WWW: Wonder

by Robert Sawyer

  Caitlin smiled, remembering all over again why she liked Mr. H so much. They chatted a few minutes more in the warm room, and then she and Matt drifted away. A slow dance soon started, and they headed into the center of the gym. She liked draping her arms around his neck and resting her head on his shoulder as they swayed with the music, even if, as always, the speakers were turned up so high that the sound was distorted.

  When the song was done, Caitlin gave him a peck on the cheek, and said, “I’ve got to go to the girls’ room.”

  Matt nodded. “Okay.” He looked around the dim gymnasium, then pointed to the far wall, where there was an open door leading outside. “I’m going to get some fresh air; I’ll meet you outside.”

  It was dark by the time Colonel Hume pulled up out front of Zwerling Optics, a four-story-tall office building with telecommunication dishes on the roof. According to tweets from ex-employees, as soon as the company had been bought, all sixty-seven workers had received generous severance payments and been escorted off the premises.

  Of course, it was wrong to think of this building as Webmind’s headquarters. He wasn’t located here—and that was part of the problem. When Hume had co-authored the Pandora protocol for DARPA in 2001, they’d been mostly worried about artificial intelligences that would be programmed in laboratories. Something like that would have a physical location: a specific set of servers, a cluster of computers, likely in a single building that could be cordoned off or, if necessary, blown up.

  But Webmind was nowhere and everywhere—which meant, if Webmind was going to keep an eye on his sequestered hackers, there had to be video feeds out of this building. Fiber-optic trunks were hard to tap because the only way to do so was by physically cutting into the cable and diverting some of the photons, which resulted in a measurable drop in signal quality. But this building had coaxial cable leading out of it. And coax leaked—you could read what was being sent along it without interfering at all with the datastream, and therefore without tipping anyone off about what you were doing. The ease of wiretapping coax was one of the reasons the US government kept quietly deflecting attempts to redo Internet infrastructure nationwide.

  Hume was dressed in casual clothes: blue jeans and a sky blue cotton shirt with its sleeves rolled up revealing his freckled arms. He’d moved over to the front passenger seat so he’d have more room to work.

  His laptop was open and perched on the dashboard above the glove compartment, and he was wearing silver headphones. The video feed he was intercepting was grainy, and it blacked out periodically; the sound was attenuated, as if it were coming from very far away.

  The view he’d managed to tap seemed to be from a security webcam that endlessly panned left and right, taking about ten seconds to complete a sweep in each direction. The first person he spotted was a woman—white, straight brown hair that tumbled over her shoulders. Her face was bent down, intent on—yes, yes, on a keyboard—so he couldn’t be positive, but he felt sure this was Simonne Coogan, the famed Drakkenfyre herself.

  The camera continued to pan, and—God, there must be thirty-odd people in there! All were working at computers—some desktops, some laptops. A sound he’d first taken to be static was actually the combination of all their keystrokes.

  The camera continued to move and—

  No question: the gaunt face, the dreadlocks, the glint off the gold ring through the right eyebrow: it was Chase. Something odd about his nose, though . . . ah, it was bandaged, and in one of society’s countless acts of thoughtless humiliation, with a wide “flesh”-colored Caucasianbeige Band-Aid.

  The camera panned on. More faces deep in concentration—but what the hell were they all doing?

  There was Devon Hawkins—Crowbar Alpha himself—wearing a Halo 4 T-shirt. Hume wanted to call Hawkins’s mother, to put her mind at ease, but that would have to wait. Next to Hawkins was . . . hmmm. Might be Gordon Trent.

  The camera’s view was from the front of the room, so he couldn’t see what was on any of the monitors. At the back of the room there was a long table covered with typical hacker sources of fuel: cans of beer and Red Bull, bottles of Coke, an industrial coffee urn, and several Dunkin’ Donuts cartons.

  It didn’t look like the hackers were prisoners, and yet it seemed likely that none of them had left this building for days. Records Tony Moretti had passed him showed twenty-three food deliveries—mostly pizza, Chinese, and sushi—at all hours of the day and night.

