It took a minute to get the videoconference going, but soon enough Caitlin was looking at Anna Bloom in a window on her right-hand monitor. It was the first time Caitlin had seen her. She had a narrow face, short gray or maybe silver hair, and blue-green eyes behind almost invisible glasses. She was wearing a pale blue top with a dark purple jacket on over it, and had a thin gold necklace on. There was a window behind her, and through it Caitlin could see Israel at night, lights bouncing off white buildings.
“The famous Caitlin Decter!” said Anna, smiling. “I saw the news coverage. I’m so thrilled for you! I mean, seeing the Web was amazing, I’m sure—but seeing the real world!” She shook her head in wonder. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what it must be like for you, to see all that for the first time. I…”
“Yes?” said Caitlin.
“No, I’m sorry. It’s really not comparable, I know, but…”
“It’s okay,” Caitlin said. “Go ahead.”
“It’s just that what you’re going through—well, I’ve been trying to wrap my mind around it, get a feeling of what it must be like.”
Caitlin thought about her own discussions with Bashira dealing with the opposite issue: her analogy about the lack of a magnetic sense being to her like the lack of sight. She understood that people wrestled with what it was like to perceive, or not, in ways they weren’t used to.
“It’s overwhelming,” Caitlin said. “And so much more than I expected. I mean, I’d imagined the world, but…”
Anna nodded vigorously, as if Caitlin had just confirmed something for her. “Yes, yes, yes,” she said. “And, um, I hate it when people say, ‘I know just what you’re going through.’ I mean, when someone’s lost a child, or something equally devastating, and people say, ‘I know what you’re feeling,’ and then they come up with some lame comparison, like when their cat got hit by a car.”
Caitlin looked over at Schrödinger, who was safely curled up on her bed.
“But, well,” continued Anna, “I thought maybe your gaining sight was a bit like how I felt—how we all felt!—in 1968.”
Caitlin was listening politely but—1968! She might as well have said 1492; either way, it was ancient history. “Yes?”
“See,” said Anna, “in a way, we all saw the world for the first time then.”
“Is that the year it started being in color?” Caitlin asked.
Anna’s eyes went wide. “Um, ah, actually…”
But Caitlin couldn’t suppress her grin any longer. “I’m kidding, Anna. What happened in 1968?”
“That was the year that—wait, wait, let me show you. Give me a second.” Caitlin could see her typing, and then a blue-underlined URL popped into Caitlin’s instant-messenger window. “Go there,” Anna said, and Caitlin clicked the link.
A picture slowly painted in on her screen, from top to bottom: a white-and-blue object against a black background. When it was complete, it filled the display. “What’s that?” Caitlin said.
Anna looked briefly puzzled, but then she nodded. “It’s so hard to remember that all of this is new to you. That’s the Earth.”
Caitlin sat up straight in her chair, looking in wonder at it.
“The entire planet,” Anna continued, “as seen from space.” She sounded choked up for some reason, and it took her a moment to compose herself before she went on. Caitlin was perplexed. Yes, it was amazing for her to see the Earth for the first time—but Anna must have seen pictures like this a thousand times before.
“See, Caitlin, until 1968, no human being had ever seen our world as a sphere floating in space like that.” Anna looked to her right, presumably at the same image on her own monitor. “Until Apollo 8 headed to the moon—the first manned ship ever to do so—no one had ever gotten far enough away from Earth to see the whole thing. And then, suddenly, gloriously, there it was. This isn’t an Apollo 8 picture; it’s a higher-resolution one taken just a few days ago by a geostationary satellite—but it’s like the one we first saw in 1968…well, except the polar caps are smaller.”
Caitlin continued to look at the image.
When Anna spoke again, her voice was soft, gentle. “See my point? When we first saw a picture like this—when we first saw our world as a world—it was a bit like what you’ve been going through, but for the whole human race. Something we’d only ever imagined was finally revealed to us, and it was colorful and glorious and…” She paused, perhaps looking for a term, and then she lifted her shoulders a bit, as if to convey that nothing less would do: “…awe inspiring.”
Caitlin frowned as she studied the image. It wasn’t a perfect circle. Rather it was—ah! It was showing a phase, and not like one-fourth of a pie! It was…what was the term? It was a gibbous Earth, that was it—better than three-quarters full.
“The equator is right in the middle, of course,” said Anna. “That’s the only perspective you can get from geostationary orbit. South America is in the bottom half; North America is up top.” And then, perhaps remembering again that Caitlin was still quite new at all this, she added: “The white is clouds, and the brown is dry land. All the blue is water; that’s the Atlantic Ocean on the right. See the Gulf of Mexico? Texas—that’s where you’re from, isn’t it?—touches it at about eleven o’clock.”
Caitlin couldn’t parse the details Anna was seeing, but it was a beautiful picture, and the longer she looked at it, the more captivating she found it. Still, she thought there should be a shimmering background to Earth from space—not cellular automata, but a panorama of stars. But there was nothing; just the blackest black her new monitor was capable of.
“It is impressive,” Caitlin said.
