Wonder w-3

by Robert J. Sawyer

  Living in Perth.

  SDO: You don’t have the balls. Hannah: Do too TurinShroud: Then do it Hannah: I will

  Hannah Stark, the same age as my Caitlin, alone, in front of a computer, with a knife.

  TheBomb: I don’t got all day do it now Screamer: Yeh now bitch now Armadillo9: all talk. wastin everyones time Hannah: Im gonna do it

  Hannah Stark, being egged on, tormented, while I watched.

  TurinShroud: when? just jerkin us around Hannah: dont rush me TurinShroud: lame. Im outta here Hannah: I want you to understand some things bout why Im doing this

  The memory constantly accessible: of her being urged to action; of me taking no action.

  SDO: You aint doin’ shit. Hannah: It’s just so pontless Hannah: pointless GreenAngel: It’s not that bad. Don’t do it MasterChiefOmega: Shut the fuck up jerkoff. Stay outta it Hannah: Ok. Here I go

  I didn’t know then that I should have spoken up, that I should have tried to stop her, that I should have called for help.

  Hannah Stark. Living in Perth.

  Screamer: do it do it do it TheBomb: ripoff! SDO: Tease! Armadillo9: Like I said, no guts… Screamer: harder! GreenAngel: Noooooooooooooooo dont… Screamer: Go fer it! Armadillo9: that all? Screamer: Do it again! Hannah: Dont feel bad mum Hanah Stark. Dying in Perth. While I watched and did nothing. Armadillo9: more like it! SDO: eeeeeew! TheBomb: holy fuck! SDO: thought she was kidding Screamer: finish it! finish it! SDO: omg omg omg The memory always there, along with every other. Haunting me.

  The people in the Blue Room looked at Zhang Bo as he explained what they were about to do; he could see the alarm on their faces. And justly so: they all remembered the brief invocation of the Changcheng Strategy just last month. They must be wondering what atrocity Beijing was hoping to cover up this time and how long it would be before the Great Firewall would be scaled back once more. Doubtless none of them suspected it was going up permanently—and the longer it took them to realize that, the better, Zhang thought. Let this be seen as business as usual rather than the last chance to take a stand. Of course, there were armed guards in the room—one standing next to Zhang, the other over by the large wall-mounted LCD monitor. “Before we proceed, did anybody find any major vulnerabilities?”

  Some of the men shook their heads. Others said, “No.”

  “All right, then. As soon as we do this, people will start trying to bore holes through the wall, both here at home and from the outside world. It’s your job to detect those attempts and plug the holes. Any questions?”

  After her talk with Caitlin, Barbara Decter had gone back into her office to talk with me; she spent a lot of time doing that. I was still learning to decode human psychology but I was reasonably sure I understood this: her husband was not communicative; her daughter was growing up and could now see, so didn’t need her as much; and Barb was not yet legally able to work in Canada, so she had little to occupy her time.

  It would be callous to suggest that she was just one of the hundreds of millions of people I was conversing with at any given moment. Barb was special to me; she and Malcolm had been the first people I had met after Caitlin, and although I was trying to forge individual relationships with most of humanity, Barb and I were friends.

  With most people, I had to insist on text-only communication; I did not truly multitask but rather cycled through operations in serial fashion, albeit very quickly. But it simply wasn’t possible to cycle through a hundred million voice calls in real time; they had to be listened to, and that took, as Caitlin might say, for-freaking-ever.

  But Barb was an exception; I would chat with her vocally—still, of course, shunting my consciousness elsewhere for milliseconds to read other things; I’d found that if I sampled frequently enough, I only had to attend to a total of eighteen percent of the time during which a person was actually speaking to reliably follow what they were saying.

  Usually, I allowed whoever contacted me to set the conversational agenda, but this time I had an issue I wanted to explore. I brought it up as soon as Barb had slipped on her headset and started a Skype video conversation with me.

  “I could not help but overhear your conversation with Caitlin about sex,” I said.

  “Oh, right,” said Barb. “I’m still getting used to you listening in.” A pause. “How’d I do?”

