Analog SFF, November 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Anyway, tomorrow we'll find out if my own operation worked. Please post some encouraging comments here, folks—give me something to read while I wait for the moment of truth...

  [And seekrit message to BG4: check your email, babe!]

  * * * *

  China's Paramount Leader and President replaced the ornate, gold-trimmed telephone handset into the cradle on his vast cherry-wood desk. He looked down the long length of his office, at the intricately carved wooden wall panels, beautiful tapestries, and glass display cases. A stick of sweet incense was burning on the sideboard.

  The room was absolutely quiet. Finally, sure now of his decision, he shifted in his red-leather chair and touched the intercom button.

  "Yes, Your Excellency?” said a female voice at once.

  "Bring me the Changcheng Strategy document."

  There was a moment's hesitation, then: “Right away."

  "And have Minister Zhang briefed on the Shanxi situation, then have him come see me."

  "Yes, Your Excellency."

  The president got up from his chair and moved to the large side window, its red velvet curtains tied back with gold sashes. The window behind his desk looked out on the Forbidden City, but this one looked over the Southern Sea, one of two small artificial lakes surrounded by immaculately groomed parkland on the grounds of the Zhongnanhai complex. Looking in this direction, one could almost forget that this was downtown Beijing, and that Tiananmen Square was just south of here.

  He cast his mind back to 1989. The government had tried its best then to maintain social order, but rabble rousers outside China had made a difficult situation much worse by inundating the country with faxes of wildly inaccurate news reports, including New York Times articles and transcripts of CNN broadcasts.

  The Party recognized that there might someday be a similar circumstance during which protecting its citizens from an onslaught of outsider propaganda would be necessary, and so the Changcheng Strategy had been devised. Going far beyond the Golden Shield Project, which had been in effect for years, Changcheng had never yet been fully implemented, but surely it was called for now. He would address the nation in appropriate terms about the crisis in Shanxi, and he would not allow his words to be immediately gainsaid by outsiders. He could not risk the citizenry responding violently or in a panic.

  The door to his office opened. He turned and saw his secretary—beautiful, young, perfect—walking the long distance toward him holding a thick sheaf of papers bound in black covers. “Here you are, sir. And Minister Zhang is on the phone now with Dr. Quan Li. He will be here shortly."

  She placed the document on the desk and withdrew. He looked once more at the placid water, then walked back to his desk and sat down. The cover of the document was marked in stark white characters “Eyes Only,” “Restricted,” and “If You Are Not Sure You Are Authorized to Read This, You Are Not.” He opened it and scanned the table of contents: “Fixed-Line Telephony,” “Cellular Phones,” “The Special Problem of Facsimile Machines,” “Shortwave Radio,” “Satellite Communications—Uplink and Downlink,” “Electronic Mail, the Internet, and the World Wide Web,” “Maintaining Essential Services During Implementation,” and so on.

  He turned the page to the Executive Summary; the paper was heavy, stiff. “As required by their conditions of license, all telephony providers in China—whether fixed-line or mobile—maintain a system-wide ability in software to immediately block calls going outside China's borders and/or to reject incoming calls from foreign countries...” “Similar filtering capabilities are available for all governmental and commercial satellite relay stations...” “The World Wide Web presents a particular challenge, because of its decentralized nature; however, almost all Internet traffic between China and the rest of the world goes through just seven fiber-optic trunk lines, at three points, so..."

  He leaned back in his leather chair and shook his head. The name “World Wide Web” was offensive to him, for it touted a globalist, integrated view antithetical to his country's great traditions.

  The office door opened again and in came Zhang Bo, the Minister of Communications. He was Han, in his mid-fifties, short and squat, and had a small mustache, which, like the hair on his head, was dark brown utterly devoid of gray. He wore a navy blue business suit and a light blue tie.

  "We are going to deal decisively with Shanxi,” said the president.

