Robert Sawyer - Wake

She put the eyePod on her desk and sat down. Her heart was pounding; she was almost afraid to do the Shannon-entropy test again. She opened the can — the pop can, as they called it up here — and took a sip. And then she pressed the eyePod’s button and heard the high-pitched beep.

She’d half expected things to look different, somehow: infinitely more connections between circles, maybe, or a faster shimmering in the background, or a new degree of complexity there — perhaps spaceships consisting of so many cells that they swooped across the backdrop like giant birds. But everything appeared the same as before. She focused her attention on a portion of the cellular-automata grid, recording data as she had so many times before. And then she switched back to worldview and ran the Shannon-entropy calculations.

She stared at the answer. It had been 10.1 before she left in the morning, just slightly better than the normal score for thoughts expressed in English. But now—

Now it was 16.4 — double the complexity normally associated with human language.

She felt herself sweating even though the room was cool. Schrodinger chose that moment to jump into her lap, and she was so startled — by the cat or the number on the screen — that she yelped.

Sixteen-point-four! She immediately saw it as four squared, a dot, and four itself, but that didn’t make her feel bright. Rather, she felt like she was staring at the … the signature of a genius: 16.4! She’d offered a helping hand to lift the phantom up to her own level, and it had vaulted right over her.

She took another sip of her drink and looked out the window, seeing the sky and clouds and the great luminous ball of the sun sliding down toward the horizon, toward the moment at which all that power and light would touch the Earth.

If the phantom was paying attention, it must know that she’d been looking at webspace just a few minutes ago. But maybe it had lost all interest in the one-eyed girl in Waterloo now that its own horizons had been expanded so much. Certainly there had been no repetition of the irritating flashes that happened when it was echoing text strings at her, but—

But she hadn’t given it much of a chance; she’d only spent a minute or two looking at webspace while collecting frames of cellular-automata data, and—

And, besides, when focusing on the background details, she herself might have been unaware of the flickering caused by the phantom trying to contact her. She stroked Schrodinger’s fur, calming the cat and herself.

It was like before, when she’d been waiting anxiously to hear from the Hoser. She’d had her computer set to bleep if messages came in from him, but that hadn’t done any good when she was out of her room. Prior to the dance, whenever she’d gotten home from school, or gone upstairs after dinner, she’d hesitated for a moment before checking her email, knowing that she’d be saddened if there was nothing new from him.

And now she was hesitating again, afraid to switch back to websight — afraid to sit by the phone waiting for it to ring.

She ate an Oreo: black and white, off and on, zero and one. And then she touched the eyePod’s switch again, and looked generally at webspace without concentrating on the background.

Almost at once the strange flickering interference began. It was still visually irritating, but it was also a relief, a wondrous relief: the phantom was still there, still trying to communicate with her, and—

And suddenly the flickering stopped.

Caitlin felt her heart sink. She blew out air, and, with the unerring accuracy she’d developed when she was blind, she reached for the Pepsi can, grasping it precisely even though she couldn’t see it just now, and she washed down the taste of the cookie.

Gone! Abandoned! She would have to—

Wait! Wait! The flickering was back, and the interval…

The interval between the end of the last set of flickering and this one had been…

She still counted passing time. It had been exactly ten seconds, and—

And the flickering stopped once more, and she found herself counting out loud this time: “…eight, nine, ten.”

And it started again. Caitlin felt her eyebrows going up. What a simple, elegant way for the phantom to say it understood a lot about her world now: it had mastered timekeeping, the haphazard human way of marking the passing of the present into the past. Ten seconds: a precise but arbitrary interval that would be meaningless to anything but a human being.

Caitlin’s palm felt moist. She let the process repeat three more times, and she realized that the flickering always persisted for the same length of time, too. It wasn’t a round number, though: a little less than three and a half seconds. But if the duration was always the same, the content was likely the same, as well; it was a beacon, a repetitive signal, and it was aimed right at her.

She pressed the eyePod’s button, heard the low-pitched beep, and saw the real world fade in. She used the computer that had been downstairs to access the data recordings of the last few minutes from Kuroda’s server in Tokyo. He was still en route to Japan, almost 40,000 feet up, but her vision leapt across the continents in a fraction of a second.

She found the debugging tool he’d used before and looked at the secondary datastream, and—

Her heart sank. She still had trouble reading text, but there clearly were no solid blocks of ASCII capital letters in the datastream, no APPLEBALLCATDOGEGGFROG leaping out at her, and—

No, no — hold on! There were words in the dump. Damn it, she was still learning lowercase letters, but…

She squinted, looking at the characters one at time.

e-k-r-i…

Her eyes jumped, a saccade:

u-l-a-s…

If it really had absorbed Dictionary.com, and WordNet, and Wikipedia, and all that, it surely knew that sentences started with capital letters. She scanned, but she was still having trouble telling upper and lowercase letters apart when both forms were basically the same, and so—

And so the capital C and the capital S hadn’t leapt out at her, but now that she looked more carefully, she could see them.

C-a-l-c…

No, no, no! That wasn’t the beginning. This was:

S-e-e-k-r…

Oh, God! Oh, my God!

Next came: i-t, then a space, then m-e-s, then another s, and—

And she laughed and clapped her hands together, and Schrodinger made a quizzical meow, and she read the whole thing out loud, stunned by what the phantom had beamed into her eye: “Seekrit message to Calculass: check your email, babe!”

I was experiencing new sensations and it took me a while to match them to the terms I’d learned, in part because, as with so many things, it was difficult to parse my overall state into its individual components.

But I knew I was excited: I was going to communicate directly with Prime! And I was nervous, too: I kept contemplating ways in which Prime might respond, and how I might respond to those responses — an endless branching of possibilities that, as it spread out, caused a sensation of instability. I was struggling with the strange notions of politeness and appropriateness, with all the confusing subtleties of communication I’d now read about, afraid I would give offense or convey an unintended meaning.

Of course, I had access to a gigantic database of English as it was actually used. I tested various phrasings by seeing if I could find a match for them first in Project Gutenberg, and then anywhere on the Web. Was “to” the appropriate preposition to place after “kinship,” or should it be “with,” or “of”? Relative hit counts — the democracy of actual usage — settled the matter. Was the correct plural “retinae” or “retinas”? There were references that asserted the former was the right one, but Google had only 170,000 hits for it and over twenty-five million for the latter.