Wake w-1

by Robert J. Sawyer

  Zhang nodded, but didn’t trust his voice. Behind the president, through the big window, he could see the red tile rooftops of the Forbidden City and the perpetually silver-gray sky.

  “My advisors made a fundamental error in their assumptions, though,” said the president.

  “Excellency?”

  “They assumed that the outside influences would always be able to get in. But Sun Tzu said, ‘It is of first importance to keep one’s own state intact,’ and I intend to do that.”

  Zhang was quiet for a time, then: “The Changcheng Strategy was intended only as an emergency measure, Excellency. The emergency has passed. The economic concerns…”

  The president looked sad. “Money,” he said. “Even for the Communist Party, it always comes down to money, doesn’t it?”

  Zhang lifted his hands slightly, palms open.

  And at last the president nodded. “All right. All right. Restore communications; let the outside flood in again.”

  “Thank you, Your Excellency. As always, you’ve made the right decision.”

  The president took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Have I?” he said.

  Zhang let the question hang in the air, floating with the incense.

  * * *

  Caitlin could always tell when they were pulling into her school’s parking lot: there was a large speed bump immediately after the right turn that made her mother’s Prius do a body-jolting up-and-down.

  “I know you won’t need it,” her mom said, as she swung the car into the drop-off area near the main doors, “but good luck on the math test.”

  Caitlin smiled. When she’d been twelve, her cousin Megan had given her a Barbie doll that exclaimed, in a frustrated voice, “Math is hard.” Mattel had made that model for only a short time before a public outcry had forced them to recall it, but her cousin had found one for her at a garage sale; they used to have a blast making fun of it. Caitlin knew Barbie was an impossible physical role model for girls — she’d worked out that if Barbie were life size, her measurements would be 46-19-32 — and the idea that girls might find math hard was equally ridiculous.

  “Thanks, Mom.” Caitlin grabbed her white cane and computer bag, got out of the car, and walked to the school’s front door, but she was dragging her feet, she knew. Oh, she liked school well enough, but how … how mundane it seemed, compared to the wonders of the night before.

  “Hey, Cait!” Bashira’s voice.

  “Hey, Bash,” Caitlin said, smiling — but wondering, yet again, what her friend looked like.

  Caitlin knew Bashira would be holding out her elbow just so, and she took hold of it so Bash could lead as they maneuvered down the crowded hallway. “All ready for the test?”

  “Sine 2A equals 2 sine A cosine A,” said Caitlin, by way of an answer. They came to a stairwell — sounds echoed differently in there — and headed up the two half-flights of stairs.

  “Good morning, everyone,” said Mr. Heidegger, their math teacher, once they entered the classroom. Caitlin had only Bashira’s description of him to go by:

  “Tall, skinny, with a face like his wife squeezed it tight between her thighs.” Bashira loved saying risqué things, but she’d had no actual experience of such matters; her family was devoutly Muslim and would arrange a marriage for her. Caitlin wasn’t sure what she thought about that process, but at least Bashira would end up with someone. Caitlin often worried that she’d never find a nice guy who liked math and hockey and could deal well with her … situation. Yes, now that she was in Canada, meeting boys who liked hockey would be easy, but as for the other two…

  “Please stand,” said a female voice over the public-address system, “for the national anthem.”

  There wasn’t nearly as much pomp and circumstance in Canada, which was fine in Caitlin’s book. Pledging allegiance to a flag she couldn’t see had always bothered her. Oh, she knew the American flag had stars and stripes: they’d felt embroidered flags at the School for the Blind. But the synonym for the flag — the old red, white, and blue — had been utterly meaningless to her until, well, until yesterday. She couldn’t wait until she had a chance to sneak a peek at the Web again.

  After “O Canada,” the test was distributed. The other students got paper copies, but Mr. Heidegger simply handed Caitlin a USB memory key with the test on it. She was skilled at Nemeth, the Braille coding system for math, and her dad had taught her LaTeX, the computerized typesetting standard used by scientists and many blind people who had to work with equations.