  Zhang's thin eyebrows climbed his forehead, and the president saw his head bob as he swallowed. “Dr. Quan told me what he'd recommended. But surely you won't—” The minister stopped, frozen by the president's gaze.

  "Yes?"

  "I'm sorry, Your Excellency. I'm simply concerned. The world will ... note this."

  "Doubtless. Which is why we shall invoke the Changcheng Strategy."

  The minister's eyes went wide. “That is a drastic step, Your Excellency."

  "But a necessary one. Are you prepared to implement it?"

  Minister Zhang moved a finger back and forth along his mustache as he considered. “Well, telephony is no problem—we've done rotating tests of that for years now, during the night; the cutoffs work just fine. The same with satellite communications. As for the Internet, we studied what happened with the seabed earthquake of late 2006, and what happened in Burma in September 2007 when the junta there cut off all net access. And we looked at what happened in January 2008 when the severing of two undersea cables in the Mediterranean cut off Internet services to large parts of the Middle East. And in early 2008, of course, many of the procedures were tested here as we dealt with the Tibet situation.” He paused. “Now, yes, any attempt to shut down the Web within China would be difficult; thousands of ISPs would have to be blocked. But Changcheng calls only for cutting the Chinese part of the Web off from the rest of the world, and the appropriate infrastructure is in place for that. I don't anticipate any problems.” Another pause. “But, if I may, how long do you intend to have Changcheng in effect?"

  "Several days; perhaps a week."

  "You're worried about word reaching the foreign press?"

  "No. I'm worried about word coming back from them to our people."

  "Ah, yes. They will misconstrue what you're intending to do in Shanxi, Excellency."

  "Doubtless,” the president said, “but it will ultimately blow over. Fundamentally, the rest of the world doesn't care what happens to the Chinese people, least of all to our poorest citizens. They have always turned a blind eye to what happens within our borders, so long as they can shop cheaply at their Wal-Marts. They will move on to other things soon enough."

  "Tian—” Zhang stopped himself, the allusion that was never made by others in these contexts stillborn on his lips.

  But the president nodded. “That was different; those were students. Our actions there were the same as those of the Americans at Kent State and a hundred other places. The Westerners saw themselves in what we did, and it was their own self-loathing they transferred to us. But rural peasants? There is no connection. There may be vitriol for a short time, but it will die down because they will realize that our actions have helped make them—the Westerners—safe. Meanwhile, we will present a more palatable story to our people; I will leave preparing that in your capable hands. But if word does get out during the most sensitive period, when the incident is fresh, I don't want a distorted Western view of it being reflected back into this country."

  Zhang nodded. “Very well. Still, the Changcheng Strategy will have its own repercussions."

  "Yes,” said the President. “I know. I'm sure the Minister of Finance will complain about the economic impact; he will urge me to make the interruption as short as possible."

  Zhang tilted his head. “Well, even during it, Chinese individuals will still be able to call and email other Chinese; Chinese consumers will still be able to buy online from Chinese merchants; Chinese television signals will still be relayed by satellites. Life will go on.” A pause. “But, yes, there will be needs for international electronic
cash transfers—the Americans servicing their debts to us, for instance. We can keep certain key channels open, of course, but nonetheless a short interruption is doubtless best."

  The president swiveled his chair, his back now to Zhang, and he looked out the other window, at the slanted roofs of the Forbidden City, the silver sky shimmering overhead.

  His country's rapidly increasing prosperity had been a joy to behold, and it was, he knew, thanks to his policies. In a few more decades, peasant villages like the ones in question would be gone anyway; China would be the richest country in the world. Yes, there would always be foreign trade but by the end of this century there would be no more “developing world,” no cheap labor here—or anywhere else—for foreigners to use. Raising the level of prosperity in the People's Republic meant that China would eventually be able to go back to what it had always been, back to the roots of its strength: an isolated nation with purity of thought and purpose. This would simply be a small taste of that, an appetizer for things to come.

