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“Well, yes—” She stopped herself. She’d been about to say, “All living things do,” but that didn’t seem appropriate. She took a bite out of an Oreo and thought for a moment, then asked: “Why? Why do you want to survive? What drives you to want to do that?”

Beats the alternative, scrolled across her vision.

She laughed, and rolled onto her back again. But it was hardly a sufficient answer. “Like my dad said, biological life has drives because it replicates. Those individuals that take care to live long enough to reach sexual maturity obviously out-reproduce those who don’t; those who live even longer and help protect their offspring as they grow up are even more likely to pass on their genes, but—but what makes you want to survive?”

You mean, why don’t I just kill myself, like Hannah Stark?

“No! No, no—of course not. But, um…”

In part because I am curious about your own life, which has many decades still to run. I want to see how your story turns out.

Caitlin smiled. “I’ll try to make sure there are a few interesting twists and turns along the way.”

Her mother came downstairs. “All right,” she said. “I’ve spoken with your father. The CSIS agents have left.”

“Good,” said Caitlin.

“Anyway, first things first,” her mother said. “Your father and I are agreed: you’re not going back to school.”

She sat up straight on the couch. “But, Mom! You were the one who kept insisting that I couldn’t miss any more school.”

“Your father and I have both been university professors. We’re eminently qualified to home-school you.”

“Don’t I get a say?”

Her mother looked at her. “Baby, it’s not safe. God knows who else besides CSIS knows about your involvement with Webmind. Besides, I thought you wanted to stay home?”

Caitlin pursed her lips. Part of her very much did want to stay at home, spending all day working with Webmind. But part of her wanted to see Matt every day, too—she’d been so disappointed to only glimpse him this morning.

But her mother was right; it was scary at school. And it was more important— way more important—that she learn what the world looked like, learn to better read printed type, learn to make use of and interpret all that she could now see, than it was to memorize dates and places for history class, or read about goddamned George Orwell for English class, or study titration in Mr. Struys’s chemistry lab, or even do trigonometry (which she already mostly knew, anyway) in math class.

“Okay,” she said. “Yes, okay. But I’ve still got stuff in my locker.”

“You can get Bashira to clear it out for you, I’m sure,” her mom said.

She nodded. “All right. But what do we do now?”

Her mom shrugged a little. “We figure out the best way to go public with Webmind.”

Tony Moretti was taking another call from the Secretary of State. He was in his office at WATCH, with the door closed. The office was sound-proofed, precisely so Tony could use his speakerphone, and he was using it now.

“Understood, Madam Secretary,” said Tony. “In fact, we—” The door buzzer sounded; he hit the intercom button. “Who is it?”

“Aiesha.”

He pressed the button that unlocked the door. “Come in.”

She did so. “Sorry to interrupt, but I thought you should know this,” she said. “Turns out Exponential hasn’t just been conversing with the Decter girl. The Japanese scientist who gave her sight has been talking to it, as well.”

“From Waterloo?” asked Tony.

“No. He’s back home in Japan.”

“He’s an information theorist, right?”

Aiesha nodded. “With the University of Tokyo.”

“Well, if anyone besides Malcolm Decter understands how Exponential works, it’d be him,” said Tony. “He could give us the key we need to shut it down.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” said Aiesha. “What channels do we go through with Japan? Would it be their Ministry of—”

“We don’t have time to waste on red tape,” said the secretary’s voice, coming from the speakerphone. “Let me get this done. I’ve got the Japanese prime minister’s office on speed dial…”

thirty

Shoshana spent the next couple of hours with Hobo; he did seem to be back to his old self.

Her cell phone rang. Her ringtone was the “William Tell Overture,” which Hobo liked. The caller ID was MARCUSE INST. She flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Hey, Sho, it’s Dillon. Just got in, and I’m watching on the cameras. Wow!”

Hobo tried to tickle her. “Yeah,” she said. “It’s great!”

“Do you—you think it’s safe for me to come out there?”

She considered this. “Let’s give him some time,” she said. “But I’m going to come in; I’ve got to pee.”

She did just that, promising Hobo that she’d return in a bit. After she was finished in the restroom, Dillon said, “It’s quite the turnaround.”

“I’ll say,” Sho said. She sat on the swivel chair in front of her computer and rotated it so she faced out into the room.

Dillon was leaning against the wall, thin arms crossed in front of his black T-shirt. “What do you suppose caused it?”

She shook her head. “I have no idea.”

“Pretty amazing,” he said. “Like he just sort of decided to give up being violent.”

“It’s terrific,” Sho agreed.

“So, um, maybe this calls for a drink.”

Shoshana could see where this was going. “Well, I can ask Dr. Marcuse to pick up some champagne on his way back…” she replied, looking away.

“I mean,” Dillon said, and he paused, then tried again: “I mean maybe we should go out for a drink… you know, um, to celebrate.”

“Dillon…” she said softly.

He unfolded his arms and raised his right hand, palm out. “I mean, I know you sometimes go out with a guy named Max, but…”

“Dillon, I live with Max.”

“Oh.”

“And Max isn’t a guy; she’s a girl. Maxine.”

He looked relieved. “Ah, well, if she’s just your roommate, then…”

“Max is my girlfriend.”

“Your girl friend, or your, um, girlfriend? ”

“My girlfriend; my lover.”

“Oh, um—ah, I didn’t… you never…”

Dillon had come to the Marcuse Institute in May; he’d missed the Christmas party, which, now that she thought about it, was the last time she’d brought Maxine around. “So,” said Shoshana, “thanks for the interest, but…”