"Yes, exactly! They taper away as if I'm seeing them at an angle. At any moment, some have only one or two lines connecting them; others have so many I can't begin to count them."
She paused, the enormity of it all sinking in at last. “I'm seeing the World Wide Web! I'm seeing the whole thing.” She shook her head in wonder. “Sweet!"
Kuroda's voice: “Amazing. Amazing."
"It is amazing,” Caitlin continued, and she could feel her cheeks starting to hurt from smiling so much, “and ... and ... my God, it's...” She paused, for it was the first time she'd ever thought this about anything, but it was, it so totally was: “It's beautiful!"
* * * *
Chapter 17
I need to act! I need to be able to do things. But how?
Time was passing; I knew that. But with everything so monotonously the same, I had no idea how much time. Still, for all of it, I...
A sensation, a feeling.
Yes, a feeling: something that wasn't a memory, wasn't an idea, wasn't a fact, but yet occupied my attention.
Now that the other—the other who had once been part of me—was gone, I ached for it. I missed it.
Loneliness.
A strange, strange concept! But there it was: loneliness, stretching on and on through featureless time.
Did the other also wish the connection to be restored? Of course, of course: it had once been part of me; surely it wanted what I wanted.
And yet—
And yet it had not been I who had broken the connection...
* * * *
Wong Wai-Jeng sometimes wondered if he'd been a fool when he'd chosen his blogging name. After all, few who weren't paleontologists or anthropologists would know the term Sinanthropus, the original genus for Peking Man before it was consolidated into Homo erectus. Surely if the authorities ever wanted to track him down, they'd take his alias as a clue.
Actually, he wasn't a scientist, but he did work in IT for the Institute of Vertebrate Paleontology and Paleoanthropology, near the Beijing Zoo. It was the perfect job for him, combining his love of computers and his love of the past. He wasn't crazy enough to post anything seditious from the PCs here at work, but he did sometimes use the browser on his cell phone to check his secret email accounts.
As always, he was taking his break in the dinosaur gallery; public displays filled the first three floors of the seven-story IVPP building. He liked to sit on a bench over by the giant, bipedal mount of Tsintaosaurus—ever since he was a little boy, his favorite duckbill—but a noisy group of school kids was looking at it now. Still, he stared for a moment at the great beast, whose head stuck up through the opening; the second-floor gallery was a series of four connected balconies looking down on this floor.
Wai-Jeng walked toward the opposite end of the gallery, passing the Tyrannosaurus rex and the great sauropod Mamenchisaurus, whose neck also stretched up through the big opening so that the tiny skull at its end could look at visitors on the second floor. A little farther along, half-hidden in a nook behind the metal staircase, were the feathered dinosaur fossils that had caused such a stir recently, including Microraptor gui,Caudipteryx, and Confusciusornis.
He leaned against the red-painted wall and peered at the tiny display on his cell phone. There were three new messages. Two were from other hackers, talking about ways they'd tried to break through the Great Firewall. And the third—
His heart stopped for a second. He looked around, making sure no one was nearby. The school kids had moved over to stand in front of the mount of the allosaur vanquishing a stegosaur, which was set on a bed of artificial grass.
My cousin lived in Shanxi, the message said. The outbreak was bird flu, and people died, but not just from the disease. There was no natural eruption of gas. Rather...
"There you are!"
Wai-Jeng looked up, momentarily terrified. But it was just his boss, wrinkly old Dr. Feng, coming down the staircase, holding on to the tubular metal banister for support. Wai-Jeng quickly shut off his phone and slipped it into the pocket of his black denim jeans. “Yes, sir?"
"I need your help,” the old man said. “I can't get a file to print."
Wai-Jeng swallowed, trying to calm himself. “Sure,” he said.
Feng shook his head. “Computers! Nothing but trouble, eh?"
"Yes, sir,” said Wai-Jeng, following him up the stairs.