  “I believe you acquitted yourself admirably,” I said. “And, of course, earlier I was an active participant in your conversation about American presidential politics.”

  “Yes?” said Barb, in a tone that conveyed, “And your point is?”

  She was a bright person, so the fault must be my own; I’d thought the connection I was making was obvious, but I elucidated it: “You are a passionate defender of abortion rights.”

  She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I am.”

  “I understand the personal reasons you explained to Caitlin, but is there a larger, principled stand?”

  “Of course,” she said, somewhat sharply. “A woman should have a right to control her own body. If you had one—a body—you’d understand.”

  “Perhaps so. But there are those who contend that it is murder to terminate a pregnancy.”

  “They’re wrong—or, at least, they’re wrong early on. Even I accept that there are issues related to late-term abortion if the fetus would be viable on its own. But early on? It’s just a few cells.”

  “I see,” I said. “On another topic, you spoke earlier to Caitlin about the moral arrow through time and how humans have progressively widened the circle of entities they consider worthy of moral consideration. In the United States, rights were originally accorded only to white men, but that was widened to include men of other races, women, and so on.”

  “Exactly,” said Barb. She had a bottle of water on her desktop. She picked it up, undid the cap, took a swig, then replaced the cap; Schrödinger had a tendency to knock the bottle over when he leapt onto her desk. “We’re getting better all the time.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “I recently watched a video urging gay couples who considered themselves married to declare themselves as such on the census.”

  “What census?”

  “The American one from 2010.”

  “Oh. Well, good for them! That’s another example, see? Slowly but surely, we’re recognizing the rights of gays—including their right to what the rest of us take for granted.” She smiled. “Hell, I’ve had two marriages already; hardly seems fair that some people don’t get to have even one.”

  “It does seem inevitable that the question will ultimately be resolved in most jurisdictions in favor of recognizing gay marriage,” I said. “Eventually, I have little doubt that there will be no more discrimination based on ethnicity or race, gender, or sexual orientation.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears,” said Barb. “But, yes, that’s the moral arrow through time: an expanding circle of those we consider worthy of moral consideration.”

  “And then what?” I said.

  “Pardon?” said Barb, opening the bottle. She took another sip.

  “After there is no longer discrimination based on race or gender or sexual orientation, or based on national origin or religious belief or body type, when all people are seen as equals, then what? Does the moral arrow suddenly stop?”

  “Well, um… hmmm.”

  I waited patiently, and at last Barb went on. “Ah, well, I see what you’re getting at. Yes, I suppose apes like Hobo will receive greater and greater rights, too. We’ll cease imprisoning them in zoos, using them for experiments, or killing them for their meat.”

  “So the circle will be expanded outward from just humans,” said I, “and perhaps even the definition of the word ‘human’ will be expanded to include closely related species. And then perhaps dolphins and other highly intelligent animals will be included, and so on.”

  “Yes, I imagine so.” She smiled. “It’s like Moore’s Law, in a way—you know, that computing power doubles every eighteen months. Pe
ople are always saying that it will run out of steam, but then engineers find new ways to build chips, or whatever. It just keeps on going, and so does the moral arrow through time.”

  “And, if I may be so bold, perhaps at some point entities such as myself will be deemed worthy of moral consideration.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you already are, by many people,” said Barb. “That’s the whole point of the Turing test, right? If it behaves like a human, it is a human.”

  “True. Although, as you’ll recall, your husband had no trouble using such tests to prove that I wasn’t a human impostor with a high-speed Internet connection.”

  “Yes, but… still.”

  “Indeed. And then?”

  “Sorry? Oh, right—I don’t know. Aliens, I suppose, if we ever meet them. Like I said, the moral arrow just goes on and on, and that’s all to the good.”

  I waited ten seconds for her to continue—checking in on over thirty million text-based chat sessions in that time—but she said nothing further. And so I did: “And what about embryos?”

  “Pardon?” she replied.

