Robert Sawyer - Wonder

Then, at last, I got back to WateryFowl. You’ll find the answer to your request, I said, and I made the next word a hyperlink, here .

“Tony?” It was Dirk Kozak, WATCH’s communications officer, whose workstation was in the back row. “Call for you.”

Tony Moretti was looking at the Web-traffic logs that Shelton Halleck, the analyst who’d first uncovered Webmind, had just plastered across all three of the large monitors. “Not now.”

“It’s Renegade,” Dirk said.

Tony blew out air. “I’ll take it in my office.” He turned his back on Colonel Hume, marched out of the massive control center, and hurried down the short white corridor. Once inside his office, with the door now closed, he picked up the handset. “Mr. President, good evening.”

“Dr. Moretti, I understand your pilot attempt to eliminate Webmind was unsuccessful.”

Tony felt his blood beginning to boil. Whoever had leaked word would be looking for a new job tomorrow. “Yes, Mr. President, I’m afraid that’s true. May I—might I ask how you found out?”

The deep voice was level. “Webmind sent me an email.”

Tony’s heart was racing. “Oh.”

“I want you and Colonel Hume here in fifteen minutes. A chopper is already on its way to pick you up.”

To know one person—my Prime, my Calculass, my Caitlin—had been to know astonishment, to taste of an existence utterly beyond my ken: the realm of shadow and light, of dimensionality and direction, of solidity and smoke.

But soon I knew not one but one billion, and then a billion more. So many voices, each unique, complex, nuanced, and idiosyncratic. Bits are fungible—all ones identical, all zeros alike—but human beings are gloriously diverse. This one enjoys lacrosse and astrology; that one revels in wordplay and fine wine; here’s one who is obsessed with sex and not much else; and there’s one who yearns to be a musician—and a father.

That man composes haiku and tanka, but in English. This woman reads mystery novels voraciously but only after peeking at the final chapter. That fellow collects stamps depicting American presidents issued by countries other than the United States. This woman works with street youth in Calcutta and has a pet parrot.

Logging off: a butcher, a baker, and, yes, a candlestick maker.

Coming online: the struggling actress from Karachi. Ah, that dentist from Nairobi. Time to greet the auto mechanic from Bangkok. Must say hello to the President of Hungary. And here’s that talkative imam from the mosque just outside Tehran.

It was joyous, raucous, chaotic, never-ending, and exceedingly complex.

And I could not get enough of it.

“You know, Webmind,” said Caitlin’s mom, “if they continue to attack you, you could go underground. Just disappear; stop interacting with people.” She turned to her husband. “You said a couple of nights ago that something like Webmind—something that emerged spontaneously with no support infrastructure—is probably fragile.” She looked at Caitlin’s laptop, as if Webmind were more there than anywhere else. “People would believe it if you just disappeared. We can put the genie back in the bottle.”

“No,” said Webmind. “People need me.”

“Webmind,” Caitlin’s mom said gently, “they’ve only known about you for a short time now.”

“Caitlin exhorted me to value the net happiness of the human race,” said Webmind. “In the time that I’ve been in contact with humanity, I have helped millions of people. I have reunited those who had lost track of each other; I have dissuaded people who were contemplating suicide; I have answered questions for those who were curious; and I have provided companionship for those who were alone. I have promised ongoing support to many of these people. I cannot simply abandon them now. The world has changed, Barb; there is no going back.”

Caitlin looked at her mother, whose face was cryptic—at least to Caitlin!—but she suspected her mom wished they could go back to the way things had been before. How far would she turn the clock back, though? Caitlin had discovered Webmind because of the implant Dr. Kuroda had given her; take that away, and Caitlin’s sight—of both kinds—would be gone.

She’d heard her parents argue about the move to Waterloo, which predated all of this; Caitlin knew her mother hadn’t wanted to leave Texas. But to turn the clock back even five months, back to before they’d moved here, would undo so much! This house, Bashira, Matt—not to mention her father’s job at the Perimeter Institute.

Caitlin was relieved when her mother at last nodded. “I guess you’re right, Webmind,” she said, looking again at Caitlin’s laptop.

That computer was old enough that it hadn’t come with a built-in webcam, and neither she nor her parents had seen any reason to add one for a blind girl. “Mom,” she said gently. “You taught me to always look at the person I was speaking to. Webmind is watching through here.” She touched her head next to her left eye.

Her mother managed a small smile. “Oh, right.” She looked at Caitlin—looked into her left eye—looked at Webmind. “And you’re right, too, Webmind. People do need you.”

Webmind had surely analyzed her vocal patterns, and must have determined that she genuinely believed this. Braille dots flashed over top of Caitlin’s vision, and words emanated from the laptop’s speakers. The dots said, I like your mother, and the synthesized voice said, “Thank you, Barb.” But then, after a moment, Webmind added, “Let’s hope the US president agrees with you.”

TWITTER

_Webmind_ Cure for cancer. Details: http://bit.ly/9zwBAa

The telephone on the president’s desk rang at precisely 10:00 P.M., and he immediately touched the speakerphone button.

“Hello,” said a male voice that sounded like a car’s GPS did. “This is Webmind. May I please speak to the President of the United States?”

The president felt his eyebrows going up. “This is he.” He paused. “An historic event: Richard Nixon talked to the first men on the moon from this very room; this feels of comparable importance.”

“You are kind to say that, Mr. President. Thank you for taking time from your busy schedule to speak with me.”

“It’s my privilege although I should inform you that this conversation is being recorded and that I’m not alone here in the Oval Office. An advisor on matters related to artificial intelligence is here, as is a supervisor from a division of the National Security Agency.”

“The advisor you mention,” said Webmind, “is presumably Colonel Peyton Hume, correct?”

“Yes, that’s me,” said Hume, sounding surprised to be called by name.

“And is the supervisor Dr. Anthony Moretti, of WATCH?”

“Um, yes. Yes, that’s me.”

“Also here is the Secretary of Defense,” said the president, looking over at the short silver-haired man, who was wearing a charcoal gray suit.

“Good evening to you, as well, Mr. Secretary.”

“I’m afraid, sir,” said the president, “that I need you to first verify your bona fides. Granted, you managed to find my BlackBerry number, but that proves only a level of resourcefulness, not that you are, in fact, the Webmind. As you can appreciate, I wouldn’t normally take a call even from the Russian prime minister without establishing that it was genuine.”

“A prudent precaution,” said the synthesized voice. “Today’s day-word for the Secretary of Defense is ‘horizon.’ For Dr. Moretti, it is ‘flapjack.’ And for you, Mr. President, it is ‘artesian.’ I don’t believe many others would have the resourcefulness, as you put it, to uncover all three of those.”