“I’ve scoured the Decter girl’s email, blog posts, and so on,” said Aiesha. “And all of her father’s, too. There’s nothing that gives a hint about how Exponential works.”
Tony nodded and looked at Shelton. “What about your end, Shel?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been poring over the data—the encoded human-vision stuff, the links Exponential makes, and so on—looking for anything unusual. I’m sorry, sir. I just don’t have a clue how it works.”
“Colonel Hume?”
“I’ve drawn blanks, too—which means there’s only one logical thing to do.”
“Yes?”
Hume’s blue Air Force jacket was slung over the back of one of Tony’s office chairs, and he’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing his freckled arms. “Ask them. Ask Caitlin Decter. Ask Malcolm Decter. If anybody knows how Exponential is structured and what its physical basis is, it’d be them.”
Tony shook his head firmly. “Colonel, the number-one rule of surveillance is to never let the subjects know they’re being watched.”
“I understand that,” said Hume. “But we’re really running out of time here. You want an answer for the president or not?”
Tony considered for a moment, then: “All right, damn it.” He shook his head. “Why the hell’d they have to move to Canada? We’ll have to brief CSIS, get them to send someone. Aiesha, get Ottawa on the line…”
Eventually, Caitlin crawled into bed, but she found herself unable to get to sleep. In addition to her email, Webmind was now doubtless reading all her LiveJournal entries, and all the comments she’d made in other people’s blogs, and all her newsgroup postings, and everything else she’d ever put online.
She’d once heard her father grumble about “the death of ephemera”—the fact that nothing was ever forgotten anymore, that every ancient offhand remark or intemperate comment was only a Google search away; that so many pictures, including (and this, too, was a concept that she finally was beginning to understand) unflattering ones, were plastered all over Flickr and Facebook; that so much stuff that should have fallen by the wayside hung around permanently.
She had turned off her eyePod, but she found herself reaching for it on the nightstand and turning it back on. It booted up in websight mode, and she lay there, watching the thin yellow lines that indicated Webmind’s subconscious processors at work, new ones constantly popping out of the shimmering background and connecting to—what?
That time she’d gotten into a big flame war on TalkOrigins.org, letting some crazed creationist get the best of her because she’d accidentally said theropod when she’d meant therapsid?
Or that time, four years ago, when she filled her LiveJournal with idiotic love poetry she’d written for Justin Timberlake?
Or maybe that time she’d stupidly gotten into an online chat with that guy who turned out to be a total perv, and she’d been too dumb to recognize it for, like, half a freaking hour?
Her bedroom window was open a couple of inches, letting in the cool autumn air. Back in Texas, Caitlin had usually worn a light teddy to bed; she’d liked the smooth feel. But her bubbeh had sent her blue flannel pajamas when she’d heard Caitlin was moving to Canada, and she had those on now, plus a blanket pulled up to her chin—and yet never in her life had she felt more naked or exposed.
twenty-seven
The gazebo at the center of Hobo’s little island had electrical power, but the cables ran under the moat since Hobo could have shinnied up a pole and brachiated along the wire. The electricity was used to power the observation cameras, plus baseboard heaters and overhead lights in the gazebo, both of which Hobo could turn on or off by hitting big buttons.
Dillon normally handled the electrical work around the Institute, but he couldn’t go out to the island anymore. So Marcuse and Shoshana set up the computer out there: an old tower-case system that had been gathering dust in a closet, plus a nineteen-inch LCD that had several dead pixels; they clamped an ancient Logitech spherical webcam to its top. If Hobo decided to trash the equipment, not much of value would be lost.
They placed the computer on a little table next to Hobo’s easel. The canvas showing the dismembered Dillon had already been taken back to the house, and a fresh canvas was sitting ready and waiting.
