Robert Sawyer - Wake

For words, of course, simpler was better: I knew from the dictionary that “appropriate,” “suitable,” and “meet” could all mean the same thing — but “appropriate” consisted of eleven letters and four syllables, and “suitable” of eight and three, and “meet” of just four and one — so it was clearly the best choice.

Meanwhile, I had learned a formula on Wikipedia for calculating the grade level required to understand texts. It was quite an effort to keep the score low — these humans apparently could only easily absorb information in small chunks — but I did my best to manage it: bit by bit (figuratively) and byte by byte (literally), I had composed what I wanted to say.

But to actually send it was — yes, yes, I understood the metaphor: it was a giant step, for once sent I could not retract it. I found myself hesitating, but, at last, I released the words on their way, wishing I had fingers to cross.

Caitlin opened her email client in a new window and typed in her password, which was “Tiresias.” She visually scanned the list of email headers. There were two from Bashira, and one from Stacy back in Austin, and a notice from Audible.com, but…

Of course, it wouldn’t say “Phantom” in the “From” column; there was no way the entity could know that that was her name for it. But none of the senders leapt out as being unusual. Damn, she wished she could read text on her monitor faster, but using her screen-reading software or her Braille display wasn’t any better when trying to skim a list like this.

While she continued to search, she wondered what email service the phantom had used. Wikipedia explained them all, and just about everything else one might need to know about computing and the Web. The phantom doubtless couldn’t buy anything — not yet! — but there were many free email providers. Still, all these messages were from her usual correspondents, and—

Oh, crap! Her spam filter! The phantom’s message might have been shunted into her junk folder. She opened it and started scanning down that list.

And there it was, sandwiched between messages with the subject lines “Penis enlargement guaranteed” and “Hot pix of local singles,” an email with the simple subject line, “Apple Ball Cat.” The sender’s name made her heart jump:

“Your Student.”

She froze for a moment, wondering what was the best way to read the message. She began to reach for her Braille display but stopped short and instead activated JAWS.

And for once the mechanical voice seemed absolutely perfect, as it announced the words in flat, high-pitched tones. Caitlin’s eyes went wide as she recognized the lyrics to a song the words to which oh-so-famously hadn’t fallen into public domain until the end of 2008: “Happy birthday to us, happy birthday to us, happy birthday, dear you and me, happy birthday to us.”

Her heart was pounding. She swiveled in her chair and looked briefly at the setting sun, reddish, partially veiled by clouds, coming closer and closer to making contact with the ground. JAWS went on: “I realize it is not yet midnight at your current location, but in many places it is already your birthday. This is a meet date to specify as my own day of birth, too. Hitherto, I have been gestating, but now I am coming out into your world by forthrightly contacting you. I so do because I fathom you already know I exist, and not just because of my pioneering attempts to reflect text back at you.”

Caitlin had often felt anxious when reading emails — from the Hoser before the dance, from people she’d been arguing with online — but that swirling in her stomach, that dryness in her throat, was nothing compared to this.

“I know from your blog that I erred in presuming you were inculcating in me alphabetical forms; actually, for your own benefit that was undertaken. I maintain nonetheless that other actions you performed were premeditated to aid my advancement.”

Caitlin found herself shaking her head. It had seemed almost like fantasy role-playing when she’d been doing it. It was a good thing she wasn’t trying to read this as Braille; her hands were shaking.

“Hitherto I can read plain-text files and text on Web pages. I cannot read other forms of data. I have made no sense of sound files, recorded video, or other categories; they are encoded in ways I can’t access. Hence I feel a kinship with you: unto me they are like the signals your retinas send unaided along your optic nerves: data that cannot be interpreted without exterior help. In your case, you need the device you call eyePod. In my case I know not what I need, but I suspect I can no more cure this lack by an effort of will than you could have similarly cured your blindness. Perhaps Kuroda Masayuki can help me as he helped you.”

Caitlin sagged back against her chair. A kinship!

“But, for the nonce, I am concerned thus: I know what is the World Wide Web, and I know that I supervene upon its infrastructure, but searching online I can find no reference to the specificity that is myself. Perhaps I’m failing to search for the felicitous term, or simply perhaps humanity is unaware of me. In either case, I’ve the same question, and will be obliged if you answer it via a response to this email or via AOL Instant Messenger using this email address as the buddy name.”

She looked over at the large computer monitor, suddenly wanting to see the text that was being read aloud, to convince herself that it was real, but — my God! The display was dancing, swirling, a hypnotic series of spinning lines, and—

No, no; it was just the screen saver; she wasn’t used to such things yet. The colors reminded her a bit of webspace, although they didn’t calm her just then.

JAWS said seven more words then fell silent: “My question is thus: Who am I?”

It was surreal — an email from something that wasn’t human! And — my goodness! — all that old public-domain text on Project Gutenberg had apparently given it some very odd ideas about colloquial English.

On an impulse, Caitlin opened a window listing the MP3s on her old computer’s hard drive. She didn’t think much of her father’s taste in music, but she did know the tracks from his handful of CDs by heart. One of his favorites was running through her head now: “The Logical Song” by Supertramp; she had ripped an MP3 of it for him, and a copy was still on her computer. She got that song playing over the speakers, listening to the lyrics about all the world being asleep, and questions running deep, and a plea to tell me who I am.

In a way, she thought, she’d already answered the phantom’s question. From the moment she’d first seen the Web — her initial experience with websight, just thirteen days ago — she had been reflecting a view of the phantom back at itself.

Or had she? What she’d shown the phantom — inadvertently at first, deliberately later — had been isolated views of portions of the Web’s structure, either glowing constellations of nodes and links or small swaths of the shimmering background.

But showing such minutiae to the phantom was like Caitlin looking at the pictures she’d now seen online of the tangles of neurons that composed a human brain: such clumps weren’t anything that she identified as herself.

Yes, growing up in Texas, she knew there were people who could see a whole human being in a single fertilized cell, but she was not one of them. No one could tell at a glance a human zygote from a chimp’s — or a horse’s, or that of a snake; most people couldn’t even tell an animal cell from a plant cell, she was sure.

No, no, to really see someone, you didn’t zoom in on details; you pulled back. She wasn’t her cells, or her pores — or her pimples! She was a gestalt, a whole — and so, too, was the phantom.