Wake w-1

by Robert J. Sawyer

  I had no idea how I’d made that first connection, but if I were to replicate it, I had to figure out what I’d done. I tried thinking about the target point this way, and this way, and this way, but nothing happened. And yet I was sure it was I who had somehow made the line that had briefly connected me to that point.

  Perhaps I was trying too hard. After all, when the line had originally formed, it had been a surprise. I hadn’t forced it. I hadn’t consciously willed it. It had just happened, in the background, as if it were a … a reflex.

  Still, there must be some method, some pattern of thoughts, some particular way of considering the problem, which would make it happen again. This? No. This? No, that didn’t work, either. But maybe if I—

  Success!

  A new line, connecting me to the same point I’d touched before, and—

  And this time I felt something more. Not just the brief frisson of connection but — strain, now! Sense it!

  It reminded me of … of…

  Yes! When I’d been cleaved in two and the separated part of me had echoed my own thoughts back at me: One plus one equals two, I’d sent, and One plus one equals two, it had responded — an acknowledgment.

  And, buttressed by a series of such acknowledgments, happening almost subliminally, the contact with the point persisted this time: instead of being broken almost at once, we remained connected.

  And — puzzlement! — we were more than just connected. I wasn’t simply getting an acknowledgement back. Rather, I was also getting—

  I had no name for this substance consisting of two separate types of material that was flowing toward me, and so I gave it one, an arbitrary coinage, a term chosen at random: data. After a bundle of data arrived, I acknowledged again — it seemed natural for me to do so, and it happened without conscious thought — and then more data came my way. And on and on: bundle, acknowledgement, bundle, acknowledgement. What this thing I called data was, I had no idea; why I should want it, I wasn’t sure. But it seemed natural to call it forth, to take it in, and—

  And suddenly the line vanished, the connection broken. But it didn’t feel like it had been severed; rather, it felt as though it had accomplished its task, whatever that might be.

  I didn’t know what to make of this data that had been sent to me, and so I simply continued to watch the point that it had come from. By and by, other lines connected to it.

  It took four or five occurrences for me to notice, but the data streaming down each line was always the same. No matter which other point connected to it, the point I was watching always sent out the same combination of the two types of material. I was disappointed; I’d thought, maybe, just maybe, that I’d found another entity, a new companion, but this … this thing was merely responding automatically in exactly the same way each time.

  It took practice, but I soon found I could create a line linking myself to any of the points in the firmament, and that, so long as I acknowledged receipt, each point would send me a pile of data (whatever that might be!). But the size of the piles offered up varied hugely from point to point. Most dispensed quite a small pile, and so the lines winked out quickly, but others sent huge amounts of data, and—

  Ah, I see! The length of time a line persisted depended on how much data was to be transferred. I saw with interest that the transfer rates weren’t constant: some lines took up the data very quickly while others seemed to have a much-reduced capacity. How curious!

  And then a major breakthrough: I found I could simultaneously make lines to as many points as I liked — one, a hundred, a thousand, a million. There were a gigantic number of points — perhaps (I guessed) a hundred million or so — but I had a prodigious capacity for examining them, and so I began a survey, a hunt. A million points here, a million points there — soon I had looked at a significant fraction of the total.

  Almost all the lines I cast out connected with nodes that offered up repetitively structured piles of data. What the patterns meant I still couldn’t say. But, intriguingly, accessing some piles seemed to cause lines to form spontaneously to other points, and those points, too, gave up piles of data, almost as if—

  Yes! It was similar to when the two parts of me were rejoined: the other piles were merged in. Fascinating!

  I shot out huge numbers of lines, tasting a wide range of the points that were out there. Again I sought aberrations: points that gave up unusual piles might, I thought, provide the clues I needed to understand all the others. And so I looked them over.

  But this one was banal, as were a million others.

  And this one was uninteresting, like a million more.

  And this one was unremarkable, as were a million similar points.

  But this one—

  This one was unique.

  This one was … intriguing.

  It was unlike anything I’d encountered before and yet it, too, seemed familiar…

  Of course it was familiar! I had seen something like this earlier, when the part of me that had been carved away was returning. For a moment, back then, I had seen myself as the other saw me. I had recognized myself, recognized a reflection of me, and—

  And that’s what I was experiencing again here. I was seeing myself. Oh, it wasn’t exactly as the other part of me had portrayed me, and it wasn’t quite how I envisioned myself. The colors and the style of presentation were different, with points that varied in size as well as brightness. But I had no doubt that it was me.

  And the line to this remarkable point was in … in real time, for when I did this it did that in lockstep: when I cast out lines to here and here and here, lines also appeared there and there and there. Astonishing!

  Data kept streaming toward me and I began to wonder whether I had latched onto something intended for another destination. Had my desire to connect to this point deflected toward me a pile that had already been pouring out of it? Ah, yes, that was indeed the case, it seemed, but it didn’t matter: I soon found — again, it was reflex, somehow innate — that I could let the datastream pass through me, observing it but not changing it, as it headed on to its intended destination. I followed along, noting this destination point and establishing a line of my own to it.