Shoshana opened two windows on the monitor, a small one displaying the view from the webcam here, and a large one showing the view from the comparable setup in Virgil’s room in Miami. Virgil had spacious quarters, with three big artificial trees, one of which had an old tire hanging by chains from it. Unlike chimps, orangs were arboreal, and Virgil could swing back and forth from tree to tree if he wished. It was late where Virgil was, but he was still up, and was obviously curious about the new computer at his end. He was staring into the camera, and his face loomed on the monitor.
Shoshana had never actually spoken to Virgil before, but there was no reason not to. Hello, she signed.
Who you? asked Virgil.
Friend of Hobo, Sho replied.
Hobo! Good ape, good ape! Where Hobo?
Sho gestured at the dusky evening behind her. He’s outside. Maybe he’ll come talk to you.
Good, said Virgil, his orange arms moving rapidly. Good, good, good. Hobo nice ape!
Shoshana didn’t reply in ASL, but she did find herself making a sign: she crossed her fingers and looked over at Dr. Marcuse. “If this works,” she said to him, “maybe he’ll be a nice ape again.”
I enjoyed looking at the YouTube video Caitlin had directed me to of the apes Hobo and Virgil communicating via webcam. I immediately began searching for more information on them, and discovered that Hobo seemed to be in trouble: a news story from the San Diego Union-Tribune about his plight had just been uploaded. There was probably more to know than what was in the newspaper article, so I found the Marcuse Institute website, found the email addresses of its staff, and started to dig.
Caitlin said I should choose to value the net happiness of the human race. But I wondered if, perhaps, a slightly wider perspective was in order…
Caitlin found herself feeling trepidation as she sat down in front of her computer Wednesday morning; who knew how much Webmind had changed overnight? She had echoes going through her head of the old SF story about an engineer who had built an advanced computer and asked it, “Is there a God?,” to which the machine had ominously replied, “There is now.” She was relieved that Webmind seemed no different from the way he’d been Tuesday night.
After breakfast, her mother drove her to Howard Miller Secondary School. As had become her habit, her mom had CBC Radio One on in the car. Caitlin was half-listening, but mostly looking out at the world: other cars, houses, trees, and, and, and—
“What’s that? ” she asked, pointing at a rectangular blue thing.
Her mother sounded amused. “It’s a porta-potty.”
She decided to risk a joke. “I guess I really don’t know shit, do I?”
To her relief, her mother laughed.
They came to a red traffic light and stopped. Caitlin looked around, and—
And there! Walking toward them on the perpendicular street! It was—yes, yes! It was Matt!
The light changed, and her mother drove through the intersection. Caitlin turned her head around to look back at him.
“What’s caught your eye now?” her mom asked.
“Oh, nothing,” she said. “It’s just that everything is so beautiful.”
Her mother dropped her at the school’s main entrance, then drove off once Caitlin was inside.
“Hey, Cait!” It was Bashira. She had on a red headscarf today. Bashira put her hand on Caitlin’s elbow, the way she used to when guiding blind Caitlin—but then she pulled the hand away. “Oh, sorry,” she said. “Force of habit.”
“No worries,” said Caitlin, and they headed off to the second floor. Caitlin was surprised to see three men standing outside their classroom door, watching as the students entered. Two were white, and the third was A
sian.
“Caitlin?” said one of the white men.
She’d never seen him before, but she knew the voice. Principal Auerbach.
“Yes, sir?” Bashira found it funny that Caitlin called men “sir,” but it was what people from the South did.
Auerbach waved his hand and—ah, he was motioning for her to follow. She exchanged a look with Bashira, then did so.
“These men would like to have a word with you,” he said, once they were several paces farther down the corridor.
“Yes?”
“My name is LaFontaine,” said the other white man. He had a French Canadian accent and dark brown hair. “Mr. Park here and I are with CSIS.”
Caitlin thought of the primers she’d been working with as she learned to read printed characters. See Sis. See Sis run. Run, Sis, run. “The who in the what now?”
“The Canadian Security Intelligence Service,” LaFontaine replied—but Webmind had beat him to it, sending the same five words to her eye as Braille dots.
“Is that like a spy agency?” Caitlin asked.
