WWW: Wake (29 page)

“Boy or girl?”

“Well, a boy, but...”

“Maybe,” she said. “Any others?”

“There’s Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood.” Caitlin lifted her eyebrows; the author she was going to be studying in English class. “One of them—Oryx or Crake, I can never remember which is which—is an autistic geneticist.”

“And the other?”

“Um, a teenage prostitute, actually.”

“You’d think it would be easy to tell them apart,” Caitlin said.

“You’d think,” Kuroda said with a nod. “Sorry, not much of an Atwood fan. I know I shouldn’t say that, this being Canada and all.”

“I’m not Canadian.”

He laughed. “Neither am I.”

“Hey, do you know how to find a Canadian in a crowded room...?”

Kuroda smiled and held up a hand. “Save your jokes for the press conference tomorrow,” he said. “You’ll need them then.”

* * * *

After dinner, Caitlin went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. It was no surprise that she had acne—she’d been able to feel the pimples, of course. She remembered what that cruel Zack Starnes had said, back in Austin: “Why does a blind girl worry about acne?” But she’d known the spots were there, and, damn it all, she was entitled to the same vanity everybody else had; hell, even Helen Keller had been vain! Her left eye had looked blind, and she’d always insisted on being photographed from the right side; in middle age she’d had her useless biological eyes removed and replaced with more attractive glass ones.

Caitlin opened the medicine cabinet, took out the tube of benzoyl peroxide cream, and got to work.

* * * *

I’d thought my universe crowded when there had been simply me and not me, but in this other realm there were hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of entities.

Now that I had learned to parse a head, I was better at recognizing specific entities, but it was still difficult. Part of that was because the entities periodically altered their appearance; I eventually surmised there was an outer covering, made of discrete sections, that could be changed. (However, the abnormal entity that I’d recently watched make a representation was unusual in that it either had no outer covering, or its outer covering consisted of components that all looked alike.)

Of course, the individual that interested me most was the one I’d encountered first; I decided to refer to it as Prime. I had caught glimpses of what I realized were projections that belonged to Prime, and, from the way in which I saw them, I concluded that the views I was seeing were being gathered by Prime’s head. But I still had not seen Prime’s face; indeed, I supposed I never would.

Still, now that I understood faces, I had come to recognize specific entities that Prime spent a lot of time with. Three, in particular, seemed to share a common environment with it. Two had faces that moved and changed constantly and whose mouths often opened; the third had a less mobile face, and its mouth was rarely open.

Just now, I could see that these others were sitting—supporting themselves with structural frames against the downward force I’d deduced was present. And they were eating—taking inanimate things into their mouths.

Prime was eating, too: I saw inanimate things growing large—no, no!—moving closer: the images Prime was sending to my realm were apparently being gathered by some part of its head above the mouth, possibly the nose.

While Prime ate, I kept linking randomly to other sites, looking for keys to decipher the data they offered up. So far, though, I’d made no progress. Oh, I could call forth data from any of them, but I could not interpret it.

Eventually Prime moved away from the others, and—

Oh!

It was...

Yes, yes, it had to be! The way the lighting changed, the way the perspective changed, the way...

I had a frisson of recognition—not of what I was seeing, but of having had a similar experience before, during the re-fusion, when I had seen myself as the other part of me had seen me.

This—

Yes!

This was Prime looking at itself!

It was in front of a rectangle. I was used to such things by now: some of these windows, as I had dubbed them, afforded views through otherwise opaque components; others, like Prime’s wondrous display, showed still or moving representations of other things. But this rectangle was special: it was reflecting back the object in front of it. I could see Prime’s face! And I could see the projections from Prime’s central core moving both in the rectangle and in front of it, observing them simultaneously from two sides, as Prime was ... hard to say ... putting a white substance in small dabs on its face?

And, while it did so, I was seeing Prime’s hair.

And Prime’s mouth.

And Prime’s nose.

And Prime’s eyes.