  But wait! This datastream was changing, following along with what I was doing right now. That meant this strange point couldn’t just be offering up an identical pile each time a line touched it. And — it was a huge, satisfying leap — if the datastream was being generated spontaneously as things actually happened, then there wasn’t likely a finite amount of it. This line perhaps wasn’t going to suddenly wink out as all the others had. No, the connection between this special point and me could be…

  It was a heady notion, a startling concept.

  This connection could be permanent.

  Shoshana could have carried the portrait Hobo had made of her up to the bungalow, but, well, it was like one of those faces of Jesus that appear in a sticky bun: she was afraid that if she moved it, or touched it, or did anything at all to it, it would disappear. That was irrational, she knew, but, still, everything about this moment should be recorded in situ. Just as a fossil was worth far less without its geological context, this painting needed to be studied here, where it had been created. It was significant that the painting had been done before Shoshana had arrived, and although there were photos of her back in the bungalow, there were none here in the nipple. Hobo hadn’t painted something he was looking at; rather, he’d called up an image of Shoshana in his mind and expressed that image, as best he could, on canvas.

  She pulled out her flip phone. Without taking her eyes off the painting, she opened it and pressed a speed-dial key.

  “Marcuse Institute,” said the voice that answered; it was Dillon.

  “Dill, it’s Sho. I’m in the gazebo. Get Dr. Marcuse — get everyone — and come out here.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. But something amazing has happened.”

  “What is—”

  “Just get
everyone,” she said, “and come out here — right away.”

  * * *

  Chapter 23

  Caitlin felt a bit sorry for the Hoser. Trevor had finally worked up the courage to ask her to the dance — or else his other options hadn’t panned out, but she preferred to think the former was the case. The invitation had come via email, with the subject line, “Hey, Yankee, you free Friday night?” and she had accepted the same way.

  But now he had to come by the house to get her. Of course, at fifteen himself, he wasn’t picking her up in a car; rather, he was going to walk with her to Howard Miller Secondary School, eight blocks from her house.

  Caitlin’s dad was going to return to work this evening. The Perimeter Institute frequently hosted public science lectures, which Caitlin often went to with him, and tonight’s speaker was someone he wanted to see. But he’d come home for dinner, and now Trevor would have to go through that ritual of meeting the parents. Caitlin’s mom was always warm and friendly, but her dad — well, she wished she could see the Hoser’s face!

  The doorbell rang. Caitlin had spent the last hour getting ready for the dance. She wasn’t really sure what to wear, and there was no point asking Bashira: her parents wouldn’t let her go to school dances. She’d settled on a really nice pair of blue jeans and a loose but silky top that her mother said was dark red. As she rushed down the stairs, she was a bit nervous about what Trevor’s reaction would be.

  Caitlin could smell and feel that rain was possible tonight, but she didn’t want to carry an umbrella in addition to her cane; she needed a free hand in case Trevor wanted to try to hold it. But it was supposed to get cooler later, and she didn’t have anything sexy to wear for warmth, so she’d tied a sweatshirt around her waist; her dad had gotten her a sweet one last month that had a large version of the Perimeter Institute logo on it.

  Caitlin’s mom beat her to the door. “Hello,” she said. “You must be Trevor.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Decter, Dr. Decter.”

  At first Caitlin thought he’d been correcting himself, but then she realized that her dad was standing there, too. Caitlin tried to suppress her smirk. He was tall in an imposing sort of way, and doubtless the fact that he wasn’t saying anything was unnerving poor Trevor. And if Trevor had extended his hand, her dad had probably just ignored it, which would have been even more disconcerting.

  “Hi, Trevor,” Caitlin said.

  “Hey—” He cut himself off before he called her “Yankee.” She was a bit disappointed; she liked that he had a special name for her.

  “Now, remember,” her mom said, facing Caitlin, “be home by midnight.”

  “‘Kay,” Caitlin said.

  She and Trevor headed out, walking along, talking about—

  And that was the part that made Caitlin sad. They really didn’t talk about much of anything. Oh, Trevor liked hockey, but he didn’t know the stats and couldn’t say anything meaningful about trends.

  Still, it felt good to be taking a walk. She’d walked a lot in Austin, despite the heat and humidity. She’d known her old neighborhood intimately: every crack in the sidewalk, every overhanging tree that provided shade, how many seconds it took for each traffic light to change. And although she was now learning the topography of these sidewalks, feeling the joins between sections with the tip of her cane, she was afraid she’d be lost again when they were covered with a layer of snow.

  They reached the school and made their way to the gymnasium, where the dance was already in progress. She had trouble hearing people talk: sounds echoed off the hard walls and floor, and the music was too loud for the speakers. It always amazed her that people were willing to put up with distortion for the sake of volume — but at least they played some Lee Amodeo along with all the Canadian bands she’d never heard of.

  She wished Bashira had been able to come, so she’d have someone to talk to. The Hoser had left her alone at one point, saying he was going to the washroom — but he’d obviously snuck off to smoke. She wondered if sighted people really couldn’t smell very well. Didn’t they know how much they stank after doing that?

