APRIL 24-MRS. LUISA ALVAREZ OF EL PASO, TEXAS, PURCHASES A QUART OF CHOCOLATE MILK, SOMETHING SHE HAS NOT HAD IN TWENTY YEARS, TO SEE IF SHE STILL ENJOYS THE TASTE AS MUCH AS SHE DID WHEN SHE WAS A CHILD.
Bartenders across the country had learned to mix Brownouts: chocolate milk, amaretto, and vodka.
And if the Oracle wouldn’t make him- or herself known, the public satisfied itself with the people named in the predictions.Luisa Alvarez had been snapped up as a spokesperson for Hershey’s. She seemed to enjoy the spotlight immensely, until somesort of fanatic tried to assassinate her at a press event. The would-be killer’s motive: to prevent the Oracle’s predictionfrom coming true. To “save the world” from the pernicious influence of a false prophet.
Luisa had been placed under heavy security after that, her public appearances drastically curtailed. Hershey’s didn’t wantanything to interfere with her ability to buy that milk when the big day came.
The word from Anonymous and its various allied hackery organizations was that the Site had been set up using simple, existinganonymization tools that all but guaranteed that no one but the Oracle would know who the Oracle was, or be able to issuenew predictions. Their current verdict: whoever set things up for the Oracle was extremely conversant with the ins and outsof modern data security. Beyond that, they didn’t have much to say.
The world’s markets endured a series of roller-coaster climbs and reversals. The outcome of the next presidential electionwas suddenly thrown into doubt when Daniel Green, the incumbent, fumbled his first few opportunities to comment on what theSite’s emergence meant to the country.
There were no answers—not yet, really, just the hope that at some point, all this would make sense. Clearly, a plan was atwork, but what, how, where, when . . . and most importantly, why . . . no one knew. Not yet.
Leigh settled back into her chair as she read the last few lines of her article. It was better than she remembered. Not perfect,but at least as good as most of what Urbanity published on what passed for their news desk. Eddie needed to relax.
A ping—an e-mail hitting her work account. Leigh pulled it up
From: [email protected].
Upstairs, please.
—Reimer
Leigh stared at her monitor for ten seconds or so. Her hand reached out slowly and clicked her mouse, minimizing the e-mailapp and revealing a previously hidden browser window behind it. Showing the Site. Of course it was.
Reflexively, Leigh’s hand moved. She hit refresh, even though she cringed a little bit inside as she did it. The Site neverchanged.
But it had.
At the bottom of the page, after the last prediction, six new words had appeared:
THIS IS NOT ALL I KNOW.
Below that, an e-mail address.
Chapter 3
“PLEASE TELL ME WHEN MY DAD WILL COME BACK.”
“GOD WILL PUNISH YOU, DEMON. REVEREND BRANSON SAYS—”
“COMBIEN D’ANNÉES JUSQU’À CE QUE LA FRANCE GAGNE LA COUPE DU MONDE?”
Will replaced the sheet of paper on the stack piled against the wall of his apartment, one of three, each about four feethigh, totaling thousands of pages. Every sheet was densely covered with small-font text, both sides. Questions, mostly—forthe Oracle. Since the e-mail address had gone live on the Site, millions of messages had come through, which could be brokendown into variations on three questions:
Will I get what I want?
How can I get what I want?
Why can’t I get what I want?
The first hundred thousand or so had been printed and now sat piled between some of Will’s instrument cases—basses and guitarsstanding upright, guarding the questions like sentries.
“Stop reading them, Will,” came a voice from behind him.
“I know. It’s not easy,” Will said.
Will flipped open one of the cases and pulled out a well-worn Fender P-bass. He slung it over his neck and turned to facethe rest of the room. Not much to see—a trash-picked coffee table, top like a Spirograph, all interlocked drink rings andlong, swirling scratches, standing between some hand-me-down living room furniture. The rest of the apartment was crammedwith gear. Instruments, music stands, neatly looped cables, effects pedals, a small set of digital production equipment—morestorage unit than living space.
Sitting in the apartment’s sole armchair was Hamza Sheikh. Smiling eyes, tightly cropped hair, extremely white teeth.
“None of those questions matter anymore,” Hamza said. “We got what we needed from them. They’re just noise.”
“I bet they matter to the people who asked,” Will said.
“Can you answer any of them?”
“Not really.”
“Then you don’t have to feel guilty. Those questions were always unanswerable. Don’t beat yourself up just because peoplewant to know things.”
“This isn’t a logic thing,” Will said. “It’s . . . I just feel bad about it. Giving people hope for something I know we won’tever deliver.”
Hamza looked back down at the laptop he had open on the coffee table, next to sloppy piles of paper, binders he’d assembledfull of research on the people they were about to speak to, spreadsheets.
“Get your head on straight,” Hamza said, typing a few updated figures into one of the tables on his screen. “This is the mostimportant day of either of our lives. If we pull this off, you can help anyone you want. Be my guest, brother.”
Will began to play a bassline on the instrument slung around his neck—a four-note repeating pattern.
“I know that one,” Hamza said, not looking up from the keys. “What’s it called?”
“The O’Jays,” Will said. “‘For the Love of Money.’”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Hamza said. “My favorite song. Get over here. It’s almost time.”
Will walked over to the couch and sat down, unslinging the bass and leaning it up against the cushions. He shifted one ofthe piles of paper on the coffee table, revealing his own laptop—almost as banged up as the table itself—and the Oracle notebook.
Will flipped open the screen of his computer, then took the notebook and held it up, showing it to Hamza like a tent revivalpreacher presenting a Bible to his flock.
“Before we do this,” Will said. “Let’s talk it through. One last time.”
He lowered the notebook, twisting the cover