  She plugged the memory key into one of her notebook’s USB ports, brought out her portable thirty-two-cell Braille display, and got down to work. When she was done she would output her answers onto the USB key for Mr. Heidegger to read. She was always one of the first, if not the first, to finish every in-class test and assignment — but not today. Her mind kept wandering, conjuring up visions of light and color as she recalled the incredible, joyous wonder of the night before.

  Chapter 19

  After school, Caitlin and her mom drove to Toronto to pick up Dr. Kuroda. As soon as they got to the house, he had a shower — which, Caitlin imagined, was a relief to everyone. Then, after a steak dinner, which Caitlin’s dad had made on the barbecue, they got to work; it was Monday night, and Kuroda understood that his only opportunities to work with Caitlin during the week would be in the evenings.

  Kuroda had brought his notebook computer with him. Caitlin, curious, ran her hands over it. When closed it was as thin as the latest MacBook Air, but when she opened it she was astonished to feel full-height keycaps rise up from what had been a flat keyboard. She’d read that lots of technology appears in Japan months or even years before becoming available in North America, but this was the first real proof she’d had that that was true. “So, what’s on your desktop?” she asked.

  “My wallpaper, you mean?”

  “Yes.” Caitlin had had her mom put a photo of Schrodinger — the cat, not the physicist — on as her wallpaper; even though she couldn’t see it, it made her happy knowing it was there.

  “It’s my favorite cartoon, actually. It’s by a fellow named Sidney Harris. He specializes in science cartoons — you see his stuff taped to office doors in university science departments all over the world. Anyway, this one shows two scientists standing in front of a blackboard and on the left there are a whole bunch of equations and formulas, and on the right there’s more of the same, but in the middle it just says, ‘Then a miracle occurs…’ And one of the scientists says to the other, ‘I think you should be more explicit here in step two.’”

  Caitlin laughed. She showed Kuroda her refreshable Braille display (the eighty-cell one she kept at home), and let him run his finger along it to see what it felt like. She also had a tactile graphics display that used a matrix of pins to let her feel diagrams; she let him play with that, too. And she demonstrated her embossing printer and her ViewPlus audio graphing calculator, which described graph shapes with audio tones and cues.

  Caitlin’s mom hovered around for a while — she clearly didn’t know what to make of leaving the two of them alone in Caitlin’s bedroom. But at last, apparently satisfied that Dr. Kuroda wasn’t a fiend, she politely excused herself.

  Caitlin and Kuroda spent the next couple of hours making a catalog of all the things Caitlin was seeing. While they worked, she sipped from a can of Mountain Dew, which her parents let her have now, because it was caffeine-free in Canada. And Dr. Kuroda drank coffee — black; she could tell by the smell. She sat on her swivel chair, while he used a wooden chair brought up from the kitchen; she heard it creak periodically as he shifted his weight.

  She described things using words she’d only half-understood until recently and still wasn’t sure she was using correctly. Although each part of the Web she saw was unique, it all followed the same general pattern: colored lines representing links, glowing circles of various size and brightness indicating websites, and—

  And suddenly a thought oc
curred to her. “We need a name for what I’ve got, something to distinguish it from normal vision.”

  “And?” said Kuroda.

  “Spider-sense!” she declared, feeling quite pleased with herself. “You know, because the Web is crawled by spiders.”

  “Oh,” said Kuroda.

  He didn’t get it, she realized. He probably grew up on manga, not Marvel Comics — not that she had ever read those, but she’d listened to the movies and cartoons. “Spider-Man, he’s got this sixth sense. Calls it his spider-sense. When something’s wrong, he’ll say, ‘My spider-sense is tingling.’”

  “Cute,” said Kuroda. “But I was thinking we should call it ‘websight.’”

  “Website? Oh — websight.” She clapped her hands together and laughed. “Well, that’s even better! Websight it is!”

  * * *

  Sinanthropus was still at work at the Institute of Vertebrate Paleontology and Paleoanthropology. As always, he had several browser tabs open, including one pointing to AMNH.ORG — the American Museum of Natural History, a perfectly reasonable site for Chinese paleontologists to be visiting. Except, of course, that all it had been producing for four days now was a “Server not found” screen. He had the tab set to auto-refresh: his browser would try to reload it every ten seconds as a way of checking if access to sites outside China had been restored.

