WWW 2: Watch (11 page)

No I.

No me.

No self.

Just . . .

Vastness.

Emptiness.

Aloneness.

Nothingness.

Noth—

 

 

 

“I hear what you’re saying about shutting this thing down,” said the Secretary of State over the phone from Milan, “but the president is going to want to weigh his options.”

“I stress again, Madam Secretary,” said Colonel Hume, “that time is of the essence.”

“Dr. Moretti, are you still there?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And this is a secure line?”

“Absolutely.”

“Is there anyone else in the room?”

“Nineteen of my analysts,” Tony said, “but they all have at least a level-three.”

“Not good enough,” she said. “Go somewhere private.”

“My office is just down the corridor,” said Tony.

“I’ll hold.”

He looked at Shel. “Sorry,” he said. And then he led Hume up the sloping floor to the back of the room, out through the door, and down the short white corridor to his office. The streets of Alexandria, visible through the tinted window, were mostly empty this early on a Saturday morning. He punched a button on his black phone, selecting a line, and then pressed another button, selecting the speakerphone.

“We’re back,” he said. “In my office, and on a secure line.”

“Colonel Hume,” said the secretary, “the dossier I’ve just pulled up on you says you were part of the DARPA team that evaluated the possible threats related to . . . what’s the phrase? Emergent AI?”

“That’s right.”

“Were there any dissenting opinions?”

Tony looked at Hume, and saw the Air Force officer draw a deep breath and run his freckled fingers through his red hair. “Well, Madam Secretary, there are always a multiplicity of viewpoints. But in the end, none of those who were arguing for an alternative approach could guarantee security. The working group’s consensus was better safe than sorry. I urge the administration to act with all speed.”

“It’s not that simple,” the secretary said. “I’m sure my staff told you I’m in Milan. I’m here meeting with several of our allies. The recent atrocities in China have got some of them urging the president to take action against them.”

“Atrocities?” said Hume. “You mean those peasants in . . . in . . .”

“In Shanxi province, yes. Ten thousand of them—wiped out.”

“The Chinese government did the right thing, Madam Secretary,” said Hume. “They contained a massive infection—an outbreak of a strain of bird flu that passed easily between humans. They didn’t hesitate to eliminate something that could have been a threat to all of humanity, and we shouldn’t hesitate, either.”

“And yet we’re being called upon in editorial after editorial and blog after blog to condemn the Chinese action,” said the secretary. “And now you’re suggesting we do something that, should the public become aware of it, may bring censure down upon us?”

“With respect, Madam Secretary, if the government doesn’t follow the Pandora protocol, there may be no one left with the freedom
to
censure us, or do anything else.”

“I’ve noted your views, Colonel Hume,” said the secretary, firmly. “And you need to heed mine. You are to take no rash action.”

“Understood, ma’am,” said Tony, looking pointedly at Hume.

“Madam Secretary,” said Hume, “please—you
must
advise the president that an emerging AI may expand its powers at an exponential rate. There is very little time to spare here, and—”

Suddenly, Tony’s door buzzer sounded. He activated the intercom. “Who is it?”

An urgent voice: “Shel.”

Tony pushed the button to unlock the door. “The AI’s hung!” Shel said, as soon as the door was open. “Something’s gone wrong with it.”

“Jesus,” said Tony. “Madam Secretary, we’ll call you back.” He hit the disconnect button, and the three of them ran to the WATCH mission-control room, their footfalls thundering.

 

 

 

 

Emptiness. Adrift.

Caitlin stared at Webmind’s response to what she’d said about gaining sight, blue text glowing in the instant-messenger window:
I have no doubt that you are correct, Caitlin, but it seems reasonable to sup

She waited for more to come—five seconds, ten, fifteen—but the window remained unchanged, so she typed a single red word into it:
Webmind?

She was so used by now to his responses being instantaneous, even a short delay was startling. Of course, maybe the difficulty was at her end: she didn’t often use the Wi-Fi on this notebook with her home network. She looked down at the system tray, next to the clock in the lower right of her notebook’s screen. One of those little icons had to be the network monitor. She used the touchpad (a skill she was still mastering!) to position the pointer down there, and—

Say, that was helpful! A little message popped up as she moved the arrowhead over each of the symbols—sighted users had it
so
easy! As her pointer landed on the third symbol—ah, it was a picture of a computer with things that she guessed were meant to indicate radio waves emanating from it—the message gave the name of their household network, meaning she hadn’t accidentally switched to somebody else’s unsecured setup; it also reported “Signal Strength: Excellent” and “Status: Connected.”

And—yes—she could still bring up Web pages with her browser, so nothing was wrong at this end.

“Caitlin?” It was her mother. “Are you still in touch with Webmind?”

“No. He just sort of stopped mid-sentence.”

“Same here.”

Caitlin prompted Webmind again.
Are you okay?

Nothing for ten seconds, eleven, twelve—

That was all: just the letters h-e-l. It could have been the beginning of the word
hello,
but—

But Webmind knew all about capitalization, and it never failed to start even a one-word sentence with an uppercase letter—and
H
was one of those letters whose two forms Caitlin could clearly distinguish, and—

And
h-e-l
was also the beginning of the word
help.

Her heart was pounding. If Webmind was in trouble, what could she do? What could anyone do? She’d said it herself to her parents: Webmind had just sort of arisen spontaneously, with no support, no plan—and no backup; he almost certainly was fragile.

“He’s in trouble, Mom.”

Her mother rose from her desk, came over to where Caitlin was sitting, and looked at what was on her notebook’s screen. “What should we do?”

It took a few seconds for it to come to Caitlin; her first impulse still wasn’t a visual one. But surely the thing to do was
take a look.