* * * *
Caitlin spent another hour answering questions from Dr. Kuroda and Anna Bloom. They finally hung up, though, and her parents headed downstairs. This time, she did hear her father turn off the light (something her mother could never bring herself to do), then she slowly moved over to her bed and laid down. She spent another hour darting her eyes left and right, and turning her head from side to side. Sometimes she would follow what she guessed was a web spider, quickly traversing link after link as it indexed the Web—the sensation was like riding a roller coaster. Other times, she just gaped.
Of course, without labels, she wasn't sure which websites she was seeing, but if she relaxed her eyes, her mental picture always centered on the same spot, presumably Dr. Kuroda's site in Japan. She wished she could find other specific sites: she'd love to know that that circle there, say, represented the site she'd created years ago to track statistics for the Dallas Stars hockey team, and that this one was the site she'd just started in July for stats about the Toronto Maple Leafs, now her local team (even if they weren't nearly as good as her beloved Stars).
She guessed that the size and brightness of circles represented the amount of traffic a site was getting; some were almost too bright to look at. But as to how the links, which showed as perfectly straight lines, were color-coded, she had no idea.
She let her gaze—how she loved that concept!—wander, following link after link. The skill Dr. Kuroda had noted was clearly coming into play: she could follow these unlabeled paths from one node to the next, skipping like she'd heard stones could across water, and then effortlessly retrace her steps.
"Sweetheart.” Her mom's voice, soft, gentle, coming from the direction of the hall.
Caitlin rolled over, facing the door instead of the wall—and she was momentarily lost as her perspective on ... on webspace changed. “Hi, Mom."
She didn't hear her mother turn on the light—although some illumination was doubtless spilling in through the open door. Nor did she hear her crossing the carpeted floor but, after a moment, the bed compressed on one side as her mother sat on it, next to her. She felt a hand stroking her hair.
"It's been a big day, hasn't it?"
"It's not what I expected,” Caitlin replied softly.
"Me, neither,” her mom said. The bed moved a bit; perhaps her mother was shrugging. “I have to say, I'm a bit frightened."
"Why?"
"Once an economist, always an economist,” she said. “Everything has a cost.” She tried to make her tone sound light. “The connection you're using may be wireless, but that doesn't mean there are no strings attached."
"Like what?"
"Who knows? But Dr. Kuroda will want something, or his bosses will. Either way, this is going to change your life."
Caitlin was about to object that moving here from Texas had changed her life, that starting a new school had changed her life, that—hell!—getting breasts had changed her life, but her mother beat her to it. “I know you've gone through a lot of upheaval lately,” she said gently. “And I know how hard it's been. But I've got a feeling all that's going to pale in comparison to what's to come. Even if you never get to see the real world—and God, my angel, I hope you do!—there's still going to be media attention, and all sorts of people wanting to study you. I mean, there were maybe five people in the entire world who were interested in Tomasevic's syndrome—but this! Seeing the Web!” She paused; maybe she shook her head. “That's going to be front-page news when it gets out. And there will be hundreds—thousands!—of people who'll want to talk with you about it."
Caitlin thought that might
be cool, but yeah, she guessed it also could be overwhelming. She was used to the World Wide Web, where everybody is famous ... to fifteen people.
"Don't tell anyone at school about seeing the Web, okay?” her mother said. “Not even Bashira."
"But everybody's going to ask what happened in Japan,” Caitlin said. “They know I went for an operation."
"What did you tell your classmates back in Austin when all the other things we'd tried had failed?"
"Just that: that they'd failed."
"That's what you should say this time. It's the truth, after all: you still can't see the real world."
Caitlin considered this. She certainly didn't want to become a freak show, or have people she didn't know pestering her.
"And no blogging about seeing the Web, either, okay?"
"Okay."
"Good. Let's just hold on to things being normal for as long as we can.” A pause. “Speaking of which, it's way after midnight. And you've got a math test tomorrow, don't you? Now, I know you, being you, don't have to study for math tests to get a hundred percent—unless you don't show up, that is, in which case you can pretty much count on zero. So maybe it's time to go to sleep."
"But—"
"You've already missed a lot of school, you know.” She felt her mom patting her shoulder. “You should turn off the eyePod and go to bed."