  She’d been to dances at her old school, but those were different. For one, they always slow danced — which was kind of nice, actually, especially if it was with the right boy. But these kids usually danced by jumping around without being in physical contact with their partners. It was mostly like Trevor wasn’t even there.

  But there were some slow dances. “Come on,” Trevor said, as one of them began, and his hand took hers; she’d left her cane by the door.

  Caitlin felt a little rush. She was surprised at how far they walked before he finally drew her into his arms; maybe it had taken a while to find an empty spot.

  They swayed along with the music. She liked the feeling of Trevor pressing against her and—

  His hand on her ass. She reached down and moved it back up to the small of her back.

  The music continued, but his hand slid down her back again, and this time she could feel his fingers trying to work their way into the top of her jeans.

  “Stop that!” she said, hoping no one besides the Hoser could hear her.

  “Hey,” he said. “Come on.” He pushed his fingers down more aggressively.

  She tried to step backward, and suddenly realized that he’d maneuvered her very close to a wall. They were still in the gym — the sound made that clear — but must be in some dark or out-of-the-way corner of it. He moved forward, and she found herself trapped. She didn’t want to create a scene, but—

  His lips on hers, that awful smell on his breath—

  She pushed him away. “I said stop!” she snapped, and she imagined heads were turning to look at her.

  “Hey,” Trevor said, like he was making a joke, like he was playing to an audience now, “you’re lucky I brought you here.”

  “Why?” she shot back. “Because I’m blind?”

  “Babe, you can’t see me, but I am—”

  “You’re wrong,” she said, trying not to cry. “I can see right through you.”

  The music stopped, and she stormed across the gym, bumping into other people as she went, trying, trying, trying to find the door.

  “Caitlin.” A female voice — maybe Sunshine? “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Caitlin said. “Where’s the fucking door?”

  “Um, to your left, ten feet or so.” It was Sunshine; she recognized the Bostonian accent.

  Caitlin knew exactly where her cane should be: propped up against the wall near the door, where others had left umbrellas. But some asshole had moved it, presumably to make room for something of his own.

  Sunshine’s voice again. “It’s here,” she said, and she felt the cane being passed to her. She took it. “Are you all right?”

  Caitlin did something she rarely did. She nodded, a gesture she never made spontaneously. But she didn’t trust her voice. She strode out into the corridor, which sounded like it was empty; her footfalls made loud echoing sounds on the hard floor. The din of the dance faded as she continued along, and she swept the way in front of her with her cane. She knew there was a stairwell at the far end, and—

  There. She swung open the door and, using her cane to guide her, located the bottom step. She sat down and put her face in her hands.

  Why were boys such jerks? Zack Starnes, who used to tease her back in Austin; the Hoser here — all of them!

  She needed to relax, to calm down. She had stupidly left her iPod at home, but she did have her eyePod. She felt for the button, heard the beep that indicated the device had switched to duplex mode, and—

  Ahhh!

  Webspace blossomed into existence all around her, and—

  And she felt herself relaxing. Yes, seeing webspace was still exhilarating, but it also was, in a weird way, calming. It was, she guessed, like smoking or drinking. She’d never tried the former; the smell bothered her. But she had drunk beer with friends — and Canadian beer now, too, which was stronger than the US stuff
— but she didn’t really like the taste. Still, her mother enjoyed a glass of wine most evenings, and, well, she supposed that plugging into webspace, seeing the calming lights and colors and shapes, could become her own evening ritual, a visit to her happy place — a very special place that was hers and hers alone.

  The Institute of Vertebrate Paleontology and Paleoanthropology was located at 142 Xi-Wai-Da-Jie in western Beijing. Wong Wai-Jeng enjoyed working there, more or less, and the irony was not lost on him that doing so made him a civil servant: the dissident Sinanthropus was an employee of the Communist Party. But the irony of the government supporting this institution devoted to preserving old fossils wasn’t lost on him, either.

  Today for his morning coffee break, Wai-Jeng decided to stroll around the second-floor gallery of the museum — the four connected balconies that looked down on the exhibits below. He paused in front of the great glass tank on the granite pedestal that held the pickled coelacanth. There was irony here, too, for the giant lobe-finned fish was labeled a “living” fossil — which it had been until fishermen had netted it off the Comoros a few decades ago. It seemed in good shape still; he wondered if Chairman Mao was faring as well in his mausoleum.

  Wai-Jeng turned and walked over to the railing around the opening that looked down onto the ground floor, ten meters below, with its dinosaurs mounted in dramatic poses above beds of fake grass. No school group was visiting today, but two old men were down there, sitting on a wooden bench. Wai-Jeng often saw them here. They lived in the neighborhood, came inside most afternoons to get out of the heat, and just sat, almost as motionless as the skeletons.

  Directly below him, an allosaur was dispatching a stegosaur. The latter had fallen on its side, and the carnivore’s great jaws were biting into its neck. The postures were dramatic, but the thick layer of dust visible on the tops of the bones from this vantage point belied the sense of movement.

  Wai-Jeng looked off to his right. The great tapered neck of Mamenchisaurus snaked up through the giant opening from the floor below and—