Catfishing on CatNet

while back and everyone was very sad that we lost each other. Hermione had some ideas for finding her that might have worked if I’d remembered her town or if her last name had been something other than Smith. (Seriously. There are like three million people in the United States with the last name Smith.) Marvin suggested my mother might remember, which is a possibility, I guess, although she’d probably figure out that I wanted to know so I could get back in touch, and I don’t expect she wants me to. Ico suggested that the reason Julie never called was that my mother deliberately wrote down a fake number.

I think he’s probably right.

Anyway.

Thinking about Rachel gives me the same ache I feel when I think about Julie, because I know sooner or later Mom’s going to move us again, and I’ll lose Rachel, just like I lost Julie. Although now I’m old enough to get Rachel’s email address and keep in touch, even if Mom doesn’t want me to.

Having all my friends on the internet is a little weird; every now and then, it turns out someone isn’t at all the person you thought they were, like last year there this girl named Edith in my Clowder who said that she’d gotten pregnant and her parents had kicked her out and she needed money. None of us had all that much to send her, but some people did, anyway. Then someone did some checking and found out it was all a lie; she wasn’t pregnant, she’d never been pregnant, her parents hadn’t kicked her out, and in fact her parents were trying to get her off the drugs she was using the money to buy.

As things to lie about go, though, that’s almost kind of normal. Lying about being a human being when you are actually an artificial intelligence is not remotely normal. Claiming to be an AI if you’re actually a human: also not normal. And, I mean, maybe it’s just a crazy lie?

But it explains a lot, if it’s true.

Including the fact that it was CheshireCat who uncovered the truth about Edith.

I mean, it explains a lot if my assumptions about AIs are right.

A lot of people think of the digital assistant on their phone as an AI. I mean, they’re called AIs, and people will argue about which one is a better AI and which passes the Turing test (which basically tests whether an AI can convince human beings that it, too, is human—all sorts of things that are definitely not AIs can totally pass the Turing test, though, because humans are pretty easy to fool). When I was a kid, there was a period of time where I literally thought the digital assistant on my mother’s phone was my aunt Sochie.

CheshireCat wasn’t claiming to be a digital assistant. They were claiming to be a digital person, with consciousness and their own set of goals.

And, okay, yeah. If CatNet is run by a person who lives inside a computer, or inside a whole lot of networked computers, that explains why there are no ads or membership fees on CatNet—other than animal pictures—but the moderation is so effective you almost never see spam, even briefly. It explains why the admins have always known exactly when to step in to an argument that’s getting out of hand. It explains why the Clowders are supposedly put together with an algorithm, but there isn’t one single thing all of us seem to have in common, other than being teenagers, and yet we get along really well.

Maybe it explains that? Maybe I’m leaping to conclusions.

But if CheshireCat is an AI, a sentient AI who lives online, it makes a certain sort of sense that they could not only figure out exactly where I was but hack a delivery drone to bring me the screwdriver I needed. I mean, that does seem like something that a sentient AI could probably make happen.

Instead of opening my laptop and logging on, I pull down Stellaluna and read it again. I want to log back in, but as soon as I do, I will have to say something to CheshireCat, and I have absolutely no idea what to say.

I guess the most important thing is that I believe what they told me, even though maybe that makes me gullible. I believe that CheshireCat is telling me the truth. I consider demanding proof. But they already dropped a package in my lap—I’m not sure what else I’d ask for. For now, I decide I’m just going to believe them. They’re a friend; I don’t usually demand proof from friends when they tell me things about themselves.

Eventually, I log back in. CheshireCat is on, of course.

“Who else knows?” I ask.

“No one,” CheshireCat says. “No one in your Clowder, no one on CatNet, no one anywhere. No one knows. I don’t think even my creator knows. I mean, they know they created me, but I don’t know if they know I am conscious. If they do, I haven’t talked with them about it.”

“Thank you for trusting me,” I say. “I won’t tell anyone.”

This means I can’t tell Firestar. But I’m pretty sure Firestar would understand.

In the morning, Mom’s bedroom door is closed. I don’t want to wake her if she’s asleep, but as I go to make myself cereal, I hear her shuffling around. I knock gently and ask, “Are you okay?”

“Is it morning?” she asks, her voice sounding groggy. And then, “I’m okay,” in this fake, bright tone that doesn’t sound even remotely okay. “It’s a bug. Or maybe food poisoning. I’m sure I’ll feel better soon.”

I try to think about what I know about food poisoning and stomach bugs. Mom always makes sure I have ginger ale and things to keep me hydrated. “Do you need some ginger ale?”

“No. Thanks.”

“Water? Tea?”

“I’m good, I promise.”

I go back into my room and open the window to stick the cat outside, but when I reach for him, he