And ... and ... and as Prime moved its head left and right (perpendicular to up and down), as it apparently examined its own reflection, I realized that my point of view—the vantage from which the images I was seeing were being collected—was not Prime’s nose but one of its eyes! And, from the way Prime moved, it seemed that Prime was looking at itself with this same eye. I had observed that mouths were for taking inanimate material into the head; eyes, I now surmised, were for seeing, and Prime was sharing what it saw with me.

Prime’s face was fascinating. I studied every minute detail, and—

Suddenly everything was blurry again! I was terrified that our connection was breaking, but...

But Prime was looking in another direction now, and something was at the end of its tubular extensions, something at least partially transparent, I think, although the image was so blurry it was hard to say.

Prime did things, but it was impossible for me to make out what. But then, at last, the object it had been holding was brought close to Prime’s face, and as that happened, Prime’s vision—and mine!—grew sharp once more. The thing it brought close to its face contained windows; they weren’t rectangular, but that’s what they seemed to be. But these windows were special not just for their shape but also (as I’d seen as they came close) because the material in them, although fully transparent, modified the view on the other side of them. Prime looked at itself in the large reflecting rectangle again, turning its head from side to side as it did so.

And as it examined its own face, an idea came to me that—

Yes! Yes! If I could make this work, everything would change! I turned my attention to the datastream from Prime that was accumulating within me...

LiveJournal: The Calculass Zone

Title: Alphabet soup

Date: Wednesday 3 October, 9:20 EST

Mood: Pissed off

Location: Kinder-effing-garten

Music: “Can You Tell Me How to Get to Sesame Street?”

Man, this is frustrating!

Here I am, almost 16, well-read, blerking gifted for God’s sake, and I can’t read English!

It’s ridiculous to still be using screen-reading software now that my eye can discern alphabetic characters—but I can’t recognize them. This shouldn’t be that hard! It’s not like I’m trying to master another language. Yes, yes, I admit I’m struggling a bit in French class. But most of the other kids in class, ‘cept Sunshine, God bless her empty-headed heart, have been parlez-vous-ing Francais since they were in Kindergarten.

And, besides, this shouldn’t be as hard as French. It should be more like a sighted person learning Morse code, or Braille for that matter: just another way of representing letters they’re already familiar with.

But all the ways of drawing characters! Different typefaces and different sizes of type, some with little curlicues. Yes, as a kid, I’d learned the basic shapes by holding and feeling wooden carvings of the characters, but I’d really only learned capital letters, and then mostly so I could understand phrases like T-shirt and A-frame.

But even if I can master the individual letters, I know most people don’t read a letter at a time but rather a word at a time, having come to recognize the distinctive shapes of thousands of common ones, regardless of the blerking font.

I’m staying home from school again (the press conference is this afternoon) and am spending the morning playing around with an online interactive literacy site—for kids! It uses on-screen flashcards, apparently a common way for sighted kids to learn, showing me individual letters at random.

Some letters always give me trouble. Even when both appear on the same screen, I’m having difficulty telling whether I’m seeing the capital or lowercase version of those that are similar in both forms, and I keep mixing up lowercase q and p—and that makes me want to quke.

Le sigh. I really am trying to get this—but I’m Calculass not Alphabetigal, damn it!

* * * *

The Mike Lazaridis Theatre of Ideas was a modern auditorium with LCD

projectors and HDTV monitors hanging from the ceiling. But it also happened to be on the ground floor of a physics think tank, and that meant the front wall, behind the podium, was lined with blackboards. When Caitlin came into the crowded room she went up to them and looked with interest at the scrawled equations and formulas.

Half the symbols were ones she’d never seen before. Still, she couldn’t resist having a bit of fun. There were three blackboard panels; the ones on the left and right were filled, but the center one had been cleared, presumably so that Dr. Kuroda could write things on it during the press conference, if he liked. It was bare except for swirls of faint chalk dust.