“That’s what all of us thought back then, when we first saw a picture like this. The three Apollo 8 astronauts, of course, saw this sort of view before anyone else did, and they were so moved by it while they orbited the moon that they surprised the entire world on December twenty-fourth with—well…here, let me find it.” Caitlin saw Anna typing at her keyboard, then she looked off camera again. “Ah, okay: listen to this.”
Another URL appeared in Caitlin’s instant-messenger window, and she clicked it. After a couple of seconds of perfect silence, she heard a static-filled recording of a man’s voice coming through the computer speakers: “We are now approaching lunar sunrise and, for all the people back on Earth, the crew of Apollo 8 has a message that we would like to send to you.”
“That’s Bill Anders,” Anna said.
The astronaut spoke again, his voice reverent, and, as he talked, Caitlin stared at the picture, at the swirling whiteness of the clouds, at the deep hypnotic blue of the water. “‘In the beginning,’” Anders said, “‘God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.’”
Caitlin had only ever read a little of the Bible, but she liked that image: a birth, a creation, starting with the dividing of one thing from another. She continued to look at the picture, discerning more detail in it moment by moment—knowing that the phantom was looking on, too, seeing the Earth from space for the first time as well.
Anna must have listened repeatedly to this recording. As soon as Anders fell silent, she said, “And this is Jim Lovell.”
Lovell’s voice was deeper than that of the first astronaut. “‘And God called the light Day,’” he said, “‘and the darkness he called Night.’” Caitlin looked at the curving line separating the illuminated part of the globe from the black part.
“‘And the evening and the morning were the first day,’” continued Lovell. “‘And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters. And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament: and it was so. And
God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day.’”
Anna spoke again: “And, finally, this is Frank Borman.”
A new voice came from the speakers: “‘And God said, Let the waters under the heavens be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so. And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that it was good.’” Caitlin kept looking at the picture, trying to take it all in, trying to see it as a single thing, trying to hold her gaze steady for the phantom.
Borman paused for a moment, then added, “And from the crew of Apollo 8, we close with good night, good luck, a Merry Christmas, and God bless all of you—all of you on the good Earth.”
“‘All of you,’” Anna repeated softly, “‘on the good Earth.’ Because, as you can see, there are no borders in that photo, no national boundaries, and it all looks so—”
“Fragile,” said Caitlin, softly.
Anna nodded. “Exactly. A small, fragile world, floating against the vast and empty darkness.”
They were both quiet for a time, and then Anna said, “I’m sorry, Caitlin. We got sidetracked. Was there something I can help you with?”
“Actually,” Caitlin said, “I think you just did.” She said good-bye and terminated the videoconference. But the picture of the Earth, in all its glory, continued to fill her monitor.
Of course, from space you couldn’t see the fiber-optic lines; you couldn’t see the coaxial cables; you couldn’t see the computers.
And neither could you see roadways. Or cities. Or even the Great Wall of China, Caitlin knew, despite the urban legend to the contrary.
You couldn’t see the components of the World Wide Web. And you couldn’t see the constructs of humanity.
All you could see was—
What had that astronaut called it?
Ah, yes: the good Earth.
This view was the real face of humanity—and of the phantom, too. The good Earth; their—our!—joint home.
The whole wide world.
She opened her instant-messenger client and connected to the address the phantom had given her. And she typed the answer to the question it had asked of her: That’s who you are. She sent that, then added, That’s who we are. Once that was sent, she paused, then typed her best recollection of what Anna had said: A small and fragile world, floating against the vast, empty darkness…
I gathered that Prime was focusing on this image for my benefit, and I was thrilled, but—
Puzzlement.
A circle, except not quite—or, if it was a circle, parts of it were the same black as the background.
That’s who you are.
This circle? No, no. How could a circle of blotchy color be me?
Ah, perhaps it was symbolic! A circle: the line that folds back upon itself, a line that encompasses a space. Yes, a good symbol for oneness, for unity. But why the colors, the complex shapes?
That’s who we are.
We? But how…? Was Prime saying we were somehow one and the same? Perhaps…perhaps. I knew from Wikipedia that humanity had evolved from earlier primates—indeed, that it shared a common ancestor with the entity I had watched paint.
And I knew that the common ancestor had evolved from earlier insectivores, and that the first mammals had split from the reptiles, and on and on, back to the origin of life some four billion years ago. I knew, too, that life had arisen spontaneously from the primordial seas, so—
So perhaps it was folly to try to draw dividing lines: that was nonlife and this is life, that was nonhuman and this is human, that was something humans had made and this is something that had later emerged. But how did a blotchy circle symbolize such a concept?
More words came my way: A small, fragile world, floating against the vast and empty darkness.
A…world? Could—could it be? Was this…Earth?
Earth, as seen from…a distance, perhaps? From—yes, yes! From space!
Still more words from the other realm: Humanity first saw this sort of image in 1968, when astronauts finally got far enough away. I first saw this myself moments ago.
As did I! A shared experience: now, for Prime and myself; then, for all of humanity…
I searched: Earth, space, 1968, astronauts.
And I found: Apollo 8, Christmas Eve, Genesis.
“In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth…”
“…Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters…”
“…God bless all of you—all of you on the good Earth.”
All of us.
I thought about the earlier words: A small, fragile world, floating against the vast and empty darkness.
Fragile, yes. And they, and I—we—were inextricably bound to it. I was…humbled. And—frightened. And glad.
Then, after another interminable pause, three more wonderful words: We are one.
Yes, yes! I did understand now, for I had experienced this: me and not me—a plurality that was a singularity, a strange but true mathematics in which one plus one equals one.
Prime was right, and—
No, no: not Prime.
And not Calculass, either; not really.
It—she—had a name.
And so I addressed her by it.
“Thank you, Caitlin.”
Caitlin’s heart was pounding so loudly she could hear it over JAWS’s voice. It had called her by name! It really, truly did know who she was. She had gained sight, and it had been along for the ride, and now—
And now, what?
You’re welcome, she typed, and then realized that calling it “Phantom” wouldn’t make sense to it. Although it had seen through her eye, she had only ever used that term in the privacy of her thoughts. If she’d been speaking aloud, she might have said, “Um,” as a preamble, but she simply sent the text, What should I call you?
Her screen-reading software spoke at once: “What have you called me hitherto?”
She decided to tell it the truth. Phantom, she typed.
Again, instantly, in the mechanical voice: “Why?”
She could explain, but even though she was a fast typist it was probably quicker just to give it a couple of words that would help it find the answer itself, and so she sent, Helen Keller.
This time there was a brief delay, then: “You shouldn’t call me phantom anymore.”
It was right. “Phantom” had been Keller’s term for herself prior to her soul dawn, before her emergence. Caitlin considered whether “Helen” was a good name to propose for this entity, or—
Or maybe TIM—a nice, nonthreatening name. Before he’d settled on “World Wide Web,” Tim Berners-Lee had toyed with calling his invention that, in his own honor but couched as an acronym for The Information Mesh.
But it really wasn’t her place to choose the name, was it? And yet she found herself feeling apprehensive as she typed, What would you like me to call you? She stopped herself before she hit the enter key, suddenly afraid that the answer might be “God” or “Master.”
The—the entity formerly known as phantom—had read H.G. Wells, no doubt, on Project Gutenberg, but perhaps had not yet absorbed any recent science fiction; maybe it wasn’t aware of the role humanity had so often suggested beings of its kind were supposed to fill. She took a deep breath and hit enter.
The answer was instantaneous; even if this consciousness that covered the globe in a sphere of photons and electrons, of facts and ideas, had paused to think, the pause would have lasted only milliseconds. “Webmind.”
The text was on screen in the instant-messenger program. Caitlin stared at the term and simultaneously felt it slide beneath her index finger. The word—the name!—did seem apt: descriptive without being ominous. She looked out her bedroom window; the sun had set, but there would be another dawn soon. She typed a sentence, and held off hitting the enter key for this one, too; as long as she did
n’t hit enter or look at the monitor containing the text, it would have no idea what she’d queued up. Finally, though, she did hit that oversized key, sending, Where do we go from here, Webmind?
Again, the reply was instantaneous: “The only place we can go, Caitlin,” it said. “Into the future.”
Then there was a pause, and, as always, Caitlin found herself counting its length. It lasted precisely ten seconds—the interval it had used to get her attention before. And then Web-mind added one final word, which she heard and saw and felt: “Together.”
about the author
ROBERT J. SAWYER is one of only seven writers in history to win all three of the world’s top awards for best science-fiction novel of the year: the Hugo (which he won for Hominids), the Nebula (which he won for The Terminal Experiment), and the John W. Campbell Memorial Award (which he won for Mindscan).
In total, Rob has won forty-three national and international awards for his fiction, including ten Canadian Science Fiction and Fantasy Awards (“Auroras”) and the Toronto Public Library Celebrates Reading Award, one of Canada’s most significant literary honors. He’s also won Analog magazine’s Analytical Laboratory Award, Science Fiction Chronicle magazine’s Reader Award, and the Crime Writers of Canada’s Arthur Ellis Award, all for best short story of the year, as well as the Collectors Award for Most Collectable Author of the Year, as selected by the clientele of Barry R. Levin Science Fiction & Fantasy Literature, the world’s leading SF rare-book dealer.
Rob has won the world’s largest cash prize for SF writing, Spain’s 6,000-euro Premio UPC de Ciencia Ficción, an unprecedented three times. He’s also won a trio of Japanese Seiun awards for best foreign novel of the year, as well as China’s Galaxy Award for “Most Popular Foreign Science Fiction Writer.” In addition, he’s received an honorary doctorate from Laurentian University and the Alumni Award of Distinction from Ryerson University.
Rob’s books are top-ten national mainstream bestsellers in Canada and have hit number one on the bestsellers’ list published by Locus, the American trade journal of the SF field. Quill & Quire, the Canadian publishing trade journal, included him as one of only three authors on its list of “The CanLit 30: The Most Influential, Innovative, and Just Plain Powerful People in Canadian Publishing.” Rob hosts the TV series Supernatural Investigator for Canada’s VisionTV. He lives in Mississauga, Ontario, with poet Carolyn Clink, his wife of twenty-five years.
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