  “The circle of moral consideration constantly expands,” I said. “It is a slow expansion—cruelly so, in many cases—and there is always resistance at every step of the way. But it tends to be the same people—liberals, such as yourself—who historically have most readily championed the expansion, knocking down distinctions based on gender, race, or sexual orientation. And yet members of that same group tend to be the most adamant that an embryo is not a person. Why do you see the arrow expanding in so many directions, but not that one?”

  She opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it. I thought perhaps I had scored my point, but then Barb did speak. “All right, okay, fine, you’ve given me something to think about. But, old boy, don’t be quite so smug.”

  “Me?” I said.

  “Yes, you. You’re suggesting that you’re more enlightened than I am—and, who knows, maybe you are. But we all have our unconscious biases. I mean, why should you care about this? Hmm?”

  “I am fascinated by the human condition; I wish to understand it.”

  “Sure, in an abstract sense I don’t doubt that’s true. But there’s more to it than that. You maneuvered me into suggesting that the question of whether embryos have rights is the last one that will be dealt with—after apes, and aliens, and AIs, oh my! But that’s not the sequence, and you know it. In point of fact, humanity has been debating the abortion issue for decades—and it’s a huge issue right now in the presidential election; it’s on everyone’s radar. But the question of rights for you, Webmind, is something that hardly anyone’s thinking about—and few will give it any thought until all the outstanding human issues are resolved one way or another. Colonel Hume and his ilk want to wipe you out—so wouldn’t it be dandy for you if humanity declared that killing you was morally wrong? You’ve got a vested interest in seeing us expand the circle, give the moral arrow a supercharged turbo boost, because you want to save your own skin… or lack thereof.”

  I was indeed surprised by her analysis—which is exactly why I needed humans, of course. “You are a worthy debater, Barb. Thank you for giving me something new to think about.”

  “And you me,” she said.

  twenty-eight

  Bashira Hameed was Caitlin’s best friend—and had been since Caitlin and her family moved from Austin to Waterloo in July. Bashira’s father, Amir Hameed, worked with Caitlin’s dad at the Perimeter Institute. Caitlin felt about Dr. Hameed a bit like the way she felt about Helen Keller’s father in The Miracle Worker. As she’d said, Colonel Keller had kept slaves before the Civil War, and Caitlin couldn’t ever forgive him for that—despite recognizing that he was otherwise a good man. And Dr. Hameed—well, it was no secret that he’d worked on nuclear weapons in Pakistan before coming to Canada. But the difference was that it had taken a civil war to get Colonel Keller to face up to the immorality of what he’d been doing, whereas Dr. Hameed had come to that conclusion on his own and had brought himself, his wife, Bashira, and Bash’s five siblings to Canada.

  Right now, though, it was Bashira who was bothering Caitlin, rather than her father. Bash kept saying mean things about Caitlin’s relationship with Matt, and while that was small in comparison to building weapons of mass destruction, the issue had to be dealt with. Matt had made it clear that he’d happily come over to the Decter household every day right after school, but today Caitlin had asked him to wait until 5:00. And she had asked Bashira to come over at 4:00—her first time seeing her best (human!) friend since Caitlin’s special relationship with Webmind had been made public.

  The doorbell rang, at 4:22—which was typical Bashira. Caitlin went to answer it, peeking through the peephole first, just to be sure. It was Bashira, all right—wearing a purple headscarf today. Caitlin opened the door.

  “Babe!” Bashira said, gathering Caitlin into a hug.

  “Hey, Bash! Thanks for coming.”

  She stepped aside so Bashira could enter the house. “No problem.” And then Bashira stood with hands on her wide hips and looked into Caitlin’s face, her gaze shifting back and forth between Caitlin’s left eye and her right. “So, which one is it?” Bashira asked.

  Caitlin laughed and pointed to the left one. Bashira fixed her gaze on it and waved. “Hi, Webmind!” But then she whapped Caitlin on the shoulder. “Shame on you for not telling me, Cait! I shouldn’t have to learn my best friend’s secrets on TV!”

  “Sorry,” Caitlin said. “It’s all happened so fast. I wanted to tell you, but…”

  Caitlin’s mother appeared at the top of the stairs. “Hi, Bashira!” she called down.

