She snuggled closer to him in the dark. “You’ll do the right thing,” she said. “As always.”
The alarm went off. He let it ring, wishing the whole world could hear it.
twenty-three
It was now Thursday morning, October 18—one full week since Webmind had gone public. Caitlin wanted to do as much as she could to help him, and so today she started another pro-Webmind newsgroup, although thousands of those had already cropped up.
She also posted comments on seventy-six news stories that had their facts wrong—and, yes, she knew the futility of that, and well remembered having had the famous
xkcd
webcomic read to her: a man is working at his computer, and his wife calls out, “Are you coming to bed?” He replies, “I can’t,” as he continues to type furiously. “Someone is wrong on the Internet!”
And, anyway, she wasn’t really sure why she was bothering. After all, Webmind himself was now participating on tens of thousands of newsgroups, was posting comments on countless blogs, and was tweeting in dozens of languages. As CNN Online had put it, he was now the most overexposed celebrity on the planet, “like Paris Hilton, Jennifer Aniston, and Irwin Tan rolled into one.”
Except that wasn’t really true, at least not to Caitlin’s way of thinking. In mathematics, celebrities were often used in discussing graph theory, since their interactions with their fans were a perfect example of a directed, asymmetric relationship between vertices: by definition, many more fans know a celebrity than are known to the celebrity. But Webmind
did
know everyone who was online. He wasn’t a celebrity; he was more like the whole planet’s Facebook friend.
Still she continued to read news coverage and the follow-up comments—some favorable, some not—about Webmind’s speech at the UN, and all the other things he’d been doing, and—
And what was
that?
There was an odd red-and-white logo next to the name of the person who had posted the comment she was now reading. She still had a hard time with small text, and JAWS couldn’t deal with text that was presented as graphics, but she squinted at it, and—
Verified by Webmind.
“Webmind?” she said into the air. “What’s up with that?”
His synthesized voice came from her desktop speakers. “A number of people noted that I was in a position to verify the identity of people posting online, affirming that they were using their real names, rather than a handle or pseudonym. On sites like this one that allow avatar pictures, that picture can, at the individual’s request, be replaced with the Verified by Webmind graphic.”
Caitlin thought about this. She often wrote online under the name Calculass, but there were indeed countless trolls who posted incendiary comments under fake names simply to spew hatred or mock others; on many sites, they derailed almost every discussion. Caitlin had found, for instance, that she simply couldn’t stomach reading the comments on the CBC News site, most of which were nasty, crude, racist, or sexist, or one of the eleven possible combinations of those four things.
Webmind went on. “Some sites, such as
Amazon.com
, already allow an optional ‘Real Name’ badge to be attached to reviews, but, until now, there was no simple, across-the-Web solution for verifying that one was posting under his or her true identity. It was trivial for me to provide it, so I did.”
“Interesting. But . . . but, I dunno, people gotta be able to say things anonymously online.”
“In some cases, that’s true. There’s obviously a need for free political commentary in repressive regimes, and a way for whistle-blowers to draw attention to corporate and government malfeasance without fear of reprisals. But others have told me that a good part of the joy of the online world has been taken away by people who snipe from behind masks; as they’ve said, they wouldn’t engage in conversation with people who hid their identities in the real world, and they don’t feel they should be compelled to online.”
“I guess.”
“Already filters are starting to appear on sites to allow you to select to see only comments by those who are posting with Verified by Webmind credentials. In other places—where there is no legitimate need for anonymity—filters are being installed to allow only users I have verified to post at all. JagsterMail started offering VBW flags on ‘from’ addresses this morning, and Gmail is planning to follow suit. The initiative, which is grassroots based, has been referred to by many names, but the one that seems to be sticking is ‘Take Back the Net.’ That term—a play on the campaign against violence against women called Take Back the Night—has been used from time to time for other online initiatives, but never with any real traction. But it does seem appropriate here: there’s a feeling on the part of many that the online world, except on such social networking sites as Facebook, has been largely usurped by people who have grown irresponsible because of their anonymity.”
Caitlin shifted in her chair. Webmind went on. “I do not believe you have yet seen the movie
As Good as It Gets.”
She shook her head. “I’ve never even heard of it.”
“It stars Jack Nicholson as a novelist. When asked how he writes women so well, he replies, ‘I think of a man, and I take away reason and accountability.’ ”
“That’s
awful!”
Caitlin said.
“According to IMDb, it is one of the most memorable quotations from the film. But I agree that it is not an apt description of your gender, Caitlin. However, I
do
think it often applies to the effect of being anonymous online: with anonymity there is no accountability, and without accountability, there is no need for reason, or reasonableness.”
Caitlin had had plenty of online arguments with people whose identities she
did
know, but, then again, she’d had lots of real-world arguments with such people, too. “It’s an interesting idea,” she said.
“Would you like me to certify you?”
“Well, you can’t when I’m posting as Calculass, right?”
“Correct. But for your postings and email as Caitlin Decter, I can verify that you are who you claim to be.”
She’d always been an early adopter. “Sure. Why not?”
Colonel Hume drove toward his office at the Pentagon; at least he’d have access to facilities, and if any computers on the planet were secure from Webmind, it would be the ones there. His phone rang just as he was turning a corner; he had his Bluetooth earpiece in. “Peyton Hume speaking,” he said.
“Colonel Hume,” said a deep voice with a Hispanic accent. “This is Assistant Director Ortega at the Washington bureau.”
“Good morning, Mr. Ortega.”