  The camera started to swing back in the other direction. Hume saw one of the people—a black man of maybe forty—get up and move over to stand behind a white guy in his late twenties; the former seemed to be giving the latter a hand with something.

  And then Hume heard a deep male voice over the headphones—preternaturally calm but tripping ever so slightly over the gap between each word: “Attention, please, everyone.” He recognized the voice, of course: it was the new, official Webmind voice—the one he’d introduced to the world with his speech at the UN. It went on: “Status reports, please. Transportation?”

  “Ready,” replied a man off camera.

  “Information technology?” asked Webmind.

  “Not yet—another half hour, tops.”

  “Housing?”

  “Good to go,” said a woman.

  “Health?”

  “Owned!” crowed a youthful male voice.

  “Environmental Protection?”

  The camera happened to catch this speaker, a long-haired white man: “I’m in—finally!”

  “Justice?”

  “Just a sec—yes, yes, I’ve got full control now.”

  “Commerce?”

  This speaker, too, was on camera: an Asian fellow who looked like he might be as young as fifteen: “I’m in! I’m in!”

  “Ag—” But then, maddeningly, the sound dropped out.

  Hume used the laptop’s trackpad to adjust settings, but the panning video remained silent. He slapped the palm rest with his hand, there was a crackle of static over the headphones, then the audio resumed, with a man speaking: “—to go.”

  Webmind’s voice again, saying two ominous words: “National Defense?”

  “I’m good,” replied one man, and “Me, too,” added another.

  Hume’s heart was pounding so hard he thought for a second he was having a coronary. Jesus H. Christ! He had given the hacking community what he’d thought was the ultimate challenge, for what could be more impressive than taking down a world-spanning AI? Why, nothing short of taking over the whole goddamned United States government—and nowhere better to do it from than right here in the capital region. No wonder Webmind had remained silent during the lead-up to the US election—it didn’t make any fucking difference to him who won on November 6; he was going to be in charge.

  Rat-tat-tat!

  Hume’s heart actually stopped for a moment. He’d been so intent on watching the screen and straining to listen that he’d missed the man approaching his car out of the darkness from the right; that man had rapped his knuckles against the passenger-side window.

  Hume felt his stomach clenching as he looked up at him. The man was white, six-two, two hundred muscular pounds, perhaps thirty-five—and his head was shaved bald. He motioned for Hume to roll down the window; Hume pressed the button that did that, opening it only an inch so they could speak.

  “Colonel Hume,” the man said, lifting a Glock 9mm semiautomatic pistol and pressing it against the sheet of glass between them, “won’t you come inside?”

  thirty-five

  Caitlin left the gym and headed out to find the girls’ room. She knew the feel of the corridors well enough from when she’d been a student, but walking them now without her white cane was difficult. It took her much longer than it should have to find the right room; she’d never had cause to use the first-floor washroom before.

  Canadians were forever pointing out their inventions to her, and someone had told her that the stylized male and female silhouettes used on washroom doors—whi
ch she’d now seen in several buildings—had been originally designed for the 1967 World’s Fair in Montreal, which explained why the woman was wearing a miniskirt.

  When Caitlin was finished, making her way back to the gym was easier. Just as when she’d been blind, she’d unconsciously taken note of the distance she’d traveled—and, of course, the blaring music coming from the gym served as a beacon.

  She re-entered the vast, warm room. Mr. Heidegger and redheaded Mrs. Zehetoffer were both right by the gym door; they said someone from another school had tried to get in unaccompanied, so they were now standing watch here. Caitlin crossed the gym, but—

  It took her a few seconds to figure out what had happened. The door leading directly outside was closed now. She located it, found the handle, opened it, and headed out into the evening; it was no brighter out here than it had been in the gym, and—

  And something was very wrong.

  “I told you to stay away from her.” It was the Hoser’s voice.

  Caitlin looked around, trying to parse the scene. There were fifteen people here, standing on concrete in the back of the school next to what she knew was a large athletic field.