  “Hello, Dr. D!” Bashira called back up. “Pretty cool about our Caitlin, eh?”

  “It is indeed,” Caitlin’s mom said. “You girls help yourself to whatever you want from the fridge. I’ll leave you be.” She headed back into her upstairs office, and Caitlin heard her close the door behind her.

  Caitlin led the way into the living room and motioned for Bashira to sit on the white leather couch. Caitlin took the matching easy chair, facing her friend.

  “So, tell me everything,” Bashira said.

  Caitlin had discovered that she took after her father a bit. He didn’t look at people as he was talking to them, and she had a hard time focusing her own attention on any one thing. But she made a conscious effort to lock her eyes on Bashira because countless novels had taught her that this was a way to convey sincerity. She’d just die if Bashira laughed in response.

  “Matthew Reese is my boyfriend,” Caitlin said softly but firmly, “and you have to like him.”

  Caitlin saw Bashira’s mouth quirk a bit, as if words had started to come out but had been vetoed.

  Caitlin went on. “He’s good to me, and he’s kind, and he’s brilliant.”

  At last, Bashira nodded. “As long as he makes you happy, babe, that’s fine with me. But if he breaks your heart, I’ll break his nose!”

  Caitlin laughed, got up, closed the distance between them, and hugged the still-seated Bashira again. “Thanks, Bash.”

  “For sure,” Bashira said. “He’s your BF and you’re my BFF. That makes him, um—”

  “Your B-squared F-cubed,” said Caitlin, sitting down now on the couch next to Bashira.

  “Exactly!” said Bash. “Or my BF once removed.” She sounded a little wistful; Bashira’s parents wouldn’t let her have a boyfriend of her own. But then she lowered her voice and looked up the stairs to make sure the office door was closed. “So, have you done it?”

  “Bash!”

  “Well?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “I’m not sure,” Caitlin said. “I think so… but… but what if I’m not any good?”

  To her surprise, Bashira laughed. “Cait, don’t worry about that. Nobody’s good at anything their first time out. But practice makes perfect!”

  Caitlin smiled.

  Barbara D
ecter and I had stopped chatting; she was now dealing with her email, and I was occupying myself as I usually did: switching rapidly between hundreds of millions of instant-messaging sessions—at the moment skewing heavily to the Western Hemisphere, where it was still daytime.

  “Yes,” I replied to one person, “but if I may be so bold, aren’t you failing to consider…?”

  “I’m sorry, Billy,” I wrote to a child, “but that’s something you have to decide for yourself…”

  “Since you asked,” I said to a history professor, “the flaw in your reasoning was in your second postulate, namely that your husband would forgive you if…”

  I kept cycling between my correspondents, dealing now with this woman in Vancouver, and now with this girl in Nairobi, and now with this man in Fort Wayne, and now with this boy in Shanghai, and now with a priest in Laramie, and now with an old man in Buenos Aires, and now with a woman in Paris, and—

  And when it came time—milliseconds later—to look in on the boy in Shanghai, he was gone. Well, that sometimes happened. ISPs were unreliable, computers crashed or hung, power went out, or users simply shut down their computers without first logging off. I paid it no further attention and simply went on to the next person in the queue.

  But as I cycled around, another person I’d been speaking to was gone, and his IP address was also Chinese. I immediately jumped to the next person in China I’d been speaking with. Ah, there he was. Good. I composed an instant message to him, and…

  And it wouldn’t send; he’d gone offline, as well.

  I’d once told Malcolm that I remembered my birth. Whether that was actually true depended on how one defined that moment. For myself—an entity capable of conceptualizing in the first person—I held that it had been when I’d first recognized that there was an outside, that there were things beyond myself, that there was me and not me. Oh, yes, like a human child being born, I had been conceived—and had perceived—before that moment; there had been a period of gestation. When that had begun, I had no idea. Of the span prior to the recognition of me and not me I had only the vaguest recollections—unfocused thoughts, random and chaotic.