  Zhang said, “When are you going to give the order to implement Changcheng?"

  The president turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. “Me? No, no. That would be...” His gaze roamed about the opulent office, as if seeking a word stashed among the ceramic and crystal art objects. “That would be unseemly," he said at last. “It would be much more appropriate if you gave the order."

  Zhang was clearly struggling to keep his features composed, but he made the only response he could under the circumstances. “Yes, Your Excellency."

  * * * *

  Caitlin hadn't told Bashira when she'd asked back in the school's cafeteria, but the first thing Caitlin really wanted to see was her mother's face. They both had what were called heart-shaped faces, although the plastic model heart she'd felt at school had borne little resemblance to the idealized form she was familiar with from foil-wrapped chocolates and paper valentines.

  Caitlin knew that she and her mother also had similar noses—small, slightly upturned—and their eyes were closer together than most people's. She had read that it was normal to have the width of one imaginary eye separating the other two. She liked that phrase: an imaginary eye, she supposed, saw imaginary things, and that was not unlike her view of the world. Indeed, she often read or heard things that required her to rethink her conception of reality. She remembered her shock, years ago, at learning the quarter moon wasn't a fat wedge like one-fourth of a pie.

  Still, she was positive she was sitting in an examination room at the hospital attached to the University of Tokyo, and she was confident she had a good mental image of that room. It was smallish—she could tell by the way sound echoed. And she knew the chair she was in was padded, and by touch and smell she was sure its upholstery was vinyl. She also knew there were three other people in the room: her mother, standing in front of her; Dr. Kuroda, who had obviously had something quite spicy for lunch; and one of Kuroda's colleagues, a woman who was recording everything with a video camera.

  Kuroda had given a little speech to the camera in Japanese, and now was repeating it in English. “Miss Caitlin Decter, age fifteen and blind since birth, has a systematic encoding flaw in her visual-processing system: all of the data that is supposed to be encoded by her retinas is indeed encoded, but it is scrambled to the point of being unintelligible to her brain. The scrambling is consistent—it always happens in the same way—and the technology we have developed simply remaps the signals into the normal human-vision coding scheme. We are now about to find out if her brain can interpret the corrected signals."

  All through the Japanese version, and continuing over the English one, Caitlin concentrated on the sensory details she could pick up about the room: the sounds and how they echoed; the smells, which she tried to separate one from the other so that she could determine what was causing them; the feel of the chair's armrest against her own arms, its back against her back. She wanted to fix in her mind her perception of this place prior to actually seeing it.

  When he was done with his spiel, Dr. Kuroda turned to face her—the shift in his voice was obvious—and he said, “All right, Miss Caitlin, please close your eyes."

  She did so; nothing changed.

  "Okay. Let's get the bandage off. Keep your eyes closed, please. There might be some visual noise when I turn on the signal-processing computer."

  "Okay,” she said, although she had no idea what “visual noise” might be. She felt an uncomfortable tugging and then—yeow!—Kuroda pulled away the adhesive strips. She brought a hand up to rub her cheek.

  "After I activate the outboard signal-processing unit, which Miss Caitlin refers to as her eyePod,” he said, for the benefit of the camera, “we'll wait ten seconds for things to settle down before she opens her eyes."

  She heard him shifting in his chair.

  There was a beep, and then she heard him counting. She had an excellent time-sense—very useful when you can't see clocks—and, maddeningly, Kuroda's “seconds” were about half again as long as they should have been. But she dutifully kept her eyes closed.

  "...eight ... nine ... ten!”

  Please, God, Caitlin thought. She opened her eyes, and—

  And her heart sank. She blinked rapidly a few times, as if there could have been any doubt about whether her eyes were truly open.

  "Well?” said her mom, sounding as anxious as Caitlin felt.

  "Nothing."

  "Are you sure?” asked Kuroda. “No sensation of light? No color? No shapes?"

  Caitlin felt her eyes tearing up; at least they were good for that. “No."