“Just thought you’d want to know we were just copied on a missing-persons report. One of the names from the list you gave us: Brandon Slovak. Teh Awesome himself.”
“God,” said Hume.
“Takoma Park PD’s been to his apartment. No sign of forceable entry, but he definitely left unexpectedly. Half-eaten meal on the table, TV still running although the sound was muted.”
“All right,” said Hume. “Let me know if you hear anything further, okay?”
“Of course. And we’re starting a systematic check of everyone on your list within a hundred miles of the capital—see if anyone else is missing.”
“Thanks. Keep me posted.”
“Will do.” Ortega clicked off.
Hume kept driving. Teh Awesome had been the one who’d said he liked Webmind, but—
But he was also one of those who had been most capable of doing Webmind harm. In fact, maybe Slovak himself had known that. He might well have tried to be in touch with other hackers in the area and heard about their disappearances. Maybe all that posturing had been in case Webmind was listening in—in hopes of keeping himself safe.
Fat lot of good it had done him.
Hume turned onto F Street, and soon was passing the Watergate Complex. As an Air Force officer, he’d periodically been asked about Area 51, where the alien spaceships from Roswell were supposedly stored—or about whether the moon landings had been faked. And he’d always had the same answer: if the government was good at keeping secrets, the world would never have heard of Watergate or Monica Lewinsky.
But he
was
keeping a secret—a huge secret. He knew how Webmind was instantiated; he knew what made it tick. And if Mohammed wouldn’t come to the mountain . . .
His first thought was to pull into a public library, sign onto a computer there, and just start posting everywhere he could what he knew about how Webmind worked. But Webmind was monitoring everything online—jumping into countless conversations, posting comments on endless numbers of blogs—which meant that no sooner had he posted the secret, Webmind would delete it, as if it were so much spam.
No, he needed to get the word out in a way that Webmind couldn’t yet censor—and fortunately, for a few days more at least, there were still some ways to practice free speech.
Back on Sunday morning, a driver had come to pick him up, and he’d been tired enough to not really pay attention during the trip. And so, for the first time in days, he turned on his car’s GPS. As he waited for it to acquire satellite signals, he typed in the name of the place he wanted to go. Once the GPS was oriented, he headed on his way, smiling slightly at the irony of a flat, mechanical voice giving him directions to freedom.
Wong Wai-Jeng never thought he’d see the inside of the Zhongnanhai complex—the inner sanctum of the Communist Party. But now he had a cubicle here! He was one of dozens of programmers charged with probing the Great Firewall, looking for weaknesses so that they could be plugged before others could exploit them. He missed the IT department at the Institute of Vertebrate Paleontology and Paleoanthropology, and felt guilty that he’d left so many tasks incomplete there; he wondered how kindly old Dr. Feng was making out without him. Of course, once he’d been arrested, somebody else had been hired to do his job; no one had expected him to be seen in public anytime soon.
He was doubtless being watched here: he’d spotted one of the cameras and had no doubt there were others. He was also sure they were using a keylogger to keep track of every keystroke and mouseclick he made. But although Sinanthropus had been silenced, and his freedom blog was no more, maybe he could still do some good here in the halls of power. A word in the right ear at the right time, perhaps; a gentle suggestion here and there. Maybe even, after a year or two, a bit of authority to actually change things. As Sun Tzu had said, only he who knows when to fight and when not to can be victorious.
Wai-Jeng shifted uncomfortably in his rust-colored padded chair. His leg was still in a cast. Before Dr. Kuroda had left for Tokyo, he’d had him sign it, a string of green Kanji characters. But it would mend, and although he’d thought he’d never be able to do such things again, soon he’d be able to run, and dance, and jump, and—
He hadn’t done it for a decade, not since he’d been a teenager. He could walk the Changcheng—the Great Wall—again.
But all that would have to wait. For now, Wai-Jeng had work he was required to do. He tapped away at his keyboard, doing his masters’ bidding.
Peyton Hume stood on the threshold of WNBC, the Washington NBC affiliate. He took a deep breath and ran a freckled hand through his short hair. If he did this, he might well be court-martialed, and he’d certainly lose his security clearance. But if he didn’t do this—
It was a warm, sunny October day. A young African-American woman was coming down the sidewalk, pushing a stroller with a baby in it. Two small white boys came running down the sidewalk in the other direction, their exasperated father trying to keep up. An Asian-American teenage girl and a white boy passed him, holding hands. Some Italian tourists were chatting among themselves and pointing at the sites. A Sikh was standing near him, talking and laughing on a cell phone.
It was their world—all of theirs. And he was going to make sure it stayed that way.
Besides, all he was going to do was practice a little transparency—and wasn’t that all the rage these days? He pushed open the glass door and entered. As before, there were display cases with awards—including what he recognized as an Emmy—and posters of local and network personalities on the walls. But the receptionist—young, pretty, blonde—was different from the one who’d been here on Sunday. He strode up to her desk.
“Hello. I’d like to see the news director.”
She’d been chewing gum—a fact that had been obvious when he entered but which she was now trying to hide. “Do you have an appointment, Colonel?”
He smiled. So many young people today had no idea how to read rank insignia. “No,” he said, handing her his Pentagon business card. “But I was a guest on
Meet the Press
this week, and I have a news story that I’m sure he’ll be interested in.”
The woman looked at the card, then lifted a handset. “Ed? Reception. I think you’ll want to come out here . . .”
“What are you doing?” Caitlin asked as she came into the kitchen. Her mother was sitting at the small table there.