  Matt was to her left, and near him was Trevor Nordmann, who had blond hair and wide shoulders. Others, who had presumably been standing about chatting earlier, were now facing Trevor. He apparently hadn’t seen Caitlin yet, and, for that matter, neither had Matt, who had his deer-in-the-headlights face on.

  “Well?” demanded Trevor. “Didn’t I?”

  Matt spoke up, but, of course, his voice cracked by the third word. “You don’t have the right to—”

  “The fuck I don’t,” said Trevor.

  Caitlin’s heart was pounding, and she was sure Matt’s must be, too. Of course, he could run away; Trevor might chase after him, or he might let him go, but—

  But Matt caught sight of Caitlin and he looked—well, a way that Caitlin had never seen before, but it might have been mortified or humiliated, and—

  And it must be bad enough to be confronted by a bully in private, but to have it occur in front of the girl you’re trying to impress probably made Matt want to curl up and die. Caitlin looked at the faces, but she’d only been a student here for a few days after gaining sight; she might very well have known most of these people, but she didn’t recognize them—oh, wait, except for Sunshine; her platinum hair and the low-cut red top were quite distinctive.

  Matt made a noise—maybe a sigh?—but then he caught sight of something else. Caitlin was even worse at following people’s gazes than she was at extrapolating what they were pointing at, but she soon realized that Matt was looking above her—above the dark red door that Caitlin had closed behind her.

  Trevor must have caught the glance, too. “Whatcha going to do, Reese? Go running for a teacher?”

  But Matt shook his head slowly, deliberately. “What are you going to do, Trevor?” His voice cracked, but he pressed on. “Hit me? Kick me? Cut with me with a knife?” And then he lifted his arm and pointed at Caitlin, and—

  No! No, again it wasn’t at her; it was above her. “You see that?” There was a black hemisphere attached to the bottom of an overhang above the door. “That’s a security camera.” He turned and pointed again. “There’s another over there.”

  He then reached into his pocket and pulled out his BlackBerry. “And, if that’s not enough, this has a five-megapixel camera.” Matt stood defiantly. “The day of the bully is over,” he said. “I don’t have to fight you; I don’t have to become you to defeat you.”

  Trevor’s voice was a snarl. “You want a record of you being shitkicked? Fine.”

  But Matt kept his own tone even. “And look at Caitlin,” he said, nodding in her direction. “Everything you do is being seen by her eye—and everything her eye sees is instantaneously transmitted to servers in Japan. What you do here tonight will be recorded permanently. What you do here tonight will be accessible until the end of time. What you do here tonight will become part of the permanent record of who Trevor Nordmann is.”

  Matt looked around at the motionless crowd. Caitlin was terrified. He was expecting someone like Trevor to listen to reason, when—

  “Go ahead, Trevor,” said Matt. “Hit a guy who weighs twenty kilos less than you do. Hit a guy who has half the muscle mass you do. Prove to the world—for all time, Trevor, in a record that your children and your grandchildren and your great-grandchildren will be able to access on down to the heat death of the universe—that you’re a real man because you can beat up someone smaller than you. Make that case for posterity.”

  Trevor’s face contorted; Caitlin figured that was what being livid looked like, although it was dark enough that she couldn’t actually see if his skin had changed color.

  Matt went on. “And, of course, what Caitlin sees, Webmind sees. He’s watching.”

  The words Indeed I am flashed in Caitlin’s vision.

  Caitlin was terrified; Trevor looked like he was going to explode. But Matt pressed ahead, his voice somehow both shaky and firm at the same time. “And, just so you know, we live in a world of laws. Hitting someone is battery, and it’s a criminal-code offense here in Ontario—and if you hit me, I will press charges, Trevor Nordmann, and I will win. That’s not a threat: that’s information so you can plan your own next move more effectively.”

  “My next move,” Trevor said, his eyes locked on Matt, “is going to be to kick your fucking ass.”

  In the circle around them, one of the students said, “Fight . . .” and “Fight . . .” echoed another.

  Caitlin had read scenes like this in books, but although the blind were no less violent than anyone else, there hadn’t been many schoolyard brawls at the TSBVI. “Webmind,” Caitlin said softly, “how long would it take for the police to get here?”