“In point of fact, it is a spy agency,” replied LaFontaine. “There’s nothing metaphoric about it.”
Caitlin’s view of the world shifted, and she realized after a moment that that must be what rolling one’s eyes did. LaFontaine clearly thought he was brighter than she was; in her experience, people who thought that were usually wrong.
“Let’s go somewhere private,” Mr. Auerbach said. He led them farther down the corridor, and, just as “O Canada” was starting, they came to a door labeled “History Office.” He opened it, and they all stepped into the empty room. It contained a few large desks pushed against the walls, a long central worktable, and a window half-covered by brown curtains.
“Thank you, Mr. Auerbach,” Park said over the music. “We’ll let you know when we’re done.”
“I’m really not sure I should leave,” the principal said.
“As I said in your office,” Park replied, “this is a national-security matter, on a need-to-know basis—and you, with all due respect, sir, do not need to know.” He pulled a device out of his pocket. “We are recording everything—for Ms. Decter’s protection, and our own. Now, if you’ll excuse us?”
Caitlin thought Mr. Auerbach didn’t look happy about being dismissed, but after a moment he nodded and left.
They waited for the anthem to come to an end, although Caitlin noted that these Federal agents weren’t above sitting down while it was playing. Once it was over, and the morning announcements had begun, LaFontaine said, “Now, Ms. Decter, we’d like to ask you some questions about Webmind.”
Caitlin’s heart practically leapt through her chest, and Webmind sent the quite-apt phrase Holy shit to her eye. But she tried to sound nonchalant. “Who?”
“Come now, Ms. Decter,” LaFontaine said. “Mr. Park and I have already had a long day—we got the very first flight from Ottawa to Toronto this morning, and then had to drive the hour-plus to get here from Pearson. Let’s not play games, shall we? We are aware of Webmind’s existence, and your involvement with it, and we’d like to ask you some questions about it.”
Find out what they know first, Webmind sent.
Caitlin nodded. “Well, sure,” she said. “But—I’m confused. You think Webmind is… who? Me?”
“Don’t play dumb, Ms. Decter,” said LaFontaine. “We know it’s an emergent intelligence on the World Wide Web, and we know you know that much. We’d like to hear what else you know about it. About how it’s physically embodied, for instance. About what part of the Web’s hardware it exists on, and—”
“I have no idea,” said Caitlin.
Park spoke up. “Ms. Decter, I spent the flight from Ottawa reading a dossier on you. I know about your interest in math and computers. There’s simply no way we’re going to believe that you haven’t already explored this question to your satisfaction. Indeed, you presumably had to have some sense of what was going on to become involved with Webmind in the first place.”
Caitlin narrowed her eyes. “Why do you want to know?”
“I know you’re registered for SETI@home, Ms. Decter, isn’t that right?” said LaFontaine.
“Yes.”
“Well,” he asked, “do you know what the international protocols for events following the detection of an alien radio signal call for?”
“Not offhand.”
“They call for the radio frequencies that alien signals are being detected on to be isolated, and cleared from human use, so that the signals won’t be drowned out.” He lifted the corners of his mouth. “Our directive is to do the same thing for Webmind: make sure that whatever resources it requires for its continued existence are protected. We want to ensure that nothing interferes with it.”
“Well, if—” Caitlin began, but suddenly the Braille words He’s lying popped in front of her vision.
Caitlin was so startled, she said, “How do you know?”
LaFontaine made some reply, but she ignored him, concentrating on the words Webmind was now sending to her: Voice-stress analysis of his speech and freeze-frame analysis of his micro-expressions.
She shook her head in wonder. Just another skill Webmind had effortlessly picked up along the way.
“I don’t know anything about Webmind’s physical makeup,” Caitlin said.
“Come, Ms. Decter,” said LaFontaine. “We’re here to help Webmind. Now, please: which specific servers does Webmind, or its source code, reside on?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ms. Decter, it really would be best—for you and for it—if you cooperated.”
