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 forth 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.”
Malcolm nodded. Of course, Barb wasn’t going to participate, and Caitlin was exempt; a decision had been taken to ask only adults to step forward. Malcolm wasn’t sure if his daughter qualified anyway although she surely tended that way.
“All right,” said Malcolm. “I’m ready.”
“Excellent. I know it is hard for you, but please try to look directly at the camera.”
Malcolm nodded and clicked the record button with his mouse. Suddenly his mouth was dry—he hadn’t expected this to be a difficult thing to say. He had a cold cup of coffee on his desk; he took a sip—he could edit all this out before uploading, of course. The webcam was at the top of the monitor, and on the screen he had Microsoft Word open, displaying the speech he’d prepared.
“I am not given to speaking much,” he read, “so forgive me for using prepared notes. I was born in Philadelphia, and now live in Waterloo, Canada. I am part of a minority that is deeply misunderstood. People have very confused ideas about us. Many are frightened of us. I’ve even heard it said that many people wouldn’t want their daughters or sons to marry one of us, and I know of people who have been denied jobs or promotions because they share this trait with me. But being what I am does not make me bad; being what I am does not make me dangerous; being what I am does not mean I don’t love, or hurt, or have a sense of humor.
“My name is Malcolm Decter, and I’m here today to tell the whole world what I am.” He took a deep breath, let it out, and then said, loudly and clearly. “I am an atheist.”
As the dance was winding down, Caitlin and Matt spoke again with Mr. Heidegger. He was excited to hear about her trip to New York, and he reiterated how much he missed having her in his class. “However,” he added, “young Mr. Reese here has been doing a good job of keeping me on my toes.” The conversation continued so long that they ended up being the last ones to leave the gym. Mr. H exited by the door that led directly outside.
Caitlin’s mom had said they could call for a lift home—and Caitlin thought that might be a good idea. After all, who knew where Trevor had gone? And he did have a history of confronting Matt while walking home.
But, as they’d seen earlier, it was a lovely evening—if cold, to Caitlin’s Texan blood—and Matt convinced her to walk. First they had to get their coats and her purse, though. Caitlin no longer had a locker here, so they’d put everything in Matt’s, up on the second floor.
By the time they got upstairs, everyone else had left and the lights were off. There were no windows in the corridor, although each classroom door had a small one, and some light was coming through from the street outside. EXIT signs were glowing red—the first such Caitlin had seen in the dark—and LEDs flashed on what Matt said were smoke detectors.
She’d been to Matt’s locker once before; it was very close to where her own had been—naturally enough, since they’d both had the same class for homeroom. The first time she’d gone to Matt’s locker—the first time they’d gone out together, for lunch at Tim Hortons—had been just seventeen days ago.
How fast were things supposed to move, she wondered? Yes, the singularity was all about acceleration, about things happening more and more rapidly, about a headlong rush into the unknown, but—
Matt seemed to be having more trouble navigating in the dark than she was. He’d walked this corridor at least as often as she had, but she’d done it for over a month while blind. She never consciously counted paces, but her body knew how far to go, whereas he kept looking at the doors they were passing, trying to read the dim room numbers marked on them.
She took his hand and took the lead. “It’s down here,” she said. She was reminded again of the days before the school year had begun when she’d come here to practice walking the empty hallways. It was easy for her to stride briskly now since the corridor was wide, straight, and deserted.
They reached Matt’s locker—again, he was looking at the number plates attached to their green doors, while she just knew that this was the right spot.
Caitlin’s locker had had a padlock, and although she’d known the numerical combination, she’d learned to open it by touch—so many degrees to the left, so many to the right. While Matt fumbled in the dark with his lock, she continued on down the corridor another twenty feet, which brought her to the door of the room that had been their math class. She peered through the little window.
The door was near the front of
the classroom, so she was looking in at Mr. H’s desk, with its chair neatly tucked in, and obliquely at the green board along the front wall. It had writing on it, but she couldn’t read it from this angle and in this degree of darkness. She was curious about what the class was studying now, so she took the doorknob in her hand; it was cold and hard. She half expected the room to be locked, but it wasn’t. She pushed the door open and walked in to have a look at the board, but—
Sigh. For everyone else, it was habit, she was sure, ingrained over a lifetime. But she still never thought to hit the light switch as she came into a room. She turned to head back toward the door and her heart skipped a beat. There was a strange shape silhouetted in the doorway, with bizarre lumps and—
—and a voice that cracked. “Here you go,” Matt said, and Caitlin resolved the image: he had his coat draped over one arm, and her jacket and purse held in his other hand, extended toward her.
He stepped into the room. She came toward him, intending to flick on the light, but—
The thought came to her again. How fast were things supposed to move? How fast in this crazy new world?
She also thought about what her mother had asked: Do you like Matt in particular, or do you just like having a boyfriend in general?
And, of course, even before tonight, the answer had been the former: she really, really, really liked Matthew Peter Reese, and she knew with the same certainty she knew any mathematical truth that he really, really, really liked her.
And after tonight—after seeing him be so brave and so strong—she knew she more than liked him.
As she reached the door, she dimly saw the bank of four light switches set against a metal rectangle. She raised her hand, but then—yes, it was time—changed its trajectory and instead pushed the door shut.
And there they were, the two of them, in the dark, with Matt holding their coats. It was dim enough that Caitlin couldn’t make out his expression—but she knew which one it had to be. She closed the small distance between them, put her arms around his neck, moved her face toward his, and kissed him long and hard.
Wonder w-3 Page 27