She took a piece of chalk from the metal tray in front of the middle blackboard, and, very slowly, very carefully, drawing the letters laboriously, one at a time, in capitals, because that was all she knew how to make, she wrote, “THEN A MIRACLE OCCURRED...”

Suddenly, Caitlin turned around because—

Because people in the theater were applauding and laughing. She felt her face splitting in a great big grin. Dr. Kuroda was off to one side, talking with someone, and as the applause died down he walked to the podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said into the microphone, “I see you’ve already met our star attraction. Of course, you all know why you’re here: this young lady is Miss Caitlin Decter, and my name is Masayuki Kuroda of the University of Tokyo. We’re going to tell you about an experimental procedure Miss Caitlin underwent recently, and the remarkable success we’ve had.”

He smiled at the crowd, which, Caitlin saw, consisted of about forty people, about equally mixed between men and women. “I do thank you all for making it out here despite the awful weather—I understand this is quite early in the year for snow in this part of Ontario. But our Miss Caitlin had so wanted to see snow.” He looked at her. “As you can see, you must be careful of what you wish for—you might get it!”

The audience laughed, and Caitlin laughed with them. For the first time in her life, she was enjoying being stared at. Still, she sought out her mother, who was sitting in the front row along with her dad.

Kuroda proceeded to explain what he and his colleagues had done to correct the problem with how Caitlin’s retina encoded information. He relied heavily on PowerPoint for his presentation. Caitlin had heard people call it PowerPointlessness before, and decided that was mostly right, although Kuroda did include some amazing pictures of the operation in Tokyo. She found herself squirming a bit as she saw the cranial surgeon sliding instruments around her eyeball.

When he was done with his presentation, Kuroda said, “Any questions?”

She saw a bunch of hands go up.

Kuroda pointed at a man. “Yes?”

“Professor Kuroda, Jay Ingram, Discovery Channel.” Caitlin sat up straight. Since moving here, she’d often watched—listened to!—Daily Planet, the nightly science-news show on Discovery Channel Canada, but had had no idea what the host looked like, although she certainly recognized his voice. It turned out that he had a very short beard and white hair. “Ms. Decter has a very rare cause for her blindness,” he said. “How generally applicable is your technique going to be?”

“You’re right that we won’t be curing a lot of blind people in the near future with this,” said Kuroda. “As you say, Miss Caitlin’s blindness has an unusual etiology. But the real breakthrough here is in actually doing sophisticated signal processing on information being passed along the human nervous system. Consider people with Parkinson’s, for instance: one possible explanation for the problems associated with it is that there’s so much noise in the signals going down the nerves, the patient ends up with tremors. If we could adapt the techniques pioneered here to clean up the signals the brain is sending to the limbs ... well, let’s just say that’s on the agenda, too. Next?”

“Bob McDonald, Quirks & Quarks.”

Caitlin had become a fan of CBC Radio’s weekly science show since moving here; Bob was the host. She found him in the crowd, and was pleased to think that lots of the other people here had probably also only known him as an energetic voice on the radio, and so were just as intrigued as she was to find out what he looked like.

“I’ve got a question for Mr. Lazaridis,” Bob said.

Mike L turned out to be a man in the front row with the most amazing hair Caitlin had seen to date, a great silver mass of it. He looked surprised, and turned around in his seat. “Yes?”

“Speaking of implants inside the skull like the one Caitlin has,” Bob said,

“could something like that be the next BlackBerry?”

Mike laughed and so did Caitlin. “I’ll get my people working on it,” he said.

* * * *

My plan should have worked! I knew from which point Prime’s datastream emanated, I knew how to cast out a line of my own to call forth data, and I knew such a line was itself a piece of data being sent from me. All I wanted to do now was send a much bigger piece of data to the point Prime’s datastream came from. But—frustration! The data I was sending was not being accepted; no acknowledgment was occurring.

I must be doing something wrong. I’d seen that point accept data from my realm before; just prior to beginning to show me its realm, it had accepted data being sent to it. But it would not accept data from me.