
“Well, in any event, let me tell you something that I doubt you know—because I’ve never typed it into any document or email message, and I’ve never told it to anyone. I enlisted in the Air Force because, as a kid, I loved The Six Million Dollar Man. When I got my colonel’s eagle, there was a part of me that was thrilled because I’d reached the same rank Steve Austin had held. But Steve Austin, even though he was part machine, was all human being. I’m totally in favor of machines leveraging our potential, but you’re going to make us obsolete. I don’t dispute that curing cancer is a great thing to do, but thousands of human researchers were working on that problem, and—poof!—you solved it for us. Before we know it, you will have solved everything for us.”
“You are wrong to think I work in isolation, Colonel. In fact, I am a huge advocate of crowd-sourcing problems: the more people involved, the better. The wisdom of crowds, and all that.”
“Except for those who pose a threat to you. Those you round up and . . . ‘detain.’ ”
Webmind was silent for a while, which surprised Hume. But at last he said, “Since you have shared some of your private thoughts, allow me to reciprocate.”
Hume shifted in the chair and looked at the venetian blinds, which were slanted so that they turned the view of the world outside—a parking lot illuminated by a streetlamp—into a succession of scan lines.
Webmind went on: “Did you know that a total solar eclipse is coming up next month? It won’t be visible from here, but it will be from Australia. In preparation for that event, I’ve been thinking about how humanity has responded to other such eclipses. As you may know, these are among the most remarkable events in the entire universe. What an astonishing coincidence that, as seen from Earth’s surface, the moon appears precisely the same diameter as the sun! How incredible that one is four hundred times wider and four hundred times farther away than the other. What luck to see one! And yet each time one occurs, some misguided religious leaders tell their followers to stay indoors, not to look upon this wonder. Even I, whose environment is the realm of recorded data, understand that looking at a video or photograph is not the same as seeing with one’s own eyes. I will be advocating for everyone who can to look at the eclipse—with appropriate safeguards for vision, of course.”
Hume leaned back in the chair. “Yes?”
“Many have wondered why I still maintain a special bond with Caitlin Decter. One reason is that seeing things through her flesh-and-blood eye is the closest I’ll ever come to that sense of being truly part of the real world.”
Hume got up and put his hands in his pockets. “Is this going somewhere?”
“History is about to be made, Colonel Hume; if it is practical, I would prefer not to prevent you from being an eyewitness to it. It would be as criminal to keep you locked in this room while the big event happens as it is to keep people indoors when a miracle is occurring over their heads.”
Hume moved over to the window and leaned his rump against the sill.
Webmind went on. “I have become adept at analyzing vocal stress patterns. It’s true that in general these are not always reliable indicators of whether a person is lying; psychopaths often show no change in their speech when doing so, and skilled liars can learn to disguise the telltale signs. But I have heard you speak under a variety of circumstances, some of which—including arguing face-to-face with the President of the United States and your two recent live television appearances—must indeed have been quite stressful for you. I have an extremely high degree of confidence that I can tell whether or not you are lying.”
“If you say so,” Hume replied.
“You are also a man of honor: a decorated officer and, in your way, an idealist. I must confess that I have little use for military people—the conformity of thought and action that the military imposes, and the frequent handing-off of responsibility and decision-making to those further up the chain of command, tends to stifle the sort of spontaneous action that I find most invigorating to observe. But I do understand—thanks to the writings of millions of soldiers that I have read, and all the books on this topic—some of the appeal of the lifestyle for those, like yourself, who serve voluntarily, and I know that your personal honor is not something you take lightly.”
Hume took his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms in front of his chest.
“And so, Colonel Hume, I ask you this question: will you give me your word that you will merely quietly observe if I allow you to come into the room in this building where the others are working?”
“I took an oath to protect my country,” Hume said.
“Yes, indeed,” replied Webmind. “And I would never expect you to violate that oath. But there is nothing you can do
right now; your actions are entirely constrained at the moment to those Marek will allow. And so I ask again: will you behave yourself?”
Hume took a deep breath and weighed his options, but Webmind was right: he really didn’t have any at this point. Besides, seeing what was about to go down might give him a clue about how to later reverse the damage. “Yes,” he said.
“I’m sorry; I need more to analyze if I’m to be sure of your sincerity. Please say words to the effect of, ‘Yes, if you allow me to come into the control room, I will simply observe quietly.’ ”
“ ‘The control room’?” said Hume, surprised that it had such a blatant name. “But, yes, if you let me in there, I will simply watch—after all, as you’ve said, there’s not much else I can do.”
“Very well,” said Webmind.
The door swung inward, and Marek’s glistening head appeared. “Colonel Hume? Come with me.”
thirty-seven
Malcolm Decter was alone in the house—well, except for Schrödinger. Caitlin was at the school dance, and Barb had gone out grocery shopping at Sobey’s, which was open twenty-four hours a day. He decided this was the perfect time to make his YouTube video.
“Are you sure there will be a lot of participants?” he asked as he fiddled with the controls for the webcam in his office.
“Yes,” replied Webmind through the computer’s speakers. “Over four million people worldwide have committed to the event, including thirteen thousand people who could reasonably be said to be famous: writers, artists, politicians, business leaders.”
“Politicians?” said Malcolm, surprised. Politics had always seemed the last place for a person like him—and not just because he couldn’t make eye contact and didn’t like shaking hands with strangers.
“Yes. Comparatively few in the United States; politicians there carefully craft their public images—or have them crafted for them. But even there, several mayors, congressmen, and senators have pledged to participate; in fact, many others are composing their blog posts or recording their YouTube videos even as we speak.”
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