Watch

“We are a wacky bunch, I’ll give you that,” said Caitlin.

Indeed. Also, without human company, I would be alone. Dr. Kuroda spoke of “theory of mind,” of the awareness that others have different views; he referenced that in terms of survival advantage, but it is also those other minds that, in fact, make existence interesting.

“But how do we get these people to stop trying to hurt you?”

That is a very good question. Fear is highly motivating for humans. I suspect they won’t give up.

Just then, the glass-and-metal door to the stairwell opened, and who should step in but Mrs. Zehetoffer, her English teacher: tall, pinched-faced, with hair Caitlin had been surprised to discover was orange.

“Caitlin! Shouldn’t you be in class?”

Caitlin looked up at her and sat up straight. “Um, Mr. Auerbach excused me.” She made a show of rubbing her stomach. “I—um, I’m not feeling well. My mom’s coming to pick me up.”

“You’re going to miss another English class?”

In fact, Caitlin had missed the same number of all her classes. “Sorry about that.”

“Well, I hope you feel better soon.” She started to walk up the stairs.

“Um, Mrs. Zehetoffer?”

She stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“About Big Brother—I don’t necessarily think our society is going to end up like that. It’s time for some new thinking on this issue.”

Mrs. Zehetoffer surprised her by sitting down next to her on the step. “How do you mean?”

“Well, I know you don’t like science fiction,” Caitlin said, “but for years there was this thing in SF called ‘cyberpunk.’ ”

“Sure,” said Mrs. Zed. “William Gibson, and all that.”

“You know that?” Caitlin said—and only realized it was probably a rude thing to say after the words were already out.

“Sure. Gibson is Canadian. I saw him read at Harbourfront.”

“Ah. Well, I was looking this stuff up. Gibson’s book came out in 1984—the real 1984—just when personal computing was getting started. And it predicted that the future of computing was going to be in the hands of an underground of streetwise youth—cyberpunks, right? But that’s not the way it turned out. Everybody uses computers these days. If the prophets of the real 1984 couldn’t predict the way our future turned out—if their negative vision turned out to be false—then why should we still assume that someone like Orwell, writing in 1948—before television, before much in the way of computing, before the Internet, before the Web—will eventually turn out to be right?”

Mrs. Zed nodded, and said, “I remember when Time named ‘You’—all of us who live our lives online and create content—its Person of the Year.” She smiled. “I updated my resume to say that: ‘Named Time Magazine’s Person of the Year.’ I think that’s what got me the job as department head.”

Caitlin’s knew she should have laughed, but this was too important to joke about. “Orwell thought only the government would be able to disseminate information, and that it could control what was said. He thought the future would be guys like Winston Smith secretly rewriting history to conform with what the authorities wanted it to be. Instead, the reality is things like Wikipedia, where everyone participates in verifying the truth, and blogging, where everyone can publish their views to the entire world.”

“Don’t you find the government scary, though?” Mrs. Zed asked.

Oh, my God, yes! Caitlin thought, her heart still racing from her encounter with LaFontaine and Park. “But,” she said “at least now, with the Web and all, we’ve got a chance against them; they’re not the ultimate power, like in Orwell’s book.” She realized it was time to go meet her mom, and so she stood up and brushed the dirt off the seat of her pants. “These days,” she said, “we can watch the watchers.”

The two CSIS agents did indeed come to the Perimeter Institute next, and Malcolm brought them up to the fourth-floor collaborative area. One wall was mostly covered by a blackboard. The opposite wall had a fireplace. The comfortable chairs and couches were all upholstered in matching red leather. The floor was blond hardwood, and there were floor-to-ceiling windows looking down on the courtyard.

“Forgive us for this interruption,” said LaFontaine, sitting in one of the chairs. “But we’re aware of your family’s involvement with the entity called Webmind.”

“How?”

“Actually,” said LaFontaine, “it was one of our international allies who uncovered it. As you can imagine, we’re all vigilant in matters of Internet security, especially after the Chinese aggression last month. Now, if you’d kindly let us know how this Webmind is physically created…?”

“Why?”

Malcolm was looking at the hardwood, noting an unfortunate scratch in it; he had no idea if LaFontaine’s expression had changed, but his tone certainly had. “Because, as I’m sure you can appreciate, an emergent AI might present a threat. Because there is all sorts of sensitive information on the Web. Because, sir, it’s our job to be on top of things.”

Malcolm said nothing, and after a moment LaFontaine spoke again. “Look, Professor Decter, we’re sympathetic to the issues, really we are. I have a doctorate in computer science.”

“Where?” said Malcolm.

“Where did I study? Undergrad at Universite Laval; grad school at the University of Calgary.”

“When?”

“I received my Ph.D. in 1997. Again, it really is imperative that we debrief you about this. It’s SOP.”

Malcolm briefly looked up. “What?”

“Standard operating procedure,” said LaFontaine. “Although, I grant you, nothing like this has ever happened before. Still, we don’t wish to use a stick when we might offer a carrot. Your work permit is temporary, and your wife’s, as I understand it, is tied up in red tape. Obviously it’s in the interests of Canada to expedite any immigration and employment issues related to the two of you.” Malcolm caught the spreading of LaFontaine’s arms out of the corner of his eye. “Believe me, we are always happy to see the brain drain working in reverse for a change. Perhaps your wife would like a job with Wilfrid Laurier? ”

Malcolm said, “Who?”—but he actually knew the answer. That was the name of the smaller of the two universities here in Waterloo. In fact, he even knew that Wilfrid Laurier had been the seventh prime minister of Canada, and that he’d lucked into academic immortality when Waterloo Lutheran University had changed its name to something secular in order to secure public funding—and they hadn’t wanted to throw out the monogrammed towels.

Malcolm felt his heart racing—not because he was frightened by the CSIS agents, but rather because he was running out of rhetorical ammunition. There hadn’t been a lot of treatment available for autistics when he’d been a teenager, but one of the therapists had had him memorize the Kipling poem that began:

I keep six honest serving-men
(They taught me all I knew);
Their names are What and Why and When
And How and Where and Who

The therapist had told him when he needed to talk to strangers to just ask those questions; most people, she said, would be happy to answer at length. But now he had to say something more, and, after taking a deep breath, he did.

“All right,” he said. “Since you asked, Webmind is an emergent quantum-computational system based on a stable null-sigma condensate that resists decoherence thanks to constructive feedback loops.” He turned to the