“Look, I’m an…”
She stopped herself, but LaFontaine correctly guessed what she’d been about to say. “An American citizen? Yes, you are. Meaning you’re not a Canadian. Your rights are rather limited here, Ms. Decter. And I understand your mother is trying to get a permit to work in this country. I also understand that your father’s permit is temporary, and subject to revocation. We really would be grateful for your full cooperation.”
“That was a mistake,” Caitlin said, her tone even. “Threatening my parents. Threatening their livelihoods.”
“Dr. LaFontaine is just trying to underscore the gravity of this situation,” Park said.
“Doctor, is it?” said Caitlin. Webmind must have been intrigued, too, because he sent to her eye: Found: he’s a computer scientist, employed by CSIS specifically to deal with Web-based terrorism.
Terrorism! Caitlin thought, deeply offended. But what she said was, “Is it even legal for you to be talking to me? I’m sixteen. Shouldn’t you be talking to my parents?”
“It’s perfectly legal, and, as you saw, your principal knows we’re here.”
Caitlin looked at the two men. “I’m not trying to be difficult,” she said. “But I really can’t answer your questions.”
“Can’t, or won’t?” said LaFontaine.
“Look, I have a class right now—and it’s my favorite. I’d really like to get going.”
“As Mr. Park said, there are national-security concerns here. Indeed, there are international security concerns. You really need to see the larger picture.”
Caitlin thought about the photo of Earth from space that she’d shown Webmind recently. “Oh, I am,” she said. “And I know you’re not trying to protect Webmind.”
“Our only interest is in its safety.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Caitlin. “And, anyway, this isn’t about American security, or Canadian security, or Western security. Webmind is a gift to the entire human race. And I’m not going to let anyone pervert it, or subvert it, or divert it, or any kind of vert it.”
The two men glanced at each other. “We really do need your help, Ms. Decter,” said LaFontaine. “And I think perhaps you misunderstood me a moment ago. I wasn’t threatening your parents. I was saying we could assist them—get their paperwork taken care of.”
Lying again, sent Webmind.
“Well, tha
t would be nice,” Caitlin said, “but as I’ve already said, I simply don’t know the answers to your questions, and so”—she swallowed, and tried to keep her voice steady—“and so, I’m going to leave now, if that’s all right with the two of you.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Decter,” said LaFontaine, “but we do need this information. We really must insist.”
Caitlin wondered if they were carrying guns. She thought about flinging open the door and making a run for it—but, damn it all, she was a lousy runner; you didn’t get much practice at that when you were blind. So, instead, very softly, she said, “Phantom?”—her original name for the emerging intelligence. “Help.” And then she spoke up, loudly and clearly: “Gentlemen, I am not going to miss my favorite class. I am going to walk out that door and get on with my day.”
“That’s not how it’s going to go down,” said LaFontaine, as both men stepped in front of the door to the hall.
“I beg to differ,” said Caitlin, as Braille dots started flashing in front of her vision. “You, Doctor LaFontaine, called your boss a tête du merde in email last week; I believe an accurate translation is ‘shithead.’ You have a mistress named Veronica Styles, although you like to call her ‘Pussywillow,’ who lives at 1433 Bank Street in Ottawa. You and she both have tickets on Air Canada next week—flight 163 to Vancouver, flight 544 from there to Las Vegas.”
She turned her head, politely looking at the person she was speaking to, just as her mother had taught her to when she was blind. “And you, Mr. Park, have accounts at Penthouse.com, Twistys.com, and Brazzers.com; you have a particular fondness for pictures of women urinating in public. You claimed when you applied to CSIS to be a graduate of Mc-Master University, but, in fact, you never completed your course work. Oh, and in an email last week you referred to Dr. LaFontaine here as a ‘second-rate, goose-stepping martinet.’ Now, unless you’d like these revelations to go public—or perhaps some equally juicy ones about the prime minister—you will step away from that door, and you will allow me to walk out of here.”
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