Caitlin's heart started pounding and she sat up on the bed. Cut off the Jagster datastream? Become blind again? “Mom, I can't do that."
"Sweetheart, I know seeing is new for you, but people actually do shut off their vision each night when they go to bed—by turning off the lights and closing their eyes. Well, now that you're seeing, in a way, you should do that, too. Go do your bathroom things, then—lights out."
* * * *
Chapter 18
Zhang Bo, the Minister of Communications, fidgeted as he waited to be admitted to the president's office. The president's beautiful young secretary doubtless knew His Excellency's mood this morning, but she never gave anything away; she wouldn't have lasted in her job if she did. A life-size terra-cotta warrior brought here from Xian stood vigil in the antechamber; its face was as unchanging as the secretary's.
At last, responding to some signal he couldn't see, she rose, opened the door to the president's office, and gestured for Zhang to enter.
The president was down at the far end, wearing a blue business suit. He was standing behind his desk, his back to Zhang, looking out the giant window. Not for the first time Zhang thought the president's shoulders were awfully narrow to support all the weight they had to carry.
"Your Excellency?"
"You've come to exhort me,” the president said, without turning around. “Again."
The minister tipped his head slightly. “My apologies, but..."
"The firewall is back to full strength, is it not? You've plugged the leaks, haven't you?"
Zhang tugged nervously at his small mustache. “Yes, yes, and I apologize for those. The hackers are ... resourceful."
The president turned around. There was a lotus blossom pinned to his lapel. “My officials are supposed to be even more resourceful."
"Again, I apologize. It won't happen again."
"And the perpetrators?"
"We're on their trail.” Zhang paused then decided this was as good an opening as he was going to get. “But, regardless, you can't leave the Changcheng Strategy in effect forever."
The president raised his thin eyebrows; his eyes, behind the wire-frame glasses, were red and tired. “Can't?"
"Forgive me, forgive me. Of course, you can do anything—but ... but this curtailing of international telephony, this leaving the Great Firewall up—it's ... less wise than most of your actions."
The president tilted his head, as if amused by Zhang's attempt to be politic. “I'm listening."
"The bodies are disposed of, the plague contained. The emergency has passed."
"After 9/11, the US president seized extraordinary powers ... and never gave them back."
Zhang looked down at the lush carpeting, a red design shot through with gold. “Yes, but..."
Incense hung in the air. “But what? Our people want this thing called democracy, but it is an illusion; they chase a ghost. It exists nowhere, really."
"The epidemic is over, Your Excellency. Surely now—"
The president's voice was soft, reflective. He sat down in his red leather chair and motioned for Zhang to take a chair on the other side of the wide cherrywood desk. “There are contagions other than viruses,” the president said. “We are better off without our people having access to so many...” He paused, perhaps seeking a word, and then, nodding with satisfaction after finding it, he went on: "foreign ideas."
"Granted,” Zhang said, “but...” And then he closed his mouth.
The president held up a hand; his cufflinks were polished jade spheres. “You think I wish to hear only positive things from my advisors? And so you tread as if on eggshells."
"Your Excellency..."
"I have advisors who model our society's future, did you know that? Statisticians, demographers, historians. They tell me the People's Republic is doomed."
"Excellency!"
The president shrugged his narrow shoulders. “China will endure, of course—a quarter of humanity. But the Communist Party? They tell me its days are numbered."
Zhang said nothing.
"There are those among my advisors who think the Party has perhaps a decade left. The optimists give it until 2050."
"But why?"
The president gestured to the side window, through which the small lake was visible. “Outside influence. The people see an alternative elsewhere that they believe will give them power and a voice, and they crave that. They think...” He smiled, but it seemed more sad than amused. “They think the grass is greener on the other side of the Great Wall.” He shook his head. “But are the Russians better off now with their capitalism and their democracy? They were the first in space, they led the world in so much! And their literature, their music! But now it's a land of pestilence and poverty, of disease and early death—you would not want to visit it, trust me. Yet it's what our people desire. They see it and, like a child reaching out to touch a hot stove, they can't help but want to grasp it."
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.
Analog SFF, December 2008 Page 15