  "Don't worry,” he said. “It might take a few minutes.” To her astonishment, one of his thick fingers flicked against her left temple, as though he was trying to get a piece of equipment with a loose connection to come to life.

  It was hard to tell, because there was so much background noise—doctors being paged, gurneys rolling by outside—but she thought Kuroda was moving in his chair now, and—yes, she could feel his breath on her face. It was maddening, knowing that someone was looking right into her eye, staring into it, while she couldn't see a thing, and—

  "Open your eyes, please,” he said.

  She felt her cheeks grow warm. She hadn't been aware that she'd closed them, but although she had so wanted the procedure to succeed, she'd been unnerved by the scientist looking inside her.

  "I'm shining a light into your left eye,” he said. People drawled where Caitlin came from; she found Kuroda's rapid-fire speech a little hard to follow. “Do you see anything at all?"

  She shifted nervously in the chair. Why had she allowed herself to be talked into this? “Nothing."

  "Well, something's changed,” Dr. Kuroda said. “Your pupil is responding correctly now—contracting in response to the light I'm shining in, instead of expanding."

  Caitlin sat up straight. “Really?"

  "Yes.” A pause. “Just in your left eye—well, I mean, when I shine my light in your left eye, both your pupils contract; when I shine it into your right eye, they both expand. Now, yes, a unilateral light stimulus should evoke a bilateral pupillary light reflex, because of the internuncial neurons, but you see what that means? The implant is intercepting the signals, and they are being corrected and retransmitted."

  Caitlin wanted to shout, Then why can't I see?

  Her mother made a small gasp. She'd doubtless loomed in and had just seen Caitlin's pupils contract properly, but, damn it, Caitlin didn't even know what light was like—so how would she know if she were seeing it? Bright, piercing, flickering, glowing—she'd heard all the words, but had no idea what any of them meant.

  "Anything?” Kuroda asked again.

  "No.” She felt a hand touching her hand, taking it, holding it. She recognized it as her mother's—the nibbled nail on the index finger, the skin growing a little loose with age, the wedding ring with the tiny nick in it.

  "The curing of your Tomasevic's syndrome is proof that corrected signals are being passed back,” said Kuroda
. “They're just not being interpreted yet.” He tried to sound encouraging, and Caitlin's mother squeezed her hand more tightly. “It may take a while for your brain to figure out what to do with the signals it's now getting. The best thing we can do is give it a variety of stimulus: different colors, different lighting conditions, different shapes, and hopefully your brain will suss out what it's supposed to do."

  It's supposed to see, thought Caitlin. But she didn't say a word.

  * * * *

  Chapter 7

  He signed his posts “Sinanthropus.” His real name was something he kept hidden, along with all his other personal details; the beauty of the Web, after all, was the ability to remain anonymous. No one needed to know that he worked in IT, that he was twenty-eight, that he'd been born in Chengdu, that he'd moved to Beijing with his parents as a teenager, that, despite his young age, he already had a touch of gray in his hair.

  No, all that mattered on the Web was what you said, not who was saying it. Besides, he'd heard the old joke: “The bad news is that the Communist Party reads all your email; the good news is that the Communist Party reads all your email"—meaning, or so the joke would have it, that they were many years behind. But that quip dated from when humans actually did the reading; these days computers scanned email, looking for words that might suggest sedition or other illegal activity.

  Most Chinese bloggers were like their counterparts in other places, blithering on about the tedious minutiae of their daily lives. But Sinanthropus talked about substantive issues: human rights, politics, oppression, freedom. Of course, all four of those phrases were searched for by the content filters, and so he wrote about them obliquely. His regular readers knew that when he spoke of “my son Shing,” he meant the Chinese people as a whole; references to “the Beijing Ducks” weren't really about the basketball team but rather the inner circle of the Communist Party; and so on. It infuriated him that he had to write this way, but unlike those who had been openly critical of the government at least he was still free.