Robert Sawyer - Wonder

“I guess. But I feel I should do something.”

“You should indeed,” said Malcolm, and he was clearly done now, for he went back to typing on his keyboard. “Make sure she knows about safe sex.”

I was still working my way through the vast quantities of online video. Some of it had to be accessed in real time; indeed, some played out slower than real time, with frequent pauses for buffering. Looking at videos randomly did not seem efficient; huge numbers of them were pornography, many more were unremarkable home movies (and a goodly quantity were both). And so, instead, I was guided partially by the star-ratings system on YouTube and by textual reviews, and I also followed links posted by people who intrigued me.

For instance, Shoshana Glick, the student of primate communications who worked with my friend Hobo, did “vidding” as a hobby: remixing scenes from TV shows to fit the storylines of popular songs, usually of a sexually suggestive nature. The notion of mixing others’ creations to make your point appealed to me, and I admired Shoshana’s artistry (although, judging by the posted comments, I wasn’t alone in failing to see the sexual chemistry she asserted existed between the two male leads on Anaheim, a new NBC drama series).

When I’d finished watching her own videos, I turned to the list of other videos she recommended. Most were vids by her friends, but there was also a link to an older YouTube video she thought was important. Caitlin and her father had recently watched Star Trek: The Motion Picture, and this video featured one of the actors from there; I was pleased with myself for recognizing that it was the same man despite his being three decades older.

The video was simple: two men sitting side by side on a couch. But the one on the left was oddly attired; my first thought had been that he was wearing the dress uniform of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police—a red jacket with a wide black belt—but as soon as he started speaking, he put that notion to rest: “I’m George Takei,” he said, “and I’m still wearing my Starfleet uniform.”

The other man spoke next, pointing to a highly reflective conical cap he was wearing: “And I’m Brad Altman, and this is a foil cap on my head.”

I saw now, in fact, that the two men were holding hands. “And we’re married,” Takei said, and then he looked at the odd headgear Altman had on, and said, with a deep chuckle, “My husband can be so silly at times.”

Altman spoke again: “This is the first time in history the census is counting marriages like ours.”

And then Takei: “It doesn’t matter whether you have a legal marriage license or not; it only matters if you consider yourself married.”

“Let’s show America how many of us are joined in beautiful, loving marriages,” Altman said. And they went on to explain how to fill out the census form to indicate that.

When they were done, Altman said, “Now, you may ask, why am I wearing this hat?”

And Takei said, “Or why I’m still wearing this Starfleet uniform? It’s to get you to actually listen to this important message.”

I had watched that three days ago, but, like everything, it was always front and center in my mind. I suspected they were correct: if you did have something important to say to people, you should indeed say it in a visually memorable fashion.

Communications Minister Zhang Bo once again made the long march to the president’s desk. This time he had been summoned—and that, at least, meant no interminable wait in the outer office until His Excellency was ready to receive him.

“Webmind is a problem,” said the president, gesturing for Zhang to sit in the ornate chair that faced the cherrywood desk. “Even its name reeks of the West. And the things it says!” He gestured at the printout on his desktop. “It speaks of transparency, of openness, of international ties.” A shake of the head. “It is poisonous.”

Zhang had compiled the summary the president was referring to. “It does show the imprinting effect of being helped into existence by an American.”

“Exactly! And intelligence reports suggest it has spoken to the American president? It has not been in touch with me, but it consults with him.”

Zhang thought it prudent not to point out that anyone could talk to Webmind whenever they pleased, and so he said nothing.

“The last time I invoked the Changcheng Strategy, you exhorted me to drop the Great Firewall as quickly as possible. I acceded to your request and opened up the floodgates once more. But given the statements this Webmind is making, I realize it was a mistake. We need to isolate our people from its influence.”

“But it is part and parcel of the Internet, Your Excellency. And, as I said before, there is a need for the Internet, for the World Wide Web. We rely on them for ecommerce, for banking.”

“You mistake the end for the means, Zhang. Yes, we need those economic capabilities—but we don’t have to use the existing Internet for them. It was madness to superimpose our financial transactions on top of an international, Western-controlled infrastructure.” He pointed to a small lacquered table. On it were three telephone desk sets, one red, one green, and one white, each under a glass bell jar. None had dials or keypads. “Do you know what those are?” the president asked.

“I assume they are the hotlines.”

“Exactly. The red connects directly to the Kremlin; the green to the Kantei; and the white to the White House. They each use their own communication channels, established decades ago: a buried landline to speak to my Russian counterpart, undersea cable to speak to my Japanese one, a dedicated satellite to connect with Washington. They are the template, the proof-of-concept: we can build a new, secure network, unpolluted by Webmind’s presence, for the specific needs we have for international communication. And, for communication within China, we will build a separate new network that we alone control.”

“That might take years,” said Zhang.

“Yes. So, for the interim, we will again strengthen the Great Firewall, isolating our portion of the Web from the rest, and purge whatever remains of that—that thing.”

“Again, Your Excellency, I am not sure this is… prudent.”

“Those judgments are mine to make. Your role is simply to advise me of whether what I’ve asked for is technically possible.”

Zhang took a deep breath and considered the matter. “Your Excellency, I live to serve. The bulk of the current Internet was built in the 1960s and 1970s, with copper-wire cabling. Your question is whether China here in the twenty-first century can, with fiber optics and wireless equipment, do better than Americans did half a century ago? And the answer, of course, is yes.”

The president nodded. “Then set your staff to it; draw up the plans. Make it completely different from the Internet: no packets, no routers. Surely there were alternative designs originally considered for the Internet’s architecture. Find out what they were and see if one of them can be adapted to this project.”

Zhang resisted the urge to say he would google the question—the irony, he feared, would not be appreciated—and instead simply replied, “As you wish, Excellency. But, truly, what you’re asking will take years.”

“Let that part take years. But I told you last month that some of my advisors think the Communist Party cannot endure in the face of outside influences—they gave it until 2050, at the outside. Webmind exacerbates that problem; it is a threat to our health, and so we must take immediate and decisive action.”

“Yes, Excellency?”

“Prepare to enact the Changcheng Strategy once more; we will strengthen the Great Firewall.” He pointed again at the printout on the polished desktop. “When infection is rampant, isolation is key.”