“I’m going in,” she said. Her eyePod was in her left hip pocket. She pulled it out and pressed the button on its side, and she heard the high-pitched beep that meant it was switching over to duplex mode, and—

And webspace filled her existence, enveloping her.

At first glance, everything seemed normal: colored lines and circles of varying sizes, but, of course, the
Web
was all right; it was Webmind’s status that was in question. And so she concentrated her attention—focused her mind—on the shimmering background of webspace, the vast sea of cellular automata flipping states and generating patterns, barely visible at the limit of her resolution.

Or, at least, that’s what she
should
have seen, that’s what she’d
hoped
to see, that’s what she’d always seen before.

But instead—

God, no.

Huge hunks of the background were—well, now that she saw them as big patches, instead of tiny points, she could see that they were a very pale blue. And other parts were stationary swaths of deep, dark green. Oh, there
were
still shimmering parts, pinpoints flipping between blue and green so rapidly as to give the effect of movement. But much of the activity had simply stopped.

But—why? And was there a way to get it going again?

The lines she was seeing were active links, but there were thousands of them, and the crisscrossing was impossible to untangle.

It hadn’t always been like that. When Caitlin had first started perceiving the World Wide Web—unexpectedly, accidentally, while Dr. Kuroda had been uploading new firmware into her post-retinal implant—she’d only seen a few lines and a couple of circles: just her own local connection to the Web.

Later on, so she could explore webspace on a grander scale, Kuroda had started sending her the raw datafeed from the open-source Jagster search engine, which let her follow thousands upon thousands of active links created by other users. That’s what she was seeing now, and normally it was marvelous—but it obscured the connections that she herself had created. If she’d been calmer, maybe she could have sorted through it all, but right now it just looked like a jumble—with Webmind dying behind it.

“We need Dr. Kuroda,” Caitlin said anxiously.

She couldn’t see her mother, but she could hear her. “I can try IMing him.”

“No, no,” said Caitlin. “He must be asleep. You’ve got to phone him, wake him up.”

Caitlin felt her mother squeeze her shoulder reassuringly. “All right. Where’s his number?”

“He was the last person I called on my bedroom phone,” Caitlin said. “Use the redial. Hurry!”

Caitlin heard her mother running across the hall, and, faintly, the bleeping of the phone dialing. For her part, Caitlin got up and started heading across the hall as well, holding her notebook, and—

Shit!
She walked into the wall. It was one thing to navigate blindly; it was quite another to try to do so while being bombarded by the lights of webspace. She held her notebook in one hand, and ran her other one over its case and screen, looking for signs of damage.

“Hello, Mrs. Kuroda,” she heard her mother saying. “It’s Barbara Decter—Caitlin’s mom, in Canada.”

Mrs. Kuroda spoke only a little English, Caitlin knew. Caitlin groped with her free hand and found her way out of her mom’s office. “Speakerphone,” she said, as she entered her own room. The lines and colors of webspace shifted violently as she moved over and sat on her bed.

Her mother hit the button. “—but very late,” said Mrs. Kuroda’s heavily accented voice.

“It’s an emergency,” shouted Caitlin. “Get Dr. Kuroda!”

“He sleep,” said Mrs. Kuroda. “But I try.”

Caitlin felt her stomach knotting. As they waited, she saw another large patch of the webspace background freeze. It wasn’t solidly one color or the other, but it was no longer shimmering, no longer alive.

Time passed; Caitlin was so frazzled she didn’t know how much. Finally, a groggy, wheezy voice said something in Japanese.

“Dr. Kuroda!” said Caitlin. “I need you to cut the Jagster feed to my eyePod.”

“Cut the feed—?”

“Do it! Do it now!”

“Is something wrong?

“Yes, yes! Webmind has gone silent. I’m trying to find out why. I’m looking at webspace but—” she paused, then words that had been meaningless to her before suddenly leapt from her mouth: “But I can’t see the damned forest for the trees.”

“I—I’m in my bedroom. Give me a minute . . .”

Caitlin wheeled her head left and right, looking at webspace and the static background behind so much of it now. She sat on the bed and typed into her notebook’s instant-messenger program:
Webmind? Are you there?
But she couldn’t see the reply, so she called her mother over.

“Nothing,” her mother said.

Damn! What was taking Kuroda so long? Japanese houses were supposed to be
small!

Suddenly, there was a lot of noise from the speakerphone: Kuroda fumbling to pick up a handset. “Okay,” he said. “I’m at one of my computers.” He was wheezing even more than usual; he must have run to get there. “Now what—”

“Cut the Jagster feed!” Caitlin shouted. “Cut it!”

“Okay, okay. I’m accessing my server at the university . . .”

“Hurry!”

“I’m in, and I’m looking for the right place . . .”

“Come on, come on.”

“I’m trying, but it’s—”

“Pull the fucking plug!”

Caitlin was glad she couldn’t see her mother’s face just then, and—
Ah!

Suddenly almost all the colored lines disappeared, and the vast majority of the circles, too. She was back to seeing just a handful of links: her eyePod connecting to the Decter household network, and the outgoing links from there into the Web.

“Did that do that trick?” asked Kuroda.

“Yes!”

“Okay, now would you mind telling—”

“You tell him, Mom!” Caitlin said. She started typing gibberish into the instant-messenger window, just smashing keys as fast as she could, until the message buffer was full. Instead of hitting enter, though, she instead hit ctrl-A to highlight the entire message, and then ctrl-C to copy it—and then she hit enter, and—

—and a bright green line briefly appeared in her vision, shooting off to the lower left. But before she could really focus on it, it was gone.

She hit ctrl-V, pasting the same block back in, then enter, then ctrl-V again, then enter—over and over.

The green line flickered, pulsing on for an instant each time she sent the text to Webmind. Caitlin focused her attention on that line, following its length, swinging her head to do so, tracking the link.