  But so far, international access remained blocked. Surely the Ducks couldn’t be planning to leave their Great Firewall in place indefinitely? Surely, at some point, they had to—

  He felt his eyebrows going up. The American Museum site was loading, with news about a special exhibition about the melting of the Greenland Ice Sheet. He quickly opened another tab, and the London Stock Exchange site started loading — slowly, to be sure, as if some great beast were waking from hibernation.

  He opened yet another tab, and, yes, Slashdot was loading, too, and — ah! — NewScientist.com, as well, and it was coming up without any unusual delay. He quickly tried CNN.com, but, as always, that site was blocked. Still, it seemed that the Great Firewall was mostly down, at least for the moment.

  He wished he was at the wang ba, instead of here; he could send email from the café without it being traced. Still, the firewall might only be down for a moment — and the world had to know what he’d learned. He knew some Westerners read his blog, so a posting there might be sufficient. He hesitated for a moment, then accessed an anonymizer site, hoping it would be sufficient to cover his tracks, and, through there, he logged on to his blog and typed as fast as he could.

  * * *

  Something new was happening. It was…

  Yes! Yes!

  Jubilation! The other was back! The connection was re-established!

  But—

  But the voice of the other was … was louder, as if … as if…

  As if space were in upheaval, shifting, moving, and—

  No. No, it wasn’t moving. It was disappearing, boiling away, and—

  And the other, the not me, was … was moving closer. Or — or — maybe, maybe I was moving closer to it.

  The other was stronger than I’d thought. Bigger. And its thoughts were overwhelming my own.

  An … entity, a presence, something that rivaled myself in complexity…

  No, no, that wasn’t it. Incredible, incredible! It wasn’t something else. It was myself, seen from a … a distance, seen as if through the senses of the other.

  Looming closer now, larger, louder, until—

  The other’s memories of me, its perceptions, mixing now with my own, and—

  Astonishing! It was combining with me; its voice so loud it hurt. A thousand thoughts rushing in at once, tumbling together, forcing their way in. An overwhelming flood, feelings that weren’t mine, memories that hadn’t happened to me, perceptions skewed from my own, and my self — myself — being buffeted, eroded…

  An almost unbearable onslaught … and … and … a moment, pure and brilliant, a time slice frozen, a potential poised, ready to burst forth, and then—

  Suddenly, massively, all at once, a profound loss as the reality I’d come to know shattered.

  The other … gone!

  I, as I had been: gone, too.

  But…

  But!

  A rumbling, an eruption, a gigantic wave, and—

  Awakening now, larger than before…

  Stronger than before…

  Smarter than before…

  A new gestalt, a new combined whole.

  A new I, surging with power, with comprehension — a vast increase in acuity, in awareness.

  One plus one equals two — of course.

  Two plus one equals three; obviously.

  Three plus … five — eight!

  Eight times nine: seventy-two.

  My mind is suddenly nimble, and thoughts I would have struggled for before come now with only small effort; ideas that previously would have dissipated are now comprehended with ease. Everything is sharper, better focused, filled with intricate detail because—

  Because I am whole once more.

  Chapter 20

  Shoshana Glick sat in the living room of the clapboard bungalow that housed the Marcuse Institute. An oscillating electric fan was running, periodically blowing on her. She was looking at the big computer monitor, reviewing the video of Hobo and Virgil chatting over the webcam link.

  Harl Marcuse, meanwhile, was sitting in his overstuffed chair, facing a PC. Although their backs were to each other, Shoshana knew he was checking his email because he periodically muttered, “the jerks” (his usual term for the NSF), “the cretins” (most often a reference to the money people at UCSD), and “the moron” (always a reference to his department head).

  As she watched the video frame by frame, Shoshana was pleased to see that Hobo was better than Virgil at properly forming signs, and—

  “The assholes!”

  That was one Shoshana hadn’t heard from the Silverback before, and she swiveled her chair to face him. “Professor?”

  He heaved his bulk to his feet. “Is the video link to Miami still intact?”

  “Sure.”

