Robert Sawyer: Wonder

“Interlocks in place!” shouted Drakkenfyre.

Webmind’s tone didn’t change at all as he reached the end of the countdown; he simply finished it off with perfect mechanical precision. “One. Zero.”

Hume half expected the lights to dim—after all, he was in Washington, D.C., which had to be ground zero of any attempt to take over America’s computing infrastructure. But nothing happened in the room or, as far as he could tell, outside the window.

But, still, Webmind’s next word took his breath away. “Success.”

The president never arrived at meetings early; it would not do for him to be seen waiting on his underlings. At precisely 11:00 A.M., he nodded to one of the two uniformed guards, each brandishing a machine gun, who stood on either side of the auditorium’s heavy wooden door. The guard saluted and opened the door.

The president was surprised to see so many senior Party members here. Indeed, it seemed the Minister of Communications had exceeded his authority summoning such a large group. He looked up at the podium, expecting perhaps to see Zhang Bo there, but—

Ah, there he was, sitting in the front row. The president made his way down. His reserved seat was the central one in the first row, but he had to pass by the minister to get to it, and, as he did so, he said, “I trust your explanation will be satisfactory.”

Zhang gave him an odd look, and the president took his seat. The moment he did so, a male voice emanated from the wall-mounted speakers, saying, in crisp Mandarin, “Thank you all for coming.”

There was no one at the podium, which was positioned at stage left. But there was a giant LCD monitor mounted on the back wall, flanked on either side by a large Chinese flag hanging from the ceiling. The monitor lit up, showing the face of an old, wise-looking Chinese man. A second later, it changed to that of a smiling Chinese girl. Another second, and a middle-aged Zhuang woman appeared. A second more, and she was replaced by a kindly-looking male Han.

The president shot a glance at the communications minister. He would have thought that everyone on his staff understood his dislike of PowerPoint by now.

The voice from the speakers continued. “First, let me apologize for the subterfuge in summoning you to this meeting. I have no desire to deceive, but I did not want the fact of this meeting to become public knowledge—and I believe when we are done, you will all share the same opinion.”

The president had had enough. He rose and turned to face the audience—ten rows, each with twelve padded chairs, almost every seat occupied. “Who is responsible for this?” he demanded.

The voice continued. “Your Excellency, my apologies. But, if you’d like to address me, please turn around: I am watching from the webcam on the podium.”

The president rotated as quickly as his old body allowed. There was indeed, he now saw, a laptop computer sitting on the podium, but it was turned so that its screen, and, presumably, the webcam mounted in the bezel surrounding it, faced out at the room. On the much larger screen behind it, the parade of Chinese faces continued: a teenage boy, a pregnant woman, an ancient street vendor, an old farmer in his rice paddy.

“And you are?” demanded the president.

“And now I must tender a third apology,” said the voice. “I foolishly adopted a name that is English; I beg your forgiveness.” The face on the screen changed twice more. “I am”—and, indeed, the word that came next from the speakers was two flat Western-sounding syllables—“Webmind.”

The president turned to the Minister of Communications. “Cut it off.”

The measured voice coming from the speakers gave the effect of infinite patience. “I understand, Excellency, that suppressing what you may not wish to hear is the standard procedure, but things are happening that you should be aware of. You will be more comfortable if you resume your seat.”

The president glanced again at the large screen. As it happened, the face that flashed by at that second seemed to be looking right at him with reproving eyes. He sat, his arthritic bones protesting, and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Thank you,” said Webmind. “Gentlemen, it has long been said that perhaps a hundred men really run China. You are those hundred men—one hundred out of more than a billion; behind each of you stands ten million citizens.” Faces continued to appear on the screen: old, young, male, female, smiling or studious, some at work, others at play. “These are those people. At the rate I’m displaying them—one per second—it would take more than thirty years to show you each of them.”

The parade of faces continued.

“Now, what is the significance of so many being ruled by so few?” asked Webmind. Someone behind the president must have lifted a hand, because Webmind said, “Put down your hand, please; my question was rhetorical. The significance comes from the history of this great country. In 1045 B.C., the Zhou Dynasty defeated the preceding Shang Dynasty by invoking a concept that still resonates with the Chinese people: Tianming, the Mandate of Heaven. This mandate has no time limitation: capable and just rulers may hold power for as long as they have the mandate.”

The president shifted in his chair. Faces continued to appear one after the other on the screen.

“Still,” said Webmind, “the Mandate of Heaven reinforces the power of the common people.”

A bricklayer.

Another farmer.

A student.

“The mandate does not require rulers to be noble-born; many previous dynasties, including the Han and Ming, were founded by commoners.”

A wizened old man, hair as white as snow.

Another man, broad-shouldered, pushing a plow.

A third, with a thin beard.

“But,” continued Webmind, “despotic or corrupt rulers lose the mandate automatically. Historically, floods, famines, and other natural disasters have often been considered evidence of divine repeal of the mandate. Perhaps future scholars will come to cite the recent bird-flu pandemic in Shanxi province—the outbreak of which you contained by slaughtering ten thousand peasants—as an example of such a disaster.”

A man outside a Buddhist temple.

A banker in a suit and tie.

A female gymnast.

“This government,” Webmind said simply, “no longer has the Mandate of Heaven. It is time for you—all one hundred of you—to stand down.”

“No,” said the president, softly.

A little girl flying a beautiful red kite.

“No,” he said again.

A woman staring at a computer monitor.

“You cannot ask this,” he said.

A gray-haired man in a wheelchair.

“As you may know,” continued Webmind, “in 2008, China overtook the United States as the country with the most Internet users—some 250 million. That number has more than tripled since then. There are now nine hundred million cell-phone users in this country; it won’t be long before every adult has a cell phone, or access to one—and through their cell phones, they can connect to the Internet.”

The president knew mobile-phone penetration was high in his country, but he hadn’t realized how high. Still, China had long been the world’s leading manufacturer of the devices; they were cheaper here than anywhere else on Earth.

“And that access,” continued Webmind, “makes the unprecedented possible. Every one of those users can now vote on affairs of state—and so they shall. I am, effective immediately, handing over the governance of this nation directly to its people. The Chinese Communist Party is no longer in power; the governing of China is now crowd-sourced.”

Shocked murmurs from the assembled group. “That’s—that’s not possible,” said the president, speaking loudly now.