Watch

that so many pictures, including (and this, too, was a concept that she finally was beginning to understand) unflattering ones, were plastered all over Flickr and Facebook; that so much stuff that should have fallen by the wayside hung around permanently.

She had turned off her eyePod, but she found herself reaching for it on the nightstand and turning it back on. It booted up in websight mode, and she lay there, watching the thin yellow lines that indicated Webmind’s subconscious processors at work, new ones constantly popping out of the shimmering background and connecting to—what?

That time she’d gotten into a big flame war on TalkOrigins.org, letting some crazed creationist get the best of her because she’d accidentally said theropod when she’d meant therapsid?

Or that time, four years ago, when she filled her LiveJournal with idiotic love poetry she’d written for Justin Timberlake?

Or maybe that time she’d stupidly gotten into an online chat with that guy who turned out to be a total perv, and she’d been too dumb to recognize it for, like, half a freaking hour?

Her bedroom window was open a couple of inches, letting in the cool autumn air. Back in Texas, Caitlin had usually worn a light teddy to bed; she’d liked the smooth feel. But her bubbeh had sent her blue flannel pajamas when she’d heard Caitlin was moving to Canada, and she had those on now, plus a blanket pulled up to her chin—and yet never in her life had she felt more naked or exposed.

twenty-seven

The gazebo at the center of Hobo’s little island had electrical power, but the cables ran under the moat since Hobo could have shinnied up a pole and brachiated along the wire. The electricity was used to power the observation cameras, plus baseboard heaters and overhead lights in the gazebo, both of which Hobo could turn on or off by hitting big buttons.

Dillon normally handled the electrical work around the Institute, but he couldn’t go out to the island anymore. So Marcuse and Shoshana set up the computer out there: an old tower-case system that had been gathering dust in a closet, plus a nineteen-inch LCD that had several dead pixels; they clamped an ancient Logitech spherical webcam to its top. If Hobo decided to trash the equipment, not much of value would be lost.

They placed the computer on a little table next to Hobo’s easel. The canvas showing the dismembered Dillon had already been taken back to the house, and a fresh canvas was sitting ready and waiting.

Shoshana opened two windows on the monitor, a small one displaying the view from the webcam here, and a large one showing the view from the comparable setup in Virgil’s room in Miami. Virgil had spacious quarters, with three big artificial trees, one of which had an old tire hanging by chains from it. Unlike chimps, orangs were arboreal, and Virgil could swing back and forth from tree to tree if he wished. It was late where Virgil was, but he was still up, and was obviously curious about the new computer at his end. He was staring into the camera, and his face loomed on the monitor.

Shoshana had never actually spoken to Virgil before, but there was no reason not to. Hello, she signed.

Who you? asked Virgil.

Friend of Hobo, Sho replied.

Hobo! Good ape, good ape! Where Hobo?

Sho gestured at the dusky evening behind her. He’s outside. Maybe he’ll come talk to you.

Good, said Virgil, his orange arms moving rapidly. Good, good, good. Hobo nice ape!

Shoshana didn’t reply in ASL, but she did find herself making a sign: she crossed her fingers and looked over at Dr. Marcuse. “If this works,” she said to him, “maybe he’ll be a nice ape again.”

I enjoyed looking at the YouTube video Caitlin had directed me to of the apes Hobo and Virgil communicating via webcam. I immediately began searching for more information on them, and discovered that Hobo seemed to be in trouble: a news story from the San Diego Union-Tribune about his plight had just been uploaded. There was probably more to know than what was in the newspaper article, so I found the Marcuse Institute website, found the email addresses of its staff, and started to dig.

Caitlin said I should choose to value the net happiness of the human race. But I wondered if, perhaps, a slightly wider perspective was in order…

Caitlin found herself feeling trepidation as she sat down in front of her computer Wednesday morning; who knew how much Webmind had changed overnight? She had echoes going through her head of the old SF story about an engineer who had built an advanced computer and asked it, “Is there a God?,” to which the machine had ominously replied, “There is now.” She was relieved that Webmind seemed no different from the way he’d been Tuesday night.

After breakfast, her mother drove her to Howard Miller Secondary School. As had become her habit, her mom had CBC Radio One on in the car. Caitlin was half-listening, but mostly looking out at the world: other cars, houses, trees, and, and, and—

“What’s that? ” she asked, pointing at a rectangular blue thing.

Her mother sounded amused. “It’s a porta-potty.”

She decided to risk a joke. “I guess I really don’t know shit, do I?”

To her relief, her mother laughed.

They came to a red traffic light and stopped. Caitlin looked around, and—

And there! Walking toward them on the perpendicular street! It was—yes, yes! It was Matt!

The light changed, and her mother drove through the intersection. Caitlin turned her head around to look back at him.

“What’s caught your eye now?” her mom asked.

“Oh, nothing,” she said. “It’s just that everything is so beautiful.”

Her mother dropped her at the school’s main entrance, then drove off once Caitlin was inside.

“Hey, Cait!” It was Bashira. She had on a red headscarf today. Bashira put her hand on Caitlin’s elbow, the way she used to when guiding blind Caitlin—but then she pulled the hand away. “Oh, sorry,” she said. “Force of habit.”

“No worries,” said Caitlin, and they headed off to the second floor. Caitlin was surprised to see three men standing outside their classroom door, watching as the students entered. Two were white, and the third was Asian.

“Caitlin?” said one of the white men.

She’d never seen him before, but she knew the voice. Principal Auerbach.

“Yes, sir?” Bashira found it funny that Caitlin called men “sir,” but it was what people from the South did.

Auerbach waved his hand and—ah, he was motioning for her to follow. She exchanged a look with Bashira, then did so.

“These men would like to have a word with you,” he said, once they were several paces farther down the corridor.

“Yes?”

“My name is LaFontaine,” said the other white man. He had a French Canadian accent and dark brown hair. “Mr. Park here and I are with CSIS.”

Caitlin thought of the primers she’d been working with as she learned to read printed characters. See Sis. See Sis run. Run, Sis, run. “The who in the what now?”

“The Canadian Security Intelligence Service,” LaFontaine replied—but Webmind had beat him to it, sending the same five words to her eye as Braille dots.