  Assuming they dispatched the nearest car immediately, six minutes.

  Caitlin scowled; an eternity—and she doubted the cops would consider this a high priority.

  “Fight . . .” said someone else, and “Fight . . .” added another.

  Of course, she could run inside, get one of the teachers, but—

  But Matt must have been thinking the same thing, for he looked right at her, and firmly shook his head; he didn’t want that.

  More voices now as others joined in: “Fight . . . fight ... fight . . .” The chant was low, rhythmic, almost tribal. Caitlin looked from face to face, unable to identify anyone. She could recognize voices when people were speaking normally, but this chanting was guttural and low.

  “Fight . . . fight . . . fight . . .”

  Trevor’s posture changed. He hunched over a bit, and his hands balled into fists. The light, coming mostly from a lamppost set into the concrete, was harsh, and it made his features look sharp.

  “Fight . . . fight . . . fight . . .”

  Caitlin had read about women who got excited when men fought over them, as if their own self-worth was tied up in such a battle. But she didn’t want this—not at all. She didn’t want Matt hurt; she didn’t want anyone hurt.

  “Fight . . . fight . . . fight . . .”

  Not everyone was chanting. Sunshine wasn’t; several other boys and girls weren’t, either.

  Caitlin pulled out her red BlackBerry and activated the video function. She aimed it at Matt and Trevor as they slowly circled each other.

  The chanting of “fight” continued, but Caitlin spoke overtop of it, clearly and firmly, holding her BlackBerry out like a small shield: “Sight!” She began to pan it left and right, taking in the whole chanting crowd.

  She looked over at Sunshine, partway around the circle to her left. The tall girl seemed baffled for a moment, but then Caitlin saw her open her purse and fish out her own cell phone. She swung it left and right, too.

  “Sight!” Caitlin said again, and Sunshine echoed it: “Sight!”

  Next to Sunshine, a boy Caitlin didn’t recognize pulled out his phone and held it in front of him. “Sight!” he said, and the
three of them repeated it. “Sight! Sight! Sight!” It wasn’t guttural; their voices were clear and strong.

  But others were still chanting, “Fight . . . fight . . . fight . . .”

  Two girls on Caitlin’s right pulled out their phones, and a boy had something bulkier in his hand that Caitlin guessed must be a video camera, which he slowly panned over the tableau. They added their voices to Caitlin’s chorus: “Sight! Sight! Sight!”

  “Fight . . . fight . . . fight . . .”

  More phones and cameras came out. “Sight!” “Fight . . .” “Sight!” “Fight . . .”

  A few flashes went off, one after the other. They reminded Caitlin of the lightning bolts from that night when everything had changed, and—

  And the chanting of “Fight . . .” began to fade away. Caitlin let “Sight!” be repeated five more times, then she spoke loudly to Trevor, indicating all the cell phones being held out—all the little rectangles glowing in the gathering darkness. “Three-hundred-and-sixty-degree coverage,” she said. “The police could reconstruct the scene in 3-D if they wanted to.”

  Trevor looked at Caitlin, then back at Matt.

  “So,” said Matt, his voice holding steady, “what’s it going to be, Trevor? Who are you—for the record?”

  Trevor looked around the circle, and it reminded Caitlin of that moment in 2001: A Space Odyssey in which the lead australopithecine had first encountered the monolith; he’d stared at it, and slowly, ponderously, worked out in his dim fashion that the world had changed.

  Trevor’s head nodded up and down a little. Caitlin was still learning to gauge these things, but it seemed to her that it wasn’t meant as a signal to others; rather, it was a sign that he was thinking.

  And, at last, Trevor unclenched his fists. He glared at Caitlin and then at Matt, and then he turned, and slowly started walking. The crowd parted. Caitlin wondered if they hadn’t opened quite so large a hole whether Trevor would have made a show of bumping into someone—an assault he could dismiss as accidental. But they didn’t give him that opportunity, and he continued on. At first Caitlin thought he was heading for the door to the gymnasium, but he walked right past it, heading out into the chilly night.