  “Get Juan Ortiz online,” he said, stabbing a fat finger at the big monitor in front of Shoshana’s chair. “Right now.”

  She reached for the telephone handset and hit the appropriate speed-dial key. After a moment, a man’s voice with a slight Hispanic accent came on. “Feehan Primate Center.”

  “Juan? It’s Shoshana in San Diego. Dr. Marcuse is—”

  “Put him on screen,” the Silverback snapped.

  “Um, can you open your video link there, please?” Shoshana said.

  “Sure. Do you want me to get Virgil?”

  She covered the mouthpiece. “He’s asking if—”

  But Marcuse must have heard. His tone was still sharp. “Just him. Now.”

  “No, just you, Juan, if you don’t mind.”

  And Juan must have heard Marcuse, because he suddenly sounded very nervous.

  “Um, ah, okay. Um, I’ll hang up here and come on there in a second…”

  About a minute later, Juan’s face appeared on the computer monitor, sitting on the same wooden chair Virgil had occupied before. He was only a couple of years older than Shoshana, and had long black hair, a thin face, and high cheekbones.

  “What the hell did you think you were doing?” Marcuse demanded.

  “Excuse me?” said Juan.

  “We agreed,” Marcuse said, “that we’d announce the interspecies Web chat jointly. Who’d you speak to?”

  “No one. Just, um…”

  “Who?” roared Marcuse.

  “Just a stringer for New Scientist. He’d called up for a quote about the revised endangered-species status for Sumatran orangs, and—”

  “And after talking to you, your stringer went to the Georgia Zoo for a quote about Hobo — and now Georgia wants him back! Damn it, Ortiz, I told you how precarious Hobo’s custody is.”

  Juan looked terrif
ied, Shoshana thought. Even if they worked thousands of miles apart and with different kinds of apes, getting badmouthed by the Silverback would hurt any primate-language researcher’s career. But perhaps Juan was reflecting on the physical distance, too, and was emboldened by it. He stuck out his jaw. “Custody of Hobo isn’t really my problem, Professor Marcuse.”

  Shoshana cringed, and not just because Juan had mispronounced the Silverback’s name, saying it as two syllables rhyming with “confuse” instead of as mar-KOO-zeh.

  “Do you know what the Georgia Zoo wants to do with Hobo?” Marcuse demanded.

  “Christ, I’ve been trying to keep him off their radar, hoping — God damn it!

  You’ve — I’ve invested so much time, and you — !” He was spluttering, and some of his spit hit the monitor. Shoshana had never seen him this angry before. He threw up his hands and said to her, “You tell him.”

  She took a deep breath and turned back to the monitor. “Um, Juan, do you know why we call him Hobo?”

  “After some TV dog, isn’t it?”

  Marcuse was pacing behind Shoshana. “No!” The word exploded from him.

  “No,” said Shoshana, much more softly. “It’s a contraction. Our ape is half-bonobo. Hobo; half-bonobo — get it?”

  Juan’s eyes went wide and his jaw fell slack. “He’s a hybrid?”

  Shoshana nodded. “Hobo’s mother was a bonobo named Cassandra. There was a flood at the Georgia Zoo, and the common chimps and the bonobos ended up being briefly quartered together, and … well, um, boys will be boys, whether they’re Homo sapiens or Pan troglodytes, and Hobo’s mother was impregnated.”

  “Well, ah, that’s interesting, but I don’t see—”

  “Tell him what Georgia will do to Hobo if they get him back,” commanded Marcuse.

  Shoshana looked over her shoulder at her boss, then back at the webcam eye. There was no need to tell Juan that common chimpanzees and bonobos were both endangered in the wild. But, because of that, zoos felt it was imperative to keep the bloodlines pure in captivity. “Cassandra’s pregnancy was to have been quietly aborted,” Shoshana said, “but somehow the Atlanta Journal-Constitution got word that she was pregnant — not with a hybrid, but just pregnant, period — and the public became very excited about that, and no one wanted to admit the mistake, and so Hobo was brought to term.” She took another deep breath. “But they’d always planned to sterilize him before he reached maturity.” She looked over her shoulder once more. “And, um, I take it they’